Oh how I remember when you used to come and see me often. Every summer, knocking on my window or on my door… I miss you. And your red, red skies. The scent of creosote and dust on my aluminum blinds as I pulled them down and anxiously awaited you, just to see what you might do to my life this time. Just to remember how insignificant I am in this world. Just to know I was a piece of a necessary pattern of the desert we’ve done oh so much to destroy. With our population bursts and concrete. Buildings where there were fields. Houses where we once got our food. Heat, heat, heat. A century’s old saguaro shriveling up somewhere off the freeway, transplanted to make room for an outlet mall in the desert. Where we used to go in summer. To feel the cool night of life finally resting. See the stars and watch the sky turn that red we always knew would come.
It’s unfortunate that it no longer comes. It’s unfortunate that we just can’t understand why. Especially everyone from everywhere telling us: This is nothing! You call this a monsoon? Well no, not really. Not anymore. And it’s one more piece gone that reminded me I was a creature of the desert, not of the mall.
(Source: azkaos)
Jul 7, 2011 @ 8:04 am
