I was readily determined to never
love the desert. This was an easy enough task—who could love the brown, scrubby
foliage and the pathetically small mountains after the grand, sweeping beauty
of my home? Green and fresh and old—the desert stood no chance. Two full years
of disdain for the place I begrudgingly called home—no regrets.
I had no idea that falling in love
with you also meant falling in love with the desert.
The car pulled up at our
destination, and I unfolded myself from the small, green, overheating mess. The
ride had been long enough to make me feel old and tired. I stretched my back
and gazed around while you reached over and pulled me against you. Suddenly a
new sense of appreciation filled my consciousness. The red rock was stunning,
ancient and sublime. The air was full of dust and history—the gigantic blue
lake was nestled stoically in the background. I wanted to lose myself in that
atmosphere.
We spent our days exploring the
water, discovering ravines and Indian ruins, getting close to fish and pushing
the limits of our lungs. We spent the nights exploring each other, discovering
new emotions and stories, getting further from reality, and testing the limits
of our lungs.
The stars were falling around us,
every thirty seconds we got to wish on a shooting star. I thought falling stars
were a good thing—but perhaps they were a warning. Even the heavens knew what
we didn’t.
I fell deeply in love with the
desert, and with you.
You are inseparable in my mind.
I cannot look at the vast stretches
of orangey red dust and feel anything but sad. The desert rears up in my mind
when I least expect it to, and with it I am a woman down. Brought to my knees
with the sharp realization that you don’t want me.
