of seaweed and scorpions
i'm not expecting to grow flowers in a desert
Forever, I have chased oceans: Atlantic, Pacific, fjords, bays. An oceanographer’s daughter. The sea in my veins.
Some years ago, I came to Phoenix on the cusp of a dream, the promise of a fresh start. After the first summer—122 degrees, tarmac too hot to land planes—the desert grew on me.
Here, I am a chameleon chasing jagged summits, sharp-edged shade.
In my other life on the island, I am a mermaid.
Shape-shifting between habitats is simpler now, after my parents’ passing. I did not know how much worry I carried.
Desert or sea, I am still me.
Amie,
It may be a task, but you someday will have to start cataloguing your writings.
All the crap that we put up with in a day, all this technology and things that go wrong,
I find great repose in the purity of your tales. It's as if you're taking the reader into a
separate place, a place we can dwell, if just for a while.
It's a very strange feeling when the grief subsides a little, the stress just slowly melts away.