The grass is greener
Growing up I wanted that front lawn with the grass and its crispy green finish, not the yard that we had littered with unruly cacti. A secret treehouse perched in an Oak tree was something I wished for on birthdays. Book illustrations of kids skipping rocks on a lake were exotic to me. Daydreams filled my childhood of having that “best friend neighbor” to exchange flashlight signals with from our bedroom windows at night, however neighbors were far and between in the desert.
As kids, we worked with the cards that we were dealt. My brothers and I built forts in the sand, we pedaled our bikes in the dirt. Instead of catching fireflies, we caught lizards. Burning paper with a magnifying glass in the rays of the summer sun passed the time. Our dogs were our watch guards at night from coyotes. We welcomed the measly snowfall 1–2 times a year as if it were the blizzard of the century only to see it disappear within hours.
As a child, I always wondered “what kind of sadistic parents let their kids grow up here?” Ours apparently. One thing was for sure — I was determined to get out.
And then one day it happened. The sea of brown tones that I once saw my entire life in were replaced with shades of green. Cholla now became ferns, stinkbugs became snails, Ocotillo plants became Birch trees. Neighbors were no longer miles apart, they were stacked vertically upon one another in buildings.
And yet somehow, despite so many years and so much desire to get away, I find myself being drawn back to the desert. The smell of creosote bush burned into my nose, the flash of a roadrunner speeding over sand stuck in my mind, the memory of feeling so small when gazing up at the Milky Way.
Over time, the feelings of aversion I had for the desert turned to feelings of longing. Cold emotions of wonder now warm with gratitude. I want to feel that year-round desert sunlight. I want a deafening moment of silence and solitude. I want that pitch black night sky. I want now what I once was so ready to leave behind.
