On Saturday, Rick Romero decided he needed a break. He had been working non-stop on his caseload. A drive south on Highway 14 might help him develop a new perspective on things. He loved the hilly terrain of the Cerrillos area. It encompassed elements of wonder and beauty, ever-changing on the horizon. About fifteen miles out, he drove up to Sandia Crest, the highest point of the Sandia mountain range, which stretched farther south to surround the Albuquerque landscape.
Romero parked his car, walked a short distance, and sat on a rocky escarpment to look out on the vast expanse. The sky was dark and cloudy, threatening a rainstorm. But it didn’t matter to him. A series of lightning bolts generated a dazzling light show over the Sandias. A sense of peace and stillness permeated his entire being.
In the 1950s, an airliner had crashed at the top of the highest peak of the Sandias. There were no survivors, and because of the difficulty in reaching the plane, only those items that could be recovered were brought down the mountain. Some twenty years later as a teenager, Romero climbed the face of the mountain with his father, curious to see the wreckage eleven thousand feet up. Each time he drove on I-25, he could still see the glint of the sun reflecting off the remaining metal skeleton of the plane.
It had been a while since Romero had taken the opportunity to relax with nature. The surrounding fields below were covered with purple and yellow wildflowers, in contrast to the carpets of cholla cactus growing next to the highway. There was a lot he had to think about. For months he’d been hoping he and Jemimah could embark on a romantic relationship, but that wasn’t working out. As a police officer, long term relationships scared the crap out of him. Were he to be killed on duty, the ones he left behind would suffer. But then again, up to this point he really hadn’t met anyone he wanted to become deeply involved with.
These rare moments of relaxation always brought up the past for Romero. As a young man he didn’t want to be Spanish—his parents’ culture. He endured years of teasing and name-calling for his home-cut hair and for the way he and his group of friends butchered the English language. By the time he graduated from high school, Romero had honed his language skills and learned to speak English without a hint of an accent.
He spent the next couple of hours sitting on the side of the mountain gazing out over the landscape. Another round of lightning made its way through the sky, pausing for a millisecond and then erupting again. From force of habit he counted to seven and, as if on cue, the clap of thunder reverberated all around him. He smiled as he thought about the childhood game his mother had introduced to him on rainy days. Years later he’d come to find out that it wasn’t an old wives’ tale.
The rain began as a slight drizzle, small droplets refreshing his face. By the time he decided to walk back to his car, he was drenched. He laughed, recalling the many times his grandmother chided him for not having enough sense to come in out of the rain.