Arroyo City// Summer Vacation, part 3

Again, on the dock in the early morning hours.  The Arroyo Colorado a smooth surface of moire woven across an arid land.

I have already been across the street to a small farm I’ve been eye-ing these last few mornings.  The only form of life there were the crops and wild turkeys.  The property’s dome-shaped “barn” held a fishing boat, while the tractor sat idly against an exterior wall. (A telling tale of priorities). Row upon row of sunflowers (planned and wild) neighbored lanes of tall sorghum stalks, their tobacco-colored plumage escaped like waterfalls of silk. Laughter filled the air.  Gulls slurped from a pond. They swooped and discussed what the day would bring.

Yesterday my friend came to 12 Palms for a quick visit.  Seaglass eyes of decades past.  A hug, a gift basket (woven by a local), fishing pole, dinner.  And an old photo.

L to R, Back row: Me, Dan, Matt.
Bottom row: Jonathan, Chris, Ashley.

Neighbors wrapped in each others’ embrace.  I smile, look more closely, notice our shoes have been switched.  Our foot size, our heights, so similar.  I like to think that boy watches us from above now.  Perhaps he has graduated from trombone to harp.  Someday I hope to know for sure.

She showed us how to light the dock, educated us about the different local fish.

Her perfume the same as when I was in the third grade, a familiar and haunting scent.  Her beauty, her laughter, her undying hospitality all juxtaposed against a fishing village a stone’s throw from Mexico.  I couldn’t feel more out-of-place, but also at home.  It dawns on me that her house is just a few doors down from where we are staying,  just the same as it was in California.

At home with a friend and her pets…

Maddie and I.

One’s connection to another cannot be lost in the time and space of our existence here on earth.  It cannot be lost amidst drowning tears, the ripping open of hearts, the searching souls of siblings.  The planets still move, we cry, we laugh, we lie, we fall, we get back up.  A forward march through the mud, the quicksand, the quagmire.  The slow, sludging  of the day-to-day.  We are still the same light as the day we were created, maybe a different hue, or dimmer, or brighter.


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