The Canyon's Edge
Page 7
coming
over
the
edge,
revealed only
by
quick bursts
of light.
Grasping,
grasping,
grasping
the stone floor,
as though
my breath,
the air,
is there,
and I can
somehow find it.
Clenching
my eyes shut
as the crackled exoskeleton
of his face is
about to appear
over
the
side.
Can’t bear
to see
my waking nightmare.
STRONG ENOUGH
And then I feel
a hand
instead of a claw
against my cheek.
Fingers soft and cool
against my burning skin.
I know this hand.
She is powerful
and fearless and brave.
Only my mother is strong enough
to scare the Beast away.
LET IT BE
Shhhhhhh,
she comforts me.
Shhhhhhh.
And she sings the song she always
sang when I was sick or scared
or simply not tired enough to fall asleep.
But I can’t stand to hear
“Golden Slumbers” right now.
I can’t stand it.
Please sing another song.
Her gentle fingertips
caress my forehead.
Okay,
she whispers.
Okay.
And somehow, despite being
out of my mind with sickness.
Despite the whole world
falling apart.
Despite the Beast waiting for me
down in the canyon.
Despite it all possibly, likely
coming to an end,
I am able to fall into a fevered sleep
inside a hole in a wall
on the side of a canyon
while my mother sings me
“Let It Be.”
BEATLES DREAM
My mother is standing guard.
My mother keeps the Beast away.
And so I dream of her.
And I dream of Dad.
And I dream of the Beatles
because Mom loved their music.
I dream of my mother’s funeral.
Dad had them play “In My Life”
because it was her song for him.
He had them play “Blackbird”
because it was her song for me.
I dream about my dad,
in his room, crying and sobbing
and weeping and wailing
while listening to “Yesterday.”
I hate that song.
In the dream, I finally
walk into that room
and change the song
to “Hey Jude.”
Then we sit together
in a beautiful, peaceful place
that could only exist in a dream
and listen to “Here Comes the Sun.”
STILL HERE
The pain in my head,
pounding with venom and thirst,
awakens me.
Reaching a hand up to my matted hair,
I feel the tender lump on the back of my skull
where it hit the cave ceiling.
A tunnel of sparkling sunlight
shines down into the canyon.
How long was I sleeping?
It must be about noon.
Noon the next day.
The next day?
Please let it be only the next day.
Could I have slept longer?
I look at the cuts on my hands,
study the slices and scratches.
They still look fresh,
not yet scabbing.
A person can only go
about three days without water,
and I feel like I have
another day left in me.
I must have another day left.
So it had to be only one night.
That means it’s been two nights,
forty-eight hours, since the flood.
I made it through another night.
So sick and dehydrated and starving,
but I’m still here.
I beat the Beast back
and I vanquished the venom
and I thwarted the thirst,
and I’m still here.
Pushing myself up to sit,
my stomach churns.
My limbs feel
like they’re filled with sand.
I look around the cave.
Where is it?
I lean over, peer down,
and there it is
lying on the canyon floor.
The rope.
ALL FOR NOTHING
No, no, no.
The rope for which I sacrificed
my arms and legs and face and time
lies on the canyon floor
twenty feet below.
I kicked it, killed it,
shoved it over the edge,
so triumphant in my accomplishment,
in how I protected myself.
How will I ever get out of here
without my rope?
I can see the ground is dry.
No flood came.
I lie back down,
pull my knees up to my chest,
and cry tearless sobs.
THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD
Forty-eight hours.
And Dad still hasn’t found me.
What if he passed by while I slept?
What if he didn’t see me?
No, he’d have seen my marks in the dirt,
the blood streaking the wall,
the hair scattered around.
He would have looked up.
He didn’t come.
It’s quiet except for my sobs.
I feel like the only person
left in the world.
I know I’m not, but I also know
Dad’s not coming to find me.
It will have to be me
who finds him.
UP
I push myself back up.
Muscles cramping, I grab
my brown, wadded tank top,
slip it over my head, and pull it down.
I drape my boots over my shoulder,
boot laces still tied together.
I lean out of the cave and look down again.
Then I turn my head to look up
toward the blinding blue sky.
It’s not very far,
but my muscles are feeble,
weak from
dehydration,
venom,
lack of food.
I pull a mesquite bean out of my pocket
and bite down, chewing, but with so little
spit left, it’s dust in my mouth.
I try to swallow, but it sticks in my dry throat,
making me cough, part of it coming back out,
part of it making its way down to my hollow stomach.
This mouthful of sawdust is all
I have to energize me.
But there’s nowhere to go from here
but up, even if it means
I may never get back down.
TIME TO GO
I sit here, chewing and coughing
on the dry beans,
wishing I could stay,
terrified of what I have to do to leave.
I reach a hand out of the cave,
and my fingertips just barely
skim the light.
I can’t stay here,
where no one will find me.
I can’t stay here,
wh
en I’m the only one who can find Dad.
An insect flutters around outside the cave.
Focusing on it, I try
to slow the spinning in my head.
The insect soars into the cave
and settles on the floor beside me.
I’m surprised to see
it’s a monarch butterfly.
I move my hand toward it,
and it flies away.
Time for me to do the same.
LEAVING
Sticking my head out once more,
I wait for my eyes to adjust to the light.
I look up the wall,
tell myself again it’s not very far.
I’ve survived the flood,
the wind, the venom,
the hunger, the thirst.
I can do this.
Staying in this cave
is not an option.
I fell yesterday.
I won’t fall today.
I did twenty feet yesterday.
I can do another twenty today.
