A broken clothesline leans
against its shadow

nothing to hang memories
on

through the stillness of the desert landscape
I meander

fragrance of creosote bush
underfoot

dry winds blow clockwise
shifting transverse ridges of sand

In the distance a prickly pear cactus
tempts the coyote

despite needles
the coyote consumes its fruit

spreading seeds

every thing
transient

even the shadows


I stuff my backpack with the basic essentials, orient my body towards the west and head out into the cooling desert. Barren hills unfold in abstract patterns against the fading orange and yellow light. During the past year I’ve learned much since I left my suburban New York home. I gave up most of the possessions I’d amassed in my 55 years on the planet. I’ve evolved and transformed parts of myself to adapt in my new environment. I no longer fear the desert. I trust the land and what it offers. I accept everything now and better understand its purpose. I’ve learned to let things go and see where they fall.

I squint my eyes as the last rays of the setting sun pull back. The fragrance of sagebrush smells sweet. Next to a prickly pear cactus a pile of stones mark the point where I enter the river bed and the path begins. Last month after two days of torrential rains, this serene spot turned into a violent river. Flash flooding occurred when the banks could not hold the volume of water. Dried creeks became raging rivers. A child playing in his backyard was swept away. They searched every inch of the land but could not find him. His parents own a condo at Moriah Heights. He was their only child.

As I approach my night time perch, a faint cluster of stars appear in the darkening sky.

“Once the stars appear you’ll want to stay on that rock outcropping all night,” Mike said.

Mike was my boss and the person who hired me. A native to the area and head sales manager at Moriah Heights.

“Be careful out there as the river bed can be tricky at night.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He leaned in close and put his hand on my shoulder.

“What kind of name is Eli?”

“It’s from the bible,” I said.

“It’s got some kind of meaning?”

“Elevated one.”

He squeezed my shoulder with his fingers.

“The desert plays tricks on us. No trees to orient direction. Take water in case you lose your way.”

“Will do.”

“And remember, I’ll need you at work at 6:30. Gotta get your rounds done before it gets too hot. Don’t want you to dehydrate and pass out.”

Mike was tall with a tanned face and sharp features. He wore a cowboy hat with a huge turquoise stone attached by a braided string. He always had a pouch attached to his belt. Mike reminded me of one of those cowboys from the old rodeo posters. He was a half Navajo on his mother’s side. I couldn’t see it, but then again, how does one really know? Mike was stoic. At times he was elusive or maybe just stoned. But I learned to trust him. He mentored me in the ways of the land and reminded me why folks come out here to live.

“We got a lot of good paying residents here and their condos need to be attended to. They come here to enjoy the surroundings. Our job is to provide the best service to let them do that.”

My mind wondered as I thought of the grieving parents.

“You with me, Eli?”

“Yea.”

“Respond to their needs quickly and always with a smile.”

I was thrown into all kinds of situations. From removing half eaten poodles to removing clusters of bat lodges inside someone’s roof.

“Trap ‘em one by one with a cardboard box,” Mike said.

“It can take weeks.”

“If one’s rabid and you get bitten you’re a dead man walking.”

He knew everything about his surroundings but not much else. He was a survivor. I envied that. Once in a while I'd test him and ask about world news or the declining stock market. He moved his head to the side and squinted his eyes.

“It’ll change.”

Even when I told him something uplifting he’d reply the same way.

Along the sides of the path a mariposa lily blooms in spite of the harsh climate. Mike said that in the fall the flowers shed their seeds and germinate during the following winter rains. Several years will pass before a bulb reaches maturity and produces a flower.

“Because they’re buried deep in the earth, they can survive wildfires. It takes advantage of the nutrient-rich soil and lack of competition from other plants so the bulbs produce greater numbers of flowers than in average years.”

“We should all have patience like the mariposa,” I said.

“If you’re ever lost and have no food, you unearth their bulbs and eat them. Raw is ok, but I suggest making a fire and roast ‘em.”

I climb to the top of the rock and set down my backpack. The rocky landscape spills out before me as the sky darkens. Tonight there is a new moon, so the night sky will be at its blackest. The best time of the month to view what’s out there. In the distance yip-howls of a male and female coyote pierce the night sky.

“Without a canopy of trees their harmonies swirl in a chaotic mix of sound,” Mike said. “This confuses their predators to think they are surrounded by a pack of hundreds. It's an auditory illusion known as the ‘beau geste’ effect, caused by a variety of sounds produced by a male and female coyote and gets distorted as it passes through the barren land.”

