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By Talia Schuyler My sister fills my father’s cup with ice
and places it in his right hand while his left hand loosely grips the wheel. That is his water, the ice dissolves on the way to his lips. In the backseat our white faces glow red and the opened window makes our hair dance. Our mini-van’s air-conditioner broke this morning en route from Las Vegas to home. Today we are confronted with the desert heat we boasted of but didn’t feel any longer than a walk from the porch to the car. We pass hazy fields and bare earth on abandoned highways. The dust that rises from the small, isolated towns is palpable. It makes the land faded and drowsy even under a spotless sky.
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