Why should I wish to see God better than this day? —Walt Whitman
It didn’t look like Christmas in the desert, but we always knew when it was coming. Citrus trees hung heavy with fruit. The golden late-afternoon light turned orange and pink faster. And the chill in the air found its way under our flimsy windbreakers as soon as the sun sank behind the horizon. It was only in December, when the scorching summer days had finally surrendered their heat, that we could stay outside under the high sun from the minute school let out until the streetlights came on. That’s when we heard Mom’s whistle echo through the neighborhood, like some wild birdsong, calling us home for dinner.
