The Canyon's Edge Read online

  without the rope.

  I stop in front of a large ocotillo,

  its branches long wands,

  wondering whether I could somehow use one.

  But even the tallest wand is probably

  only a third as tall as the canyon.

  Dad could climb a little, grab on to it.

  The thorns would pierce his hands

  the whole way.

  They would pierce mine as I held it.

  The pain would be unreal.

  Could it, could I, hold his weight?

  Could I use a tree branch?

  The palo verde,

  the mesquite,

  the ironwood,

  all have large thorns,

  and their branches aren’t nearly long enough.

  The rib of a saguaro skeleton?

  I haven’t seen one,

  and they’re probably too brittle.

  Could I use another kind of plant?

  Weave a rope like the Tohono O’odham

  weave their beautiful baskets?

  What do they use?

  I’ve learned about this so many times

  at national parks, museums, art shows, and classes.

  Yucca? Devil’s claw? Bear grass?

  I can’t remember, but I know

  I’ve seen none of that.

  And how long would that take anyway?

  To weave a forty-foot rope?

  Too long.

  What if Dad isn’t even in the canyon?

  What if he’s already climbed out?

  What if we’ve somehow

  missed each other?

  And I’m walking in the hot sun,

  no water to be found.

  Walking to nowhere and no one.

  WALKING ON WATER

  I keep replaying it in my mind.

  I can see and feel the backpack

  slipping from my fingers

  over and over again.

  The weight of it.

  The weight of the water within.

  I should never have climbed to that cave.

  Even if a flood had come, drowning

  would have been better than this dehydration.

  My need is so intense, I would do anything

  to be floating in the black water right now,

  water filling and spilling into my mouth and throat

  and even my lungs.

  There’s water under my feet.

  Beneath the hard, hot desert ground,

  the underneath is filled with endless aquifers.

  Despite literally walking on water

  to find my dad, I can’t drink a single drop

  from underneath.

  DESPERATION

  I now carry the dry desert

  on my skin,

  in my eyes,

  in my nose,

  in my mouth.

  Dust coats the inside of my cheeks

  and the surface of my teeth.

  A cactus clogs my throat.

  Sand covers my tongue.

  It’s a wonder I don’t disintegrate

  into a puff of powder.

  I see a pop of pink ahead,

  and my wobbly legs automatically speed up.

  Please, please, please…

  I almost collapse in relief at the sight

  of prickly pear, the last

  few fall fruits clinging to the plant,

  the rest having been eaten and carried away

  by birds and beetles and javelinas.

  Dad and I used to pick the fruit together

  to make prickly pear Popsicles,

  sweet and cold and refreshing,

  the taste like watermelon.

  Dad’s instructions were strict

  to save me from the spines.

  Always, always use tongs

  to pull the fruit off the plant.

  I grasp the fruit in my bare hands,

  tearing it from the green paddles,

  the small, nearly invisible, hairlike spines

  getting into every inch of my skin.

  Watch out for the bigger needles.

  A large spine pierces my tender hand,

  going deep enough to draw blood

  when I tear it out.

  You have to open the fruit carefully,

  with gloves, a sharp knife,

  a spoon to lift the fruit out.

  I drop the fruit on the ground

  and smash it with my boot,

  then I pry it open

  with my thorn-filled fingers

  and suck the meager warm fruit out.

  Never put it in your mouth

  until all the small spines are gone,

  or you’ll be very, very sorry.

  The needles find their way

  into my lips and mouth and gums

  and tongue and cheeks,

  juice staining all it touches

  in flaming fuchsia.

  Everything in the desert has thorns.

  Everything in the desert hurts you.

  Strain the fruit to remove

  the stone-hard seeds.

  I eat every last fruit

  skin and spines

  and seeds and all,

  not willing to waste

  a single drop

  by spitting any of it

  on the ground.

  I can’t get enough.

  I could never get enough.

  I swallow mouthful after mouthful,

  my stomach filling with stones.

  I’d have to eat about a thousand fruits

  to satisfy my need.

  The flavor brings me back

  to those icy cold Popsicles.

  The three of us sitting on the porch

  dripping hot pink everywhere

  while Mom reads us her newest poem.

  I want to cry, but don’t.

