The Canyon's Edge Read online

  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