Finding a foothold outside the cave,
I move sideways away from the opening
to follow another crack to the top.
One more foothold,
my fingers gripping the crack,
and I’m nearly above the cave.
Now there’s no going back in.
CLIMBING
I take my time.
My hair is no longer an obstacle,
and I have more light.
I feel,
read,
the rock wall with my toes
as though the route
is written in braille.
But I’m so very, very tired
and didn’t realize how weak
muscles can be
because I’ve never gone
this long without eating
in my entire life.
The weakness
is in every part of me:
in my legs,
in my arms,
in my heart,
in my fingers
trying to hold on
to the narrow split
in the rock.
They tremble
and threaten release.
Now I feel the Beast below me,
sneering, sniping, snapping
his snarling mouth,
his claws outstretched,
waiting, patiently waiting,
for me to fall.
Climbing takes energy, strength, and patience.
What little I have left is as thin and frail
as the monarch’s wings.
The most powerful thing I have
to fuel my climb is
anger.
GRIP STRENGTH
Grip strength is crucial, Dad says,
holding Mom’s rope as she climbs,
keeping it taut.
She’s almost at the top of the wall.
I’m six years old,
and we’re standing in his rock gym
together.
You never know what you might face
in the desert, Dad says.
You have to be prepared for everything.
Mom reaches the top.
She waves down at us, bright and beaming.
Then she releases the wall
and leaps,
no fear, no worry, no doubt
that Dad will belay the rope for her properly.
No doubt
that Dad will always keep her safe.
Dad watches her descend,
slowly feeding the rope
through the belay device.
She lands
and throws her arms around him,
giving him a kiss
that makes me crinkle my nose.
Then she turns to me, runs a chalky hand
down my hair, tells me,
It’s your turn now, my little blackbird.
Get ready to fly.
STRESS
I’m climbing using cracks
my fingers barely slip into
up to the first joint.
I’m climbing using protrusions
in the rock that may only stick out enough
to hold the tips of my toes.
My feet are sore, toes raw, toenails torn.
My hands are swollen, palms sliced,
fingers cracked, fingernails shredded to nubs.
At home, I eat my chocolate
and listen to my music
and wrap myself tightly in my soft blanket
and tie my figure eights
and knead my balloon of flour.
Mary told me how to make it:
a regular birthday balloon,
baking flour, and a funnel to fill it.
And I knead
and knead
and knead
until the balloon bursts.
Then I make another one.
There’s no way I could hold on
to this wall of rock right now
with my marred hands
if I hadn’t kneaded my balloon of flour
thousands and thousands of times.
THE TOP
My fingers finally brush the ground
above my head, and the relief almost
makes my tired limbs go limp,
which I can’t allow.
My heart speeds with excitement
as I grip the edge of the canyon
and pull myself up, allowing my upper body
to rest on the hot dirt for a few seconds.
Forty feet.
Without rope,
without rock shoes,
without chalk,
without a harness,
without a belayer
standing at the bottom
taking up my slack
and keeping me safe so
I don’t plummet to the earth.
Forty feet.
And I did it.
DESERT SUN
I drag my legs up out of the canyon.
I pull my boots, socks still stuffed inside,
off my shoulder and slip them back on my
sore feet, wincing at the pain.
Our closest star bakes my skin,
dries my insides, and drains
the last drops of energy,
making muscles cramp.
The mud I’d slathered on my skin
for protection has mostly flaked off.
The back of my neck is already burning
without my long hair to protect it.
There’s not even a single drop
of muddy water up here.
No canyon walls to block the sun.
But I don’t have time to lament my
lost mud,
lost hair,
lost water,
lost shadows,
because I have to focus on finding my
lost dad.
REASON
I strain to see through squinted eyes,
black spots bursting all around me.
Nothing.
There’s nothing,
not even power lines.
Nothing
but scrubby brittlebush
and scrawny palo verdes
and gangly ironwoods
and towering saguaros
as far as I can see.
Blisters sting my feet and toes,
and my feet ache
from so
much
walking.
I stumble and scrape my knees.
My hands scream out in pain
as rough dirt and stones
dig into my cuts and sores.
And again I pray for help,
for a plane to see,
for a hiker to come along,
for a nearby bush
to erupt into flame.
And then maybe they’d see.
And then maybe they’d come.
And then maybe I’d know
there is a rea
son for all of this.
FORGIVE
People say the desert is unforgiving,
as if it’s a harsh judge who will
send you to prison for a tiny mistake.
People say respect the desert,
as if it’s a big muscular bully who will
pummel you for the slightest misstep.
They’re right.
And I’ve made so many missteps.
I’m supposed to find a shady spot
during the day to rest and only travel by night.
I stop in front of a large palo verde,
consider curling up under its skinny branches,
barely large enough to filter the beating sun,
then moving on after dark.
If only there were moonlight or a flashlight for that.
If only there were time for that.
I don’t know what’s happening with Dad,
where he is, what condition he’s in,
but I’m certain now that
every
second
counts.
If it were summer,
we’d be dead already.
But we would never hike a canyon
in the middle of the Sonoran Desert
in the middle of summer.
And so I hope the desert forgives
my missteps, mistakes, my mild disrespect.
Despite the heat mirages
wavering all around me,
despite the turkey vultures
now circling above me as I walk,
floating on their invisible whirlpools,
I hope the desert
doesn’t judge me too harshly.
I hope the desert forgives.
ANOTHER WAY
I walk along the precipice,
watching the ground for rattlesnakes.
They’ll be out,
and stepping on one would mean
the end of all of this.
I periodically scan the canyon for Dad
with no good idea how I’ll get back down to him