During my evening walks my thoughts wandered in non linier ways. Sometimes I wondered if a traveler like me passed through here. Maybe they were also trying to figure out their life. I was here for a purpose. Not everyone leaves everything they strived for in their lives to one day just up and go. Mike said we are all bound by some kind of fate. I wasn’t sure I agreed but listened to his rationale. If I was to leave my past world behind and maybe find my son, I knew I had to listen closely to what he had to say. He understood this world I had come to live in. He understood the moon and cycles and the creatures that called this harsh land its home. He didn’t read books to get his knowledge. He walked the land and observed their ways.

Are we bound by fate?

Upon reaching the top of the outcropping I lay on my back and look up at the infinite sky. The stars pulsate as if they are signaling something. I cover my ears with the palm of my hands and watch for a sign.


During the first few weeks at my new desert community I received daily texts from friends back home.

“How was your awakening today?” they’d ask. “You find god?”

They predicted I wouldn't last more than a year. It was a matter of time before I’d come running back to the land of milk and honey.

“How’s the autumn colors…on the one tree?”

They made fun of the odd names of the gated communities; Bethel Hills, Canaan Vista and of course, Moriah Heights.

“Watch out for the Red Sea, it can part at any moment?”

I landed a job pretty quickly.

“Dumb work for an MIT graduate,” they said.

Eventually I grew tired of their arrogance and sarcasm and stopped texting them. I had my job and a rent-free cottage. It was all I needed. With a masters degree in Mechanical Engineering I was able to figure things out pretty quickly.

“You’re in charge of all the maintenance at our wonderful gated community,” Mike said. “The infrastructure at Moriah Heights is your responsibility.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll get the folks to buy in,” he said, extending his hand. “You keep it running.”

After 25 years behind the computer screen and endless meetings with clients, menial tasks and manual labor suited me just fine.

“Every morning you’ll pick up the garbage in the communal areas and sweep away the encroaching sand.”

My new job allowed me the space I needed to think about everything else other than work. I even bought myself an easel and tried my hand at painting.

Leaving behind what I had, or what I lacked, was not a hard decision. My wife and I were no longer speaking to each other. My job stressed me out to the point I started drinking to self medicate. I hated myself and my world, and the only thing that kept me grounded was my son, Zach. Once he left, or disappeared, I had no reason to stay.

“He must be using drugs,” my wife said, staring into space.

“I don’t think so, darling. We would have seen signs.”

“Maybe he met someone or was abducted by some white supremist group.”

These questions went on endlessly.

“You’re his father and you don’t give a shit.”

“I do care.”

“So do something. Call the police.”

I cared more about Zach than anything else in my life. The fact she couldn’t see that is what put me over the edge.

“How could an eighteen year old boy just get up and go without telling you where?”

Our friends couldn’t comprehend it. They were educated and rational people. We all moved to New York City after college. What was once cool and gritty now became a place they did not want for their children.

“The place has turned into a dangerous shit hole. Not what it used to be when we lived there? I don’t want my kids to be exposed to it.”

Like a disease.

Most of our friends’ kids went to school with Zach. The school was considered one of the most competitive private schools in the country.

“The Jettisons are sending Tommy there,” my wife said.

“He’ll be sheltered.”

“Yeah, sheltered among the right people.”

Everything was for Zach so arguing with her was futile. As our only child she had him always in her rear view mirror. He was destined to repeat her father’s success as a top neurosurgeon. He was just a few days away from beginning the dream of every Westchester parent. Our friends termed it the great trek. One studies to seek wealth. No time to waste, so at 18 their children had set their goals. If it wasn’t law school, med school or an MBA in finance, nothing mattered. They wanted their childrens’ academic path to insure greater wealth than they had amassed. The American dream. Alive and well and flourishing in Westchester thanks to my friends.

The great trek.

“He’s destined to be a brain surgeon,” she said.

I looked up from an article I was reading about the rapid pace of advancement with DNA sampling.

“We don’t know.”

“I’m his mother,” she said. “I know.”

A day before his departure for college the walls came tumbling down. His best friend’s parents put together a BBQ and swim party for his class. A going away party and possibly the last time they’d see each other until Thanksgiving or Christmas break. Some were going to Stanford and already had plans to stay with family for the holidays in Marin County. Their great trek would begin in Silicon Valley. The goal was to land an internship at a tech firm to get their foot in the door. We planned with Zach that he’d come home right after the party. He’d help us seal up the boxes and carry them out to our SUV.

“How about you pick up Sushi on the way home,” I said.

“Sounds like a plan, dad.”

