AmelieStrange (ameliestrange) wrote,

You move in slow degrees, a sudden memory. You're a Leonard Cohen song.

Slow, the sun creeps in on Zion Canyon, only illuminating a thick blanket of pale cloud behind rich red sandstone. I have a front seat window on a courtyard and a monolith. I drink coffee and wait quietly for this place to wake up. As the sky lightens I am running tags and listening to one officer hassle people for sleeping in parking lots. He's not ticketing folks so I guess it's okay.
Each one comes online for the day - entrance stations call, doors open and people come. I am in an office.
Ten miles from here lies a trailer with peeling white and tan paint (except for a bright orange splotch of particleboard where the front door's window used to be). Inside it smells like desert sage and buzzes with flies (we can't figure out where they're coming from). There's an orange tabby cat probably clawing and kneading at a sleepy, skinny, hungover boy under an old comforter on the floor. It's almost audible how the walls scream for paint and caulk and spackle, how the stains in the ceiling sing slowly the imminent return of leaks and sagging. The deep blue light of dawn turns grey on my tomato plants, my garden, my deck and the 1975 Chevrolet Truck/lumbershed in the yard. Penstemon are blooming. Desert four-o'clocks open to the huffing of horses, braying of donkeys, and crowing of roosters. The wind was strong last night and I know the grass will smell fresh and Henry will open the windows whenever he wakes up. I am ten miles away.
It's never fun, not being long for anyplace. It seems like it would be but it sucks. I look around and think about how I will only be here til August - and the horrific part is that I have to tell my employer this, as I had suggested a longer stay. It's always that way - I ditched Galvez in New Orleans for this job at practically no notice, although I doubt that's an excuse to ditch this job at no notice too. But I've got a piece of paper saying I've got to register for classes, and they expect me in August in humid sultry Natchitoches, so close itself to New Orleans. And she moves on.
But for now Zion is my home and although I worry about every little thing I feel like I'm doing it right. That doesn't mean that Mesa Verde isn't my home park because it sure is. I feel lonely for it but Henry helps, and so does having a home to fix up and a garden to cultivate. It's just so easy to burn money when you're drinking every night and buying paint and supplies. It's just so easy to burn money when your boyfriend is unemployed even if he does have savings. Consciousness of everything is so hard to maintain. But everybody flows, everybody moves along so I guess I will too.
The grey sky backlighting the Towers of the Virgin and the West Temple, topped with a repeater bleating warnings across the air, I look out my window and listen to the Washington County Sheriff's radio traffic.
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