Phoenix

I should be working, but I'm restless, so I'm going to take a little mind-walk, a few laps around my already fading memories of the last week: frozen margaritas under fluorescent skies, an army of baby quails scurrying under creosote, wiggle-nosed javelinas sniffing at us from the underbrush.

Austin and I arrived late on a Saturday to a rare couple of days of clouds and intermittent rain. I even wore a light jacket on the summits, shielding myself from the cool, dusty winds. I hoped the rain would wake up the desert the way it stirs the forests back home, when the trees become alive with songbirds and slugs, but I didn't notice much of a difference--in the hours and days afterward, the saguaros were still rotting, the spring flowers still wilting, and Dad's backyard didn't attract any more than the usual visitor, antelope squirrels and silent hummingbirds. Soon the sun came again and burned the moisture off everything but my skin, which becomes slick so soon after exposure, and my mouth cotton-dry. Here I enjoy thirst for water and ice-cold cocktails: Dad's vodka tonics with fresh squeezed lime, margaritas with sugar around the rim. He freezes the glasses, too, so that by the time we bring them to the upstairs balcony our fingers are burning from the cold.

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Austin and I went to Dave n Buster's for Bachata Addiction, the Thursday-night salsa party on the roof, the exact place I learned my first salsa steps in 2022. A few of the leads kept me close to the industrial fan, which licked away the sweat of the nearly 90-degree and breezeless night. Austin and I haven't danced in way too long, and we stayed for nearly an hour and a half, spinning and dipping and watching from the sides as tall leads danced with tiny follows and experienced dancers moved effortlessly across the floor, their arms and faces glistening, eyebrows raising, signing their names in the sky.

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Dad and I rode around the neighborhood the other day, me on a bike and him on his scooter. It's one of my favorite parts of these trips, breezing past gorgeous desert homes, their manicured front yards like Zen gardens boasting brittlebush and rock lizards and metal javelina, string lights and patio seating. I contemplate often on these rides things like family and friends, how the best part of having a home is sharing it, how the best part of being here in Phoenix is sitting on the balcony with Dad and Austin, watching the stars sink below South Mountain.

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I've been working and reading and chasing the sunset on evening hikes. Each night my heart pounds as the sun drops below the horizon--I've made it back with daylight in reserve every single time, but maybe I should take calculated risks by staying out a little longer, flashlight in hand, teaching myself that I can't really get lost when the mountains face the same way each day, when Phoenix Valley sprawls to the west and Ahwatukee casts its light in the east. When I've traveled these paths time and time again and know the rattle-like sound of dry leaves, the whistling of the wind against my open-and-almost-empty water bottle, the frenetic scurry and squawking of quails. When the moon starts to rise and the last of the mountain bikers haul their equipment in their trucks, I should trust that I always find my way home.