We loved our Sushi dinners together on Friday nights. Just the three of us chatting about everything from the books we’re reading to the latest film we saw. There was plenty of conversation to go around as we shared our sushi and dunked our rolls into the soy sauce. We never wanted those evenings to end.

“It’ll be really hard when he goes to college,” she said one night as she laid in bed.

I put down my book and rolled over to comfort her. Teardrops rolled down her cheek pooling on her pillow.

“It’ll be ok,” I said, touching her shoulder. “We’ll have more time together to do things.”

She rolled away and disconnected. My hand dropped.

“Can you turn off your light, please. I’m done.”

Done

As I wrapped and taped the last box and slid it to the side of the room for Zach, I heard my phone go off. There was a long thread of texts from Zach.

The last one read, “I’m not in control of myself. My thoughts are not in sync with my body.”

I was uneasy and didn’t know if I should call for help.

“Hey Zach, I’ll call you now.”

There was no answer.

“Give me a call as soon as you get this message,” I texted.

I saw the three dots and felt a bit at ease that he was responding.

“I have this recurring dream,” he texted. “I’m on a ladder, painting a ceiling. Then a blinding light enters the room through a crack in the roof. I can’t see the whole picture. It’s like this great, bright light coming out of the sky.”

For some reason my thoughts jumped to our walks in the woods together when he was about 6 years old. He had so many questions. 

“Where does color come from?”

“I’m not exactly sure but I’ll look it up when we get home.

“Also, where does light come from? And do magnetic fields produce sparks? Why does the earth revolve a certain way around the sun?”

He never stopped. More and more of my days were spent researching to find a logical answer for a 6 year old.

“Dad is it true there’s a person out there that does all this?”

I tried to answer in ways that would make sense to him. He wanted truths and I could only hand him more mysteries.

“Is there like a switch?”

“You’ll figure it all out one day.”

“How d’you know, dad?”

“I don’t know for a fact, but I have a feeling.”

What else could I say?

By the time he entered high school he started to care less about sports and hanging out with his friends. He would spend hours on the internet searching information about light, the sun and the interior of the Sistine Chapel. My wife thought it highly unusual for a teenage suburban kid to give up his social life for this.

“It’ll pass,” I assured her.

Although somehow I believed it would not. I looked back down at my phone as a new text came in.

“I’ll text you tomorrow once I have this all figured out.”

I had a strange feeling in my stomach that the text would never come.

After Zach disappeared I had to make a decision. Either I hire an investigator to look for him, or I sit tight, and let this new change happen. I believed in my heart that something would shift and he would see something that might solve his internal dilemma. I chose to wait. I myself had conviction that all things come if given the right amount of space and patience. The wealthy ‘burbs of Westchester County didn’t afford him either. I had my own thoughts as to where he might end up or when that call would come.

“I know we could have done something to prevent this,” my wife said stone faced.

“We did the best we could,” looking for confirmation for myself that letting him be was the best way.

After his disappearance, our lives began to unravel. I began to have stomach flare-ups that would last for days. When I came home from work she’d be sitting there with a gin and tonic in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

“Did you speak to him about this?”

She was actually closer to the truth than she knew, but we couldn't discuss it.

“No dear. I just think we should give him time.”

“I hate you,” she said and refilled her glass with gin.

“I’ll get you some tonic to put in that?”

At work everyone knew what had happened and no one agreed with my decision. Some of them knew Zach, and thought I did the most unparental thing one could do.

“An animal would never do that.”

I shrugged it off. They were helicopter parents who didn’t trust themselves so how could one expect them to trust their own children. I believe we haven’t fully evolved yet. The more we accept this, the greater our understanding of our needs and ability to survive.

“Survival is the only way,” I said. “Zach is figuring out something now for his future survival.”

We protected him like a seed in a greenhouse for too many years. He was a naive kid. No animal would do that to their offspring. If I didn’t let go now he would be stunted. At some point he would have no idea how to get through the turbulence of life. I feared he had no way to swallow the bitter pill. That was our fundamental difference.

So on a sunny spring day, I poured myself a gin and tonic and sat down next to my wife.

“Looks like you’ll let the garden grow wild this year?”

I handed my boss my resignation letter. I also met with our family attorney. "We’ll be fine, or I should say you’ll be fine. You’ll get monthly checks and can stay in the house for as long as you want. If you ever want to sell, he’ll be there to help you. You keep everything from the sale so there’s nothing to argue over.”

She turned her head in my direction and sipped her drink.