  I have to move on,

  my thirst barely muffled

  by what I’ve just done to myself.

  UNDERNEATH

  A dust devil spins

  across the landscape

  like a small tornado.

  I watch it as I walk,

  wishing it were made

  of water like a waterspout.

  I would dive inside it and let it

  twist me, twirl me, whisk me away.

  The devil moves in my direction,

  or my own feet are carrying me

  toward the column of dust,

  as though I’m not controlling them,

  as though they have a mind of their own

  and that mind believes

  there’s water in the whirlwind.

  Water.

  Not just to drink, but to dive.

  I remember swimming with my mom

  in our pool in the desert.

  The coconutty smell of sunblock.

  The sounds of splashing

  and her voice, like the sun’s warm embrace

  on my skin.

  My hair soaks up every ray

  and heats to burning.

  My toes sting

  on the terribly named cool decking,

  and I dip them in the refreshing blue.

  And then I jump into the cold water,

  the relief against my hot scalp so intense

  it gives me chills.

  The feel of chlorine in my eyes.

  The blurred sounds and images of the underneath

  when I tried to stay under as long as possible,

  challenging myself to hold my breath always longer,

  my mom worried I wasn’t coming back up.

  I reach the dust devil,

  and it envelopes my body for only a second

  before dissolving back to the desert.

  I take in a lungful of dust and stop, double over,

  heaving and coughing.

  I can barely breathe until every grain is gone.

  I stand back up, wipe at my sand-filled eyes,

  and continue along the edg
e.

  I feel as though I’m in the underneath now,

  images all blurry, holding my breath.

  But without the coolness of the water to soothe

  my burning cheeks, blazing scalp, battered body.

  And without my mom here to worry

  that I won’t be coming back up.

  DANIELLE

  The mirages are all around me.

  I’m so thirsty I can almost believe,

  convince myself, tell myself,

  they’re really water, even though

  I also know that’s impossible,

  that the desert is now tricking me,

  taunting me, teasing me

  with its terrible heat waves.

  Water.

  If only I were floating in the hot night

  with Danielle, our feet splashing

  outside our tubes, talking endlessly

  about boys and books and movies and makeup

  and what we want to do when we’re older.

  Maybe I’ll be a park ranger.

  Maybe Danielle will be a stylist.

  If I were there, I would drink the whole pool.

  If only that could happen again,

  that we could be there again,

  floating and talking and laughing and splashing.

  If only that hadn’t stopped.

  How could I have let that stop?

  How could I—

  A wave of dizziness overcomes me,

  sends me stumbling toward

  the edge, and for a split second,

  I think I’ll tumble right over it,

  not sure where solidness ends

  and emptiness begins.

  I fall to the ground on my butt,

  only inches from the drop-off.

  I sit in the hot dirt and wait

  for the dizziness to pass,

  my sunburned face in my mangled hands.

  If Danielle would ever be my friend again,

  I’d have nothing left to give her now.

  Nothing but skin,

  burned, torn, and pierced with thorns.

  Nothing but hair,

  chopped, tattered, and matted with mud.

  Nothing but this thirst,

  overwhelming, overpowering, overtaking me.

  I know, I know, I know

  she wouldn’t ask for more than that.

  She never, ever asked for anything

  but me.

  TRUTH

  Danielle sits on my bed in my room,

  squeezing one of my pillows to her chest,

  tears running down her glistening brown cheeks.

  I don’t know how to help you, Nora.

  You can’t.

  I want to help you.

  You can’t.

  I’m trying to understand.

  You can’t!

  You can’t!

  You can’t!

  I scream at her over and over again,

  my eyes clenched shut,

  hands clamped over my ears.

  I hate her right now.

  She loves me,

  and I hate her

  because she can’t understand.

  Because it happened

  to me and not her.

  And so I scream.

  You can’t!

  You can’t!

  You can’t!

  Go away!

  Go away!

  Go away!

  I scream it long enough

  that when I finally stop and open my eyes,

  she’s gone.

  And when she calls later that day,

  I don’t answer.

  When she calls the next day,

  I don’t answer.

  When she calls the day after that,

  I don’t answer.

  Danielle chose to leave my life

  because it was the only choice

  I gave her.

  LIMINAL SPACE

  Time between what was

  and whatever might come next

  is liminal space.

