I went away. I visited Santa Fe instead of my father. I am riding through red rocks in a big-screen sky. I catch glimpses of cacti and wild flowers. I stop to photograph the Black Mesa. I stop again & again to see the mesa changed by light. Click. Click-click. I pause: the mesa takes me in. I am changed by the light that changes the mesa that remains unchanged. I study my lesson in black & white. A friend tells me the Indians regard the mesa sacred. No one walks on the mesa. It is only for viewing.

The pilot's voice tells us to fasten our seat belts. We are going through the clouds now. The seat belt sign flashes. We are going fast, uphill & down. I hold on.

In Houston I call my mother. There is no change, my mother says, or I would have called you. He looks good, my mother whispers. I've known him since I was 19, says my mother at 85, and now he won't speak to me. He won't even look at me.

I board another plane and close my eyes, letting the red & blue of Sante Fe run out to the black mesa where I am sitting with my mother next to my father our father: I imagine him flat out in bed, shrouded in white, his arms restrained, his eyes closed. We sit in a row, side-by-side. We don't speak. We study his face: his carefully groomed white hair and mustache and smooth olive skin. He's still handsome, my mother says with a glance.

His lips are relaxed now.
His scream's gone.

We bob through the clouds.
The light flickers.

I want to scream when the mesa doesn't let in any more light.
My mother puts her hand over my clenched fist.

I want the mesa to respond: Life is sacred.