lemon meringue
A visit to Arizona always leaves a taste bittersweet, like lemon meringue. Memories stack up on top of each other until they're toppling over. The highway has carved its map into my bones, and the hours give me time for singing, thinking, and remembering. I see a sign for St. Johns, and I think, “Peggy was born there.” Passing Gallup, I think of Rowie, remember Scarlet's Walk and monsoon rains. Albuquerque stirs up memories of NPS and how effectively silence can communicate. And then Flagstaff itself-Flagstaff splatters all manner of memories like ocean spray. Some refresh, others sting. Mostly though, I return to that town now with fondness in my heart.
The feel down I-17 is a totally different creature. Once out of town, my teeth won't stay behind closed lips, I roll down the window and let the wind knot my hair and massage the worries out of my face. The land sprawls out for miles like spilt milk. Seldom, if ever, do I use my air conditioning, even in the hottest summer-I like the way the heat blasts my face, the trickle of sweat down my sides, the raw intensity of it-for me, the desert is not meant to be experienced in the comfort of climate control. My heart beats stronger, my eyes see better here. I am released. Last time I hiked in Arizona, I stood at the top of a red-rocked cliff, looking down at the canyon below and let a noise rise from deep inside-a primal call, somewhere between a falcon scream and a zaghareet. It echoed, shadowed, took shape, and flew off it's own creature. I hope it loves that place as much as I do.
My euphoria abruptly ends once I'm out of the plains and slide down into valley. It's hard to watch the wild area that carries my childhood ghosts be torn and ravished like a whore, with no regard to the ecosystems that thrive there or consideration to the impossible pressure applied to such a fragile place. Each trip, less desert, more Del Webb, more Anthem, more houses creeping up mountain sides. More traffic. More capitalism. More of what I simply do not understand. I've taken to slipping down a back road, exiting at New River so I don't have to see the sprawling disaster.
At home, at least, I can sit on the front or back porch, watch the cottontails and quail scurry around the yard. Tall, spindly ocotillo. Stern, erect agave, desert broom, creosote. Some ground-creeping green plant with pungent purple flowers that the bees absolutely love. Globe mallow, desert honeysuckle, a prickly pear that's fallen over, been chewed apart by javelina, and still grows taller than I stand. I wander around with mom and marvel at her out-of-control rosemary bush, which she's neglected to prune, so now it sprawls at least seven feet wide. We let the sun slam into our skin. She is so dark, always has been, and just gets darker after a day in the sun. My shell is pale, pale white that blushes at the kiss of a sunbeam and continues to flush for days afterwards. The horses in the yard next door nicker, hoping we'll give them a courtesy squirt with the hose. Dad joins us, threatening to take pictures of us in our tube-tops and mud-splattered legs. We delve into talk about hybrid cars, biodiesel, and hydrogen power, debating which one might be the best choice. These are new and uncomfortable terms for my parents to deal with, but they're trying. They are listening.
When they'd had enough sun and retreated inside, I sat out front, feeling the breeze, watching the mesquite tree sway and the cactus wren perching on the saguaro. A fat, squat horny toad splayed out, blending into the gravel. If it weren't for the dog's intense stare, I never would have even seen him. Notebook pages fluttered, and the phone rings.
Flash back. We're 13, long-haired, and desert children. She with rebellious blond mane that never stayed smooth, and cobalt blue eyes darker than the bluest Arizona sky. Midnight eyes. Our idea of fun was galloping bareback through the desert on green-broke horses, sometimes riding double, jumping over or through piles of dry brush like our lives depended on touching the stars. At night, we'd sneak out and creep through the arroyo to go smoke out with a few carefree hippies living nearby, stumbling back home turning ankles and acquiring scratches we'd hide under jeans and band aids. We rode bikes through town as recklessly as the horses, dressed in too much make-up and revealing clothing, high heels, and take pictures while posing in front of a giant fan that blew our hair like supermodels. We smoked and drank and talked shit like we were the badasses of the town.
Then we go to separate high schools, and I go to college. She went off in a thousand different directions, seldom spoke, but always a message now and again, “miss you, love you, call me.”
Thirteen years later, she is a mother, is calmer, but still carries Trickster in her eyes. Our meeting is bittersweet-the man who taught me most everything I know about horses, who would later become her mentor, passed away. He is the only person I've ever given the title “hero.” She'd go on to be his protegé; horses were always my love but not my career. We both knew this. Her son's eyes are the same color blue, and at 2 ½ he's smarter than smart. He makes up songs on the spot and when I tell him it's great, he looks me dead in the face and says, “I know.” This is the first time I've seen him.