  IN-BETWEEN

  After it happened, I thought everyone would be

  impacted, altered, changed forever.

  But everyone else was exactly the same.

  Dad and I were the only ones who were

  impacted, altered, changed forever.

  I didn’t know

  what to do,

  how to act,

  who to be,

  in the in-between space

  of what was and what might be.

  I only knew for sure what would

  never be again.

  COME BACK

  I force myself up.

  I continue walking.

  I move forward.

  Eleanor, sometimes people who have experienced

  a traumatic event come back

  even more resilient than they were before.

  There’s no excuse for giving up.

  I have to keep trying.

  Even when I once more veer

  toward the edge.

  Even when my knees

  begin to buckle.

  Even when the black spots

  dance in my eyes,

  I have to never stop trying.

  I can come back from this.

  I want to live.

  And I want Dad to live.

  The clouds are moving in,

  the desert sky growing ever darker,

  giving me some relief

  from the burning sun.

  I’m grateful for every cloud.

  The refreshing smell of creosote

  suddenly fills the air and my lungs.

  It gives me the tiniest boost,

  clears my clogged mind,

  drains an ounce of lead from my legs.

  It’s raining again.

  Not here. Not over me.

  Somewhere.

  But even if it didn’t rain

  for a very long time,

  the creosote bush would survive.

  It can live up to two years

  without water.

  The creosote drops its leaves.

  It may even drop its branches,

  but it keeps what it needs in the root crown,

  so it can come back.

  I’ve shed leaves.

  I’ve even torn away branches,

  but I still have what I need in my root crown.

  And so I can come back.

  I’ve survived this last year.

  I’ve gone half as long as the creosote bush.

  I can go another year.

  But I want this year to be different.

  I don’t want to survive the next year

  as I did the last year.

  I want to live the next year.

  I can come back.

  WONDERSTRUCK

  The afternoon sun pauses all movement,

  making the desert still and vast and quiet

  around me while I walk.

  I have to tell myself to keep putting

  one foot in front of the other.

  Even when the only thought in my mind

  is to lie down somewhere, curl up under a tree,

  and sleep forever, I have to keep putting

  one foot in front of the other.

  And then I’m stopped,

  my legs and my heart.

  An animal stands

  at the edge of the canyon,

  looking down into it.

  It turns its face to me.

  My heart resumes pounding

  as I try to make out what it is

  through sanded, sun-scorched eyes.

  Mountain lion?

  Coyote?

  Bobcat?

  It can probably sense

  that I’m weak, nearing my end,

  unable to fight back.

  But it only stands there,

  as still as I am.

  I focus my eyes as well as I can.

  Too small for a mountain lion.

 
; Looks like a coyote

  but

  reddish legs and underside,

  white throat,

  long, bushy tail with a black tip,

  sun glowing pink through its

  pointy, triangular ears.

  A fox.

  I stay as still as possible,

  no longer scared, but because

  I don’t want to scare it away.

  It tilts its head at me,

  watches me with curiosity,

  with wariness.

  It doesn’t seem to understand

  what I am.

  The desert surrounding us

  is as still and vast and quiet

  as my mind, and I am

  wonderstruck

  to see a fox in the desert.

  I wish Dad were here.

  I stretch out my hand,

  and that’s all it takes

  to scare the fox away.

  But as though I somehow

  summoned Dad

  with the power of my wishing,

  I look down into the canyon,

  and

  there he is.

  SO CLOSE

  I’ve found him.

  I open my mouth to call out to him.

  Nothing but a rasp escapes because

  I screamed my voice away last night.

  He lies on his stomach,

  his head turned toward me.

  His eyes

  sealed shut with mud.

  His clothing

  torn to shreds.

  His skin

  burned and sanded off.

  His hair

  patchy and matted with mud and blood.

  His left arm

  contorted strangely behind him.

  His backpack

  still on and in one piece.

  I’ve found him.

  Finally.

  I’ve reached him.

  He’s so close, so close

  I could stretch out a hand

  and nearly touch him,

  washed up on a ledge

  about five feet below me.

  No, not washed up.

  I see the trail of handprints and boot prints

  and streaks of mud and blood

  where he dragged himself

  up a series of outcroppings until he reached