I need to know the reason so desperately
that Dad sent me to Mary.
But Mary still hasn’t told me why.
And if there’s no why,
then I’m just small and powerless,
a single drop of water
in a raging river,
a single grain of sand
in a suffocating dust storm,
a single speck of palo verde pollen
floating on the dry desert breeze.
Unanchored.
Untethered.
Unpredictable.
Unable to see
what the future holds.
Unable to see
where I’ll land.
ONE RAGING RIVER
I badly need to know why right now. But no one is here to tell
me why, so I imagine it for myself. I remember those dark
mountains to the west. I picture rain running down the
sides of the mountains in hundreds of small streams,
which become tens of brooks, which become
a few creeks, which become one raging
river in a previously dry riverbed
that gradually deepens into
a narrow slot canyon.
One raging river
that washes
my father
away.
WHAT IF?
As though my mind
is made of metal,
it’s pulled by a magnet
to another place,
an unhelpful, unhealthy place.
It’s the place of what-ifs.
What if
I’d picked another restaurant?
What if
we’d sat at a different table?
What if
we’d gone for lunch instead of dinner?
What if
it wasn’t my birthday?
Then Mom would still be here.
Dad would still be here.
And I wouldn’t be here
alone
at the bottom of a dark canyon.
BREATHING
And so I am sitting on this
cold, wet rock in the dark
alone with my thoughts,
with the whys
and the what-ifs.
And I feel myself
falling deeper and deeper
into my anger, which spirals
like the brightening stars above me.
It’s a tornado turning,
a choppy sea churning,
a bone-dry desert burning
evermore out of control.
My heart pounds.
I want to scream.
Remember your breathing, Eleanor.
I cry out for Dad again,
funneling my anger, my breath,
into my voice.
My cries echo over and over
against the tall canyon walls,
following the path of the flood.
The path to Dad.
BUT
Dad’s a great swimmer,
but his leg.
Dad’s strong,
but those floodwaters
may be stronger.
Dad has his backpack,
but all that debris,
the water so filled
with sticks and stones
and sludge,
could tear it from
his body.
Dad knows how
to survive in the desert,
but he’s never
faced anything like this.
I know he’s out there
somewhere in the dark
of this canyon,
but is he still alive?
Yes.
He’s alive and he
knows where I am.
He’ll find me,
but I know he can’t
find me tonight
in the dark and the mud.
I lie back on the cold rock,
a trill floating back to me
from somewhere
down the canyon.
DAD!
TRILL
I sit up.
Listen.
It sounds like a whistle.
Dad is whistling for me.
Wait.
Did Dad bring a whistle?
The trill rings
through the canyon
again and again.
And then something
is trilling very close to me.
And then several somethings
are trilling all around me
like a screeching chorus.
Folding my legs up,
I press my forehead into my knees,
push my hands back through my hair,
and squeeze it tightly at my scalp.
It’s not Dad.
It’s the red-spotted toads,
digging themselves out
from under the soaked ground.
I lie down on my side
and clamp my hands over my ears
to try to block them out.
WIND
I know it must be at least midnight
because the toads finally quiet back down.
I lift my hands from my ears
and rub them over my chilled arms.
I remember camping with Mom and Dad
at the bottom of Canyon de Chelly,
how the winds blew at night.
I can still hear them
groaning against our tent walls.
The sound, almost deafening,
frightened me.
I thought it was monsters.
It’s just the wind, Nora,
Dad assured me, hugging me to him.
When the canyon walls cool at night
it causes the air to blow hard.
Don’t worry, sweetheart.
Nothing can hurt us down here.
The next morning our Diné guide told us,
The winds are part of the way
the canyon expresses siihasin,
harmony.
But all I feel right now is
disharmony.
Our Diné guide told us,
The canyon gives much to those
who would receive it.
That may be true of Canyon de Chelly,
but I don’t think this canyon
has anything to give me.
This canyon only takes away.
BURNING
The canyon winds pick up
and slice over me like an icicle.
My body starts
to shake uncontrollably.
My clothes are still damp,
and the wind is like winter.
For the 366th night in a row,
I wish my mom were here
to take me in her arms
and comfort me
and sing the song
she used to sing.
But she’s not.
So my mind goes back
to the last time
I saw her alive,
how she wished me
Happy birthday, sweetheart,
and the guitarist played a song
while I ate fried ice cream
with a bright blue candle
burning.
FLAME
Another mom was there.
Sofía Moreno,
just a regular mom,
sitting in the booth next to ours.
I remember how she and her two little boys
had clapped when the server
brought out their fajitas,
how she’d pulled her kids to her
to keep them from touching
the flame.
And so my thoughts keep
circling back to
fire.
DRIFTING
With nothing but