She and I have always been this way-no matter the years or distance, we're never awkward. Our lives remain tangled together, twisted up in a knot you'd be hard-pressed to separate. Rooted. And it only gets deeper.
The feel down I-17 is a totally different creature. Once out of town, my teeth won't stay behind closed lips, I roll down the window and let the wind knot my hair and massage the worries out of my face. The land sprawls out for miles like spilt milk. Seldom, if ever, do I use my air conditioning, even in the hottest summer-I like the way the heat blasts my face, the trickle of sweat down my sides, the raw intensity of it-for me, the desert is not meant to be experienced in the comfort of climate control. My heart beats stronger, my eyes see better here. I am released. Last time I hiked in Arizona, I stood at the top of a red-rocked cliff, looking down at the canyon below and let a noise rise from deep inside-a primal call, somewhere between a falcon scream and a zaghareet. It echoed, shadowed, took shape, and flew off it's own creature. I hope it loves that place as much as I do.
My euphoria abruptly ends once I'm out of the plains and slide down into valley. It's hard to watch the wild area that carries my childhood ghosts be torn and ravished like a whore, with no regard to the ecosystems that thrive there or consideration to the impossible pressure applied to such a fragile place. Each trip, less desert, more Del Webb, more Anthem, more houses creeping up mountain sides. More traffic. More capitalism. More of what I simply do not understand. I've taken to slipping down a back road, exiting at New River so I don't have to see the sprawling disaster.
At home, at least, I can sit on the front or back porch, watch the cottontails and quail scurry around the yard. Tall, spindly ocotillo. Stern, erect agave, desert broom, creosote. Some ground-creeping green plant with pungent purple flowers that the bees absolutely love. Globe mallow, desert honeysuckle, a prickly pear that's fallen over, been chewed apart by javelina, and still grows taller than I stand. I wander around with mom and marvel at her out-of-control rosemary bush, which she's neglected to prune, so now it sprawls at least seven feet wide. We let the sun slam into our skin. She is so dark, always has been, and just gets darker after a day in the sun. My shell is pale, pale white that blushes at the kiss of a sunbeam and continues to flush for days afterwards. The horses in the yard next door nicker, hoping we'll give them a courtesy squirt with the hose. Dad joins us, threatening to take pictures of us in our tube-tops and mud-splattered legs. We delve into talk about hybrid cars, biodiesel, and hydrogen power, debating which one might be the best choice. These are new and uncomfortable terms for my parents to deal with, but they're trying. They are listening.
When they'd had enough sun and retreated inside, I sat out front, feeling the breeze, watching the mesquite tree sway and the cactus wren perching on the saguaro. A fat, squat horny toad splayed out, blending into the gravel. If it weren't for the dog's intense stare, I never would have even seen him. Notebook pages fluttered, and the phone rings.
Flash back. We're 13, long-haired, and desert children. She with rebellious blond mane that never stayed smooth, and cobalt blue eyes darker than the bluest Arizona sky. Midnight eyes. Our idea of fun was galloping bareback through the desert on green-broke horses, sometimes riding double, jumping over or through piles of dry brush like our lives depended on touching the stars. At night, we'd sneak out and creep through the arroyo to go smoke out with a few carefree hippies living nearby, stumbling back home turning ankles and acquiring scratches we'd hide under jeans and band aids. We rode bikes through town as recklessly as the horses, dressed in too much make-up and revealing clothing, high heels, and take pictures while posing in front of a giant fan that blew our hair like supermodels. We smoked and drank and talked shit like we were the badasses of the town.
Then we go to separate high schools, and I go to college. She went off in a thousand different directions, seldom spoke, but always a message now and again, “miss you, love you, call me.”
Thirteen years later, she is a mother, is calmer, but still carries Trickster in her eyes. Our meeting is bittersweet-the man who taught me most everything I know about horses, who would later become her mentor, passed away. He is the only person I've ever given the title “hero.” She'd go on to be his protegé; horses were always my love but not my career. We both knew this. Her son's eyes are the same color blue, and at 2 ½ he's smarter than smart. He makes up songs on the spot and when I tell him it's great, he looks me dead in the face and says, “I know.” This is the first time I've seen him.
She and I have always been this way-no matter the years or distance, we're never awkward. Our lives remain tangled together, twisted up in a knot you'd be hard-pressed to separate. Rooted. And it only gets deeper.