I used to sit on the levy of the small ditch behind my parents two acre property and watch the tall blades of dry grass bend with the wind on cold evenings in January. Beyond the property was a gated desert where I once found partially decomposed Mexican pulp fiction novels in a large crater in the sand. I visited that hideout dozens of times, mostly to read, daydream, or to lay on the soft sandy rim, waiting for a jackrabbit to cross the sights of my pellet gun.
Beyond the desert was the larger levy of the Rio Grande, then the old highway that once led all the way to Albuquerque. Further off in the distance were the warehouse and factory plant of a salsa company claiming its fame to being from El Paso. It was neither in El Paso or Texas. Beyond all of that, directly to the north stood the Organ Mountains, purple, blue, magenta, and various shades of orange in the daylight's last moments.
The cold air and wind burned my cheeks and nostrils as I stared at the mountains through the tall yellow grass. I could see everything all at once. Nothing entered my mind. Nothing to ruin this. Clouds built above the mountain range, dissipated, then dark.
Where is your true peace? Where do you go when everything goes to shit? When someone leaves, when someone else dies in front of you, when your bank statement reduces you to a negative number, when you stand up for what you know is right but they assume the worst, without asking...
You know where that place is, you know the smells, of snow and dry grass, the burn on you cheeks, the shiver in your bones, a blanket of cold air. Sleep here. Watch this world turn to dark, let it take you with her.