I took her out into the desert and hoped we'd die there and be found, two skeletons hugging. We were after Coryphantha scheeri. It was the same as hunting morels except we were in Arizona. She just came along; did not protest.
"We should keep going this way," I said, and we kept going that way. Neither one of us had ever seen the object of our journey but in pictures. Neither one of us had ever seen much, but in pictures.
That rock, there, it's off the beaten path, but we'll find our way back. That thing, there, that plant of some sort, it looks like a mohawk. We'll remember it, like string or gingerbread crumbs. And we'll go back.
I took her out into the courtyard and hoped we'd live there, clutching our nervous bourbons in front of the judge. We were after tax breaks and the folly of union in witness of others. It was the same as everybody else, except we were at the Provincial, and we were us.
"We should keep going this way," she said, and we kept going that way. Neither one of us had ever seen the object of our journey but in dreams. Neither one of us had ever seen much, but in dreams.
That fountain, there, it's off the beaten path, and we'll find our way back. That sweet olive, that scent of some sort, it feels like destiny. We'll remember it, like Sierra Nevada at the Bulldog, or the Big Fisherman. And we'll go back.
I took her out into the pasture and hoped we'd conceive there and be found, two lovers loved, by one, maybe two. We were after grace. It was the same as first dates and football games except we were en estado libre—the free state in between the grass too tall and the apple seeds of our eyes.
"We should keep going this way," I said, and we kept going that way. Neither one of us had ever seen the object of our journey but in relativity. Neither one of us had ever seen much, but in dreams or pictures.
That tree, there, it's off the beaten path, but I summered there in youth with cousins, and we'll find our way back. That fence, there, it's easily jumped. We'll jump it, or press down and flop. It is rusty, weak like everyone else. We are provincial. We are us. We'll go back.
I took them out for sundaes and memories, three boys making memories there. We were after small-town summer and greasy spoon. It was the same as sundaes with Dad, except I was Dad, and they were me.
"We should keep going that way," they said, and we kept going that way. None of us had ever seen the object of our journey but in candy and sugared cereal. None of us had ever seen much, but in sweets or boys' days out.
That store, there, it's where I took lunch when you were 3. It's off the beaten path, but we'll find our way back. That corner, there, it sort of looks like the devil. I'll remember it, like string or cayenne on an open neck wound that does not kill, but leaves you breathing blood and reaching for piles of pulp.
I took her out on Sunday for memories and hoped we'd live or die there. We were after rare recovery. "There it is," I said. "That's the cactus." It was the same as waking up every day.
"We should keep going this way," I said. Neither one of us had ever seen the object of our journey. Neither one of us had ever seen much.
But the desert defines itself by that which is not. And the canteens become themselves in little black dots.
"We should keep going that way," she said.