Postcard from the Mojave

           
  In the blazing desert of Nevada things stand still. The plants don’t the wave in wind for there is none, the air is stagnant. Birds don’t fly unless they are circling prey. And the road stays right where it was placed. There is no movement now, but in the distance… a figure- a girl- trudging along the motionless scenery. Her hair is matted down and her shirt sags with sweat, but her face doesn’t bare the same weathering. While she walked the sun had risen and begun to set. She holds a determined stare like she is willing the desert to end.  Somehow she looks unbothered by the deserts cruel nature. Her gaze is strong, following the road for miles. In those miles ahead she seems to find what she’s looking for because her hard gaze softens. A house. It sits waving like water in the distance. The girl is no longer trudging; her footsteps are light and quick. The house is old and wooden; a forest in the desert. A fence that has seen better days protects the house, from what, who can say. With her goal ahead of her she takes a breather on the fence, sitting on the decaying wood as a breeze blows by. The first movement of air that she has felt all day; her eyes are closed just feeling the wind blow her hair from against her skin and her shirt move, pushing the sweat inside against her, but she doesn’t mind. The wind dies down and she sags, having lost her energy, but she is so close to her goal. The wind blows again and she stands. She carefully steps until she is in the shade of the house.  The house’s shadow is stretching longer across the wastes. She walked until she is standing right in front of the porch.

            The wind wasn’t refreshing anymore. The sweat from her exodus across the desert was cold and clammy. Then the wind stopped and the desert was still. The light on the porch flicks on, casting the darkening day in a dull yellow glow. A car that she hadn’t seen when she was approaching sat beside the house covered in rust and sand and dust. The steps creaked under her weight. Old wood boards bent below her, but refused to give out. Only a few more steps and she would be at the door. From the porch she couldn’t see any light on in the house. The outer door was an old screen that seemed like it was fraying perhaps from age, perhaps from use. That creaked too when she opened it. The main door was plain.