“I love Zach more than anything. That’s why I didn’t go after him. I want to hear his voice and walk with him again. I know it might be a while, but something in my gut tells me he’s alright and recalibrating. I’ll let you know when I see him. I’m sure he would have found what he was looking for. My hope is it will happen soon.”

I glanced over at her blank stare.

“You know it all, don’t you.”

I took a deep breath.

“One thing I am sure about, he is never coming back here.”

“Don’t forget to charge the Tesla, honey. Don’t want you to get stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

And like that I was gone.

I had this weird feeling the further I drove west the closer I’d be to him. The sunsets became more vivid as the trees gave way to shrub brush, then open land and eventually desert. I thought about the setting of the stories in the bible. The characters were always wandering about in barren lands like these. Whether it was a verdant oasis or near wells, the writers were also on a search. Their great trek was full of rich stories with metaphors and allegories. Stories of real people grappling with the same questions we deal with today. One thing was for certain, my Tesla’s charge was low.

“Heard you resigned?” my friend from the lab texted. “You heading out to find him?”

“No.”

My colleagues are engineers and scientists. Their experiments yield concrete and tangible results. They understand logic. Anything else was incomprehensible.


It took me a few months to acclimate to living in the desert. The light and heat was unbearable when the sun was high but at night the land cooled down. I grew to love the yip-howl of the coyotes. It was a great sacrifice to be out here but felt right. I had come to realize over the past few years that I needed to change. I had to reset my compass and set my priorities right. If not I'd die a lonely death surrounded by people that thought they knew me. That frightened me. On that spring day when I backed out of the garage of my Westchester house, I knew it was the last time I’d ever see it. I’d start to focus on my day to day existence. I wanted to get in touch with myself and finally, get to know myself. I wanted to know what it was that I feared and what I truly loved. There was also a chance I might never see Zach again. I thought about this in my walks in the beautiful sunsets. The hours of solitude. I was at peace with it but hoped there was a reason for all of it.

I remembered peeking into his room before he left for his friend’s going away party.

“Zach?”

He appeared to be almost in a trance. He was on the internet looking at photos of the Sistine Chapel.

“What d’you know about this,” he said.

He didn’t move his eyes from the computer screen.

“I’m a bit confused these days, Dad.”

“About what?”

“Do we have power over our own lives?”

I sat down on his bed.

“Like let’s say I want to go against everything that was planned out for me. Just go.”

“Just go?”

He turned his chair around and leaned in close to me.

“Do we have any control over ourselves?” he whispered. “Any power to move in our own direction? If we become subservient to fate will the human race end up in despair? What if we resist it all?”

These days while on my evening desert meanders, I think about the same things. I didn’t want to fade away like dust and die a lonely man in a world of familiar people. Like him, I had to move on and continue to live, even if it meant giving up everything I had and starting from the beginning.

When I got home from my star gazing, I’d sit down on my computer until late into the night and check if there was any sign on Zach's social media sites. His pages were set up, but he deleted his headshots.

One day Mike and I went out for beers. He advised me to stop thinking about him and unfollow him.

“Don’t get sucked into your curiosity. You’ll become an obsessed man.”

“I already am.”

He bought me a beer and told me the story of his Navajo grandfather.

“He carried a little pouch with him whenever he went out. Told me it was to collect memories ‘cause they don’t last. We forget and they fade.”

“He plucked at leaves from the chaparral and steeped it for tea. It tasted like shit but out of respect we drank it.”

“You’ll remember that,” his grandfather said.

“We sure did.”

He went on to tell me about his wife’s battle with cancer. She was his high school sweetheart. They got married at 21 and she was diagnosed with a rare cancer a few years later.

“After she passed I was devastated. I was like this walking zombie. My grandfather said to forget her. Put her out of your memory.”

“That’s tough.”

“She was the only girl I ever had so it was hard, but my grandfather had this wisdom of years. We all respected him so I figured it was worth trying.”

“When you can no longer remember what she looked like you will get a sign,” his grandfather said. “Then you can search for her spirit.”

Mike leaned forward. I could feel his breath.

“Some said he was crazy but I believed in him. There’s lots of magic around here.”

I was beginning to understand.

“Get off of his facebook page,” Mike said. “Stop searching.”

He signaled to the bartender for the check.

“Supposed to be a great sunset tonight,” he said. “Let’s take a look.”

He put his arm around me and sang a few verses of an old Eagles song. I sang with him.

“Strange concept,” I said.

“The sunset?”

I waited before answering him.

“To forget everything.”


