In the country, we collected rainwater in metal drums. We’d cover them with squares of aluminum weighed down with stones. We kept five drums in the backyard where someone had planted yams and bananas, among other things. I feared the banana trees, suspecting that at their roots where it was cold and dark, fat slugs were always lurking.
I’d stand there, naked toes curling into red earth. I’d uncover one of the drums and dip a long ladle into the wet, inhaling the deep scent of Santa Anna mingled with silt-laden rainwater secretively bearing all the mysteries of the universe.
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