The desert burns, but does not swelter, does not leave you panting on the pavement, the desert burns just beyond where the hot air touches your skin. You are singed, but not swallowed. By sunset, the air softens, a mild heat radiating off slick rocks as the steady sound of sprinklers sing across the valley. It smells of youth and summer holidays, it smells of an innocence. Your surgery is scheduled for 6:45 a.m. they tell her across the line. You can bring two people. He speaks of rerouting returns past your doorstep, and you wonder if you remember how to feel any way about backpocket tickets anymore. This year is full of scar tissue, it's hard to feel the sweet caresses of joy when they are offered.
You go to bed early, set the alarm.
Wait for the desert to wake you.
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