Not the freaking desert,
my father would rather spend
his day at the beach,
my mother, always in charge of food,
packed egg sandwiches and a tall thermos,
passed an insulated plaid bag to my uncle who cursed, took the sac anyway,
and my two aunts, always ahead of the game, one negotiating rocks with a gimpy leg,
the other, carrying an empty bowl and tennis racket.
Through a fence of children,
alive they rarely had a good word to say about each other—
renegades, artists, weavers, dreamers
hold my hand gently knowing
my heart’s been juiced, a Bloody Mary.
My father wants sunglasses, mom says
he never wore a pair in his entire life and leaves it at that,
rappel down a ridge spiked with cactus,
aunties remove clothes and swim beneath a waterfall,
each one thinking the other is too fat. After lunch,
they escort me back to the parking lot
past the scarred arms of Saguaro. It’s all over.
Mom says there’s time on the meter.