Creosote

I love the way Tucson smells
when we walk,
our suitcases clicking
on the sidewalk cracks. 
I wonder if creosote only smells good
when it rains,
but I can’t remember it raining
any of the hundreds of times
we’ve landed at Tucson International Airport. 

The creosote bush takes up space
in a landscape dominated
by hostile living conditions -
folding in on itself for protection,
saving its fragrant leaves for the monsoon -
rewarding those patient enough to stick around.

When Mimi used to make chicken tetrazzini
on our first night, 

Aunt Kay would join us at the kids’ table
before the storm.

It’s difficult to look back on the past
and its messiness

without resisting the urge
to clean it up with a bit of rain,

but this is how I learned to be good at apologies

(and even so, to never live life apologetically). 

One year, we dipped into the turquoise
waters of the Villa del Rio swimming pool,

standing under the yellow dial thermometer

that said it was under 40 degrees, the mist rising up
around Erik and Aunt Kay and me.
I remember feeling tough, I remember

feeling loved. That was her way.

I picture joy like it’s a memory of too many of us
crowded around one table at Casa Molina.

It never felt like too many of us;
removing any individual

would remove an entire dialogue. 

In the desert, every living thing has earned

its place amongst other masters of adaptation. 

As Aunt Kay lost her ability to drive, to walk,
to swim, to speak… 

the rest of us gained intention, perspective,
flexibility, and attentiveness.  

We realized that the things she lost
have hardly anything to do with living.