back from the desert.

Last year on a van trip when we were driving somewhere south of Las Vegas my friend, Annie, exclaimed, “Is it a town? No. Just a big shopping center.” I relived that instance inside my head a few times on the way down to Lake Havasu, AZ to visit my sister and her family this weekend.

For some reason my sister, Marie, has always chosen to live in the desert and I've never understood it. She eagerly attended Southern Utah University after graduating from high school and took her first job as an English teacher in Ely, NV. Miriam and I visited her in Ely for the first time about ten years ago. I remember parking in the cold night air outside that dark apartment. Yellow light glowed from the windows, but didn't dim the unusual brilliance of the stars. Her only companion, Jax, a white Jack Russell terrier puppy, barked a vicious greeting at the door and we all embraced as sisters upon entering.

She gave us a quick tour of her one bedroom home when a lump formed in my throat and my chest grew tight. I couldn't prevent feeling overwhelmed that those few square feet constituted her tangible existence. Outside of the forks she'd chosen so carefully, the potted plants, the large orange leather chair all housed in those little glowing rooms there existed a coarse wasteland without end; unwelcoming and barren. The little off-brand shops we wandered in and out of the next day offered no consolation. I cried on the drive home because I disliked the idea of leaving her alone in the desert.

I drew a picture for my art class of a single shoe lost in the desert. I drew it optimistically large and upright, as though it was trying to stand up and take its place as part of the lanscape amongst surrounding redrock formations. But it still felt so sad to me.

We we were raised on artesian well water that flows naturally from the ground and through the pipes of our house. Our water pressure has always been unusually low because we've never used a pump. I'm convinced it's the most delicious water in the world and I miss the taste when I'm away.

"Where does your water come from Marie?", I asked her during our weekend stay.

"Municipal sources, I guess."