trying to flow with the water.
I watch him
until he disappears.
I didn’t have time to say,
I love you, too.
The last thing
I said to my dad was
I hate you.
LIVING WATER
I’ve seen
rivers and ponds
form instantly
when the heavy monsoons
dump inches of water
on the desert in seconds.
I’ve seen flash floods before.
But I’ve never seen one
like this.
The waters
I have to remind myself
the water’s not alive;
it won’t reach up
with slender, flowing fingers
and take me,
pry me,
snatch me,
from this wall,
suck me down
into its
violently whirling,
tirelessly turbulent
mouth.
The fear,
the anxiety,
controls me,
is in every part of me,
as I cling
to this wall of stone.
What do you fear, Eleanor?
Dying.
Are you likely to die in this situation?
Yes.
WAITING
The water arrived
like a tsunami,
but it leaves
like bathwater
trickling down
a hair-clogged drain.
I hug the wall,
every muscle
tense and aching,
my body
one big ball
of pain.
I wait
and wait
and wait
as the water slowly,
painfully lowers,
getting drunk
by the eternally
thirsty ground.
I will it to drink
faster before I fall.
I wait for
seconds,
minutes,
hours,
days,
months,
years.
My muscles shake
with fatigue.
My vision blurs
with tears.
My heart pounds
with the full force
of having to watch
both my parents
torn apart.
SHAME
Self-condemnation
from unprocessed guilt and shame
is never helpful.
DAD’S HEIGHT
By the time the canyon is gray,
the water is finally low enough
for me to drop onto the outcropping.
I look down through a curtain of sweaty, damp hair,
already wishing I hadn’t taken out my ponytail,
and see the rock, the waters just beneath it
now flowing at a stroll rather than a sprint.
It’s about six feet down.
Dad’s height.
Because that’s how high he could lift me.
The pain and pressure in my chest grow
as if someone is punching my heart.
I have to climb down,
but I know before I even begin
it’s impossible.
Climbing down is nothing
like climbing up.
Plus, I have boots on,
and the wall below me is wet.
I don’t have any choice.
I can’t hang on to this wall another minute,
and I don’t have the strength to climb up
out of this canyon.
My heart pounds hard enough
to send tremors through my body,
make my fingers, hands, and arms shudder.
Lowering one unsteady boot
for a foothold below me,
I cry
because
I know
I’m about
to fall.
SLIPPING
My boot slips,
my fingers, hands, and arms
too weak to hang on.
Sliding down the wall,
slowing my fall with friction,
sanding skin off my
palms, forearms, and knees,
my body so filled with adrenaline,
I don’t yet feel the pain.
I hit the outcropping,
boots first,
and my feet slip out from under me.
My right hip, ribs, arm slam
against the rocky ledge,
my teeth knocking together,
biting my tongue.
I slide into the water,
frantically grasp at the crack in the rock,
and stop myself,
half my body in the water,
which is trying to pull me from the ledge.
I drag myself out,
my mouth filling with blood,
lie on my side, and pull
my legs up to my chest.
And now the pain comes.
It radiates
over my torn skin
like a fire,
barrels into my battered bones
like a fighter.
Blood drips
from my hands and knees and mouth
onto the rock.
It spreads like watercolors
on the wet stone.
THE SECOND TIME
I’ve lost my
backpack,
hoodie,
hair tie,
helmet,
harness,
gloves,
food,
water,
last person in my life.
I have nothing left.
Except my life.
That’s the second time in a single year
one of my parents put my life
before theirs.
SINKING
The canyon is dimming.
I need to get moving
before it gets too dark.
I need to find Dad.
It’s risky to walk in the desert
with no light at all.
There could be
snakes, scorpions, spiny cactuses.
I push myself up,
my arms shaking with the effort,
still worn out from clinging to the wall.
I lean over and look down
at the ground a few feet below,
puddles everywhere but no longer
enough water to flow.
I drag my legs around
and shove myself off the rock.
My boots sink deep into the dark
sludge like quicksand.
Too deep.
I’m stuck.
Stuck in this muck,
my muscles too fatigued
to pull out my boot.
I grasp my leg with both hands
and pull with all my strength.
My boot finally breaks free
with a loud sucking sound,
completely soaked in sludge.
I won’t be walking anywhere tonight,
so I climb back up on the rock.
Maybe Dad didn’t go too far.
I cry out for him,
hoping he’ll hear,
hoping he’ll call back.
I listen.
Nothing.
I’ll have to wait here
on this rock for now.
Just for now until Dad returns.
WHY?
I lie back on the rock
and watch as the silver sliver of sky
above me turns to black,
taking all light in the canyon with it.
There’s nothing to do
except let my mind wander
to places I don’t want to visit.
It’s always the same places.
Even here and now.
Why, why, why?
There has to be a reason why a person
would walk into a restaurant
and just start shooting.