5.20

Somewhere in the high desert, there's a small patch of disturbed sand where I buried the letters you sent to me during the war. It's between two crusted stumps of Joshua trees, beneath a cholla that bit me while I dug. I didn't know until afterward that I was waiting for someone who had moved on. I didn't know until afterward that you were writing letters to assuage your conscience. Well, I lived, just as you didn't expect, and you live with someone else, which I didn't expect. I don't know which one of us is more disappointed.
It's okay, I think. You have a lovely family, and I'm lying on the still-warm sand, staring up at the stars. I had better move, though, before a scorpion finds me, before I forget which direction the car is in, before I change my mind and dig back into the hole to get back the past that has left me.
I can feel my bones shift as I stand up. I can hear the night swallow up my footprints behind me. I can see the car over the hill..
Maybe I'll ask that carhop for her number. I pulled in just a few hours ago. Maybe she's still on her shift. Maybe she'll remember the chocolate soda I ordered and didn't drink. Maybe it's time to move on. The desert seems to think so.