Desert Moon Drive
By Sergio Brito
With that fragile thread wrapped around my wrist, I hold on, attached to the Jeep that powers through the dunes; a raging white bull. In the driver’s seat, my father:
Su cara, iluminada por la luna, sin ningún rastro de preocupación. Su cabello, corto y negro, todavía no descolorido por los años. Y me miraba desde abajo, su sonrisa brillando con ternura.[1]
From my place in the sky above, I see it all: our precious desert, indigo under the cover of night; embraced on all sides by mountains. This valley, here when the Earth was born, that holds our home, our lives, our love, everything we see, everything we feel. From above, I see it all. And we are out for a drive, to nowhere in particular. As the rushing wind fills my ears with the song of childhood freedom, my stomach dances to its powerful rhythm, doing flips and pirouettes, filled with butterflies; excitement flutters hundreds of tiny wings within me and I am soaring ever higher: unafraid of the heights I reach. If I fall, I know that he will catch me.
We drive for miles, our raging bull guided by the expert hands of its jockey. My father lives for this freedom. He is a man guided by an adventurous spirit.
Sometimes, though, I am afraid.
Afraid that, seeking new thrills, he will leave us and the distance between us will be too far, too dangerous, to ever make up. And I am afraid that I would not be able to stop needing him. That despite whatever anger may arise inside of me, it would pale in comparison to how much I love him, and I would chase him my entire life. In that chase, tension would fill my body. The dissonance between love and anger would manifest itself in arduous ways: maybe I’d sprout thorns, like a cactus, or maybe I’d grow a scorpion’s tail with venom dripping from its stinger. My body stabbing at the world around me, losing touch.
These thoughts poison the night, which seems to get darker with every passing moment, until I am enclosed by the darkness; pitch black.
Suddenly, a crash.
I am hurtling through the air, only my momentum propels me forward, and the butterflies in my stomach retreat into heavy lead cocoons. I need to vomit. My eyes are shut tight, every muscle in my body tense as I brace for impact. After an eternity, or just a few quick seconds, I am adrift, separated from my consciousness.
Me encuentro perdido en un mar de arena, naufragando en el calor de un valle desconocido. ¿Serán estos mis últimos momentos? Atrapado en un cuerpo adolescente, inmóvil, e inalcanzable.[2]
Remember? What can I remember:
I remember opening my eyes, face to face with a serpent. I remember the sound its rattle made, like the rain sticks we played with in school. I remember the indifference of its iridescent eyes, pondering a decision. I remember the weight of the fear that settled over my body and crushed my lungs, the pathetic sobs that managed to escape in constricted breaths, the smell of the urine soaking my denim shorts. I remember the fangs of the serpent puncturing the skin of my leg. I remember the brief moment we were one being, as it injected me with its desire, with its greed, with…with…with…
Darkness; again.
Recuerdo despertar a su lado, mientras el sol amanecía detrás de las montañas. Recuerdo tocar mi pierna, libre de cualquier herida. Y recuerdo el momento en cual me ofreció su abrazo: me encontré de nuevo; sin miedo.[3]
[1] His face, illuminated by the moon, without a trace of worry. His hair, short and black, not yet discolored by the years. And he watched me, from below, his smile shining with tenderness.
[2] I find myself lost in an ocean of sand, drifting along in the heat of an unknown valley. Could these be my final moments? Trapped in an adolescent body, immobile, and unreachable.
[3] I remember waking up by his side, while the sun arose beyond the mountains. I remember touching my leg, free of any wounds. And I remember the moment in which he offered me his embrace: I found myself again; unafraid.
Sergio Brito is a construction worker and writer working in Los Angeles. Born and raised in the Coachella Valley, he enjoys dry heat, the sun, and quiet desert nights. Look for his other work published in Where Meadows, and follow him on Twitter @Bskergio.