|Sunrise, Wonder Valley, September 30, 2015|
A specter of sweet perfume wends through the room. I've been reading about war time spies Harriett Tubman and Josephine Baker and I imagine this scent to be what remained when they left a room: a scent of bravery, hope, and loveliness. It's an intoxicating scent and my mind flails about to identify any part of it. It's so lovely that I ask myself who the president is. The scent reminds me of an expensive French perfume; the 1960s before Kennedy was killed; optimism; and wealthy great aunts, and my room is infused with it. A rooster crows. I want to stay here all day, and the gods would not blame me.
The surfeit of cool air brings the promise of possibility without recriminations. It's been too hot to do much, and many friends have been away. The cool air means they'll come wandering back and our little desert family will be complete again. Abandoned tasks will be resumed. Trees will be trimmed, trash hauled, windows and doors repainted. We'll cook with heat again - inside. The cold water tap will run with cold water.
I can cut my hair and wear it down again. No more ponytail headaches. No more looking like a wretched, broke down Palmer Girl.
I really cannot imagine what that smell is. There are only five plants here and none of them smell like that: creosote, mesquite, smoke tree, athel pine and salt bush. It has to be a ghost, there is no other explanation, and no mansplaining scientist will come out this far to prove me wrong. Much remains unexplained out here, species remain unnamed and uncategorized, phenomena remain unexamined. Ghosts and aliens act as seat fillers for absent, soft-bellied experts. Even gods are loathe to come here, and when they do, they don't stay long, preferring to cling to the coasts.
If this were San Francisco, this would be Opening Day on the Bay. We all raise our sails, fill our water ballons, fire up our blenders, and come home covered in salt.
It's that day.