During the next few days I tried everything to block out memories. If my thoughts wandered back to Westchester, or to Zach, I’d shut my eyes and remember the lyrics to the Eagles song. I kept busy with my handyman work. It helped to get my mind off Zach and everything in my past. One day I got a call from my attorney in New York about our investments. My wife needed more money for new medications. Our insurance wasn’t covering them so I made some calls. I laid down on my couch and thought about the mess I left back home.

“When you start to drift back, go out and find the creosote bush,” Mike said. “Rub the leaves and inhale. It extracts moisture from parched soil through its root system so the leaves smell like rain. They’re hearty bastards and can withstand high temperatures and dehydration. Put some leaves in your pouch. They cure all kinds of ailments. My grandfather called the bush, the anointed one.”

After a few weeks I actually started to forget. I had my work during the morning and afternoon, the sunsets in the evening and star gazing on my perch at night. Folks in the complex started warming to me. I stayed off all social media and only used the internet to learn more about the desert. I even started to read the old testament as Mike hounded me every day about my name and the meaning. I told him about the namesake of the complex where we lived. He was intrigued about the story of Abraham and his son.

“I could never kill my son.”

“It’s just a metaphor,” I said. “He was being tested.”

“For what?”

One day after work I was sitting on my deck with my binoculars. I spotted a coyote in the distance tearing at a cactus fruit. I was distracted by the sound of the voice message ring on my phone. The number was unfamiliar to me.

“Dad. It’s me.”

It was hard at first to be sure it was Zach’s voice. There was so much crackling static and distortion in the background. I pressed the phone closer to my ear.

In the distance I could see dark clouds rolling in fast atop the high range in front of the complex. The highest mountain was called Mt. Moriah.

“I’m experiencing the most intense lightning storm I've ever seen. I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s beautiful.”

Then a thunderous crash and silence. I quickly called back the number, but no answer. I kept calling.

“Eli,” Mike said, screaming in a state of panic. “The transformer was hit. There’s a fire near the maintenance garage.”

The storm was moving towards us blackening the sky. Bolts of lightning flashed across the barren landscape. I could see a small brush fire where the coyote had been eating.

“Bring your tools and the extinguisher. Quick.”

I ran to the shed as my cell phone rang again.

“Hello, Zach is that you?”

There was a loud boom and then his voice.

“Dad, is that you...I am in the desert, dad. The sunsets here are so beautiful. Love you Dad.”

Then a loud bang and the call dropped. Before I could process what had happened, another call came in. It was Mike.

“Our Welcome to Moriah Heights sign is on fire. I called the fire department but they told me it’ll be a while. I’m heading over there now. Come quick.”

When I arrived the fire had consumed the giant wood sign.

“It took me months to make that baby. Carved it all by hand.”

The lights in the complex were flickering on and off.

“I worked so hard on that.”

As I walked towards the smoldering flames with my extinguisher he grabbed my arm.

“Let it go.”

“We can still salvage some parts of it.”

I noticed his eyes had welled up as he looked up at the dark clouds.

“The rain is coming.”

He stared at the burning hunk of wood as it crackled then fell to the ground.

“You OK?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Good. I’ll call the residents. I’ll tell them they’ll be without power for a while.”

The rain smelled sweet as it moved closer and blanketed the dry landscape.

“Tomorrow there’ll be flowers,” Mike said, staring at the flames.

“I’ll go and check the transformer.”

He grabbed my arm again.

“You hear from your son?”

I turned to look at his face.

“Yes, I think I did.”

“I knew you would.”

A lump entered my throat as the rain fell in a more steady rhythm.

“You hear from your wife?” I said.

He turned away from the fire and looked directly at me.

“There will be a flash flood in the morning. The dry river bed will overflow. The parents that are grieving over their son will relive the horrible tragedy all over again.”

The rain was coming down in buckets. It fell over the sign and extinguished the embers from the smoldering wood.

“He’s OK?”

“Yes, I think he is.”

“Tomorrow, if the roads aren’t washed away, I’ll purchase wood for our new sign. While I’m gone you can remove the burnt stones and clear the foundation.”

“Sounds good.”

“Wait here. I want to give you something.”

He walked over to his truck and returned with a leather pouch.

“Take this to the grieving parents.”

I opened the pouch and inhaled the aroma. The fragrance triggered a flood of memories.

“Make them tea and sit with them.”

As I turned away and walked back into Moriah Heights I heard the call and response of a male and female coyote. It sounded very close to where Mike stood. I turned and looked at his imposing figure.

“The anointed one,” I heard him yell at me in between the yip-howls. “It’s a metaphor.”