Fated

hits and the asphalt roars up to catch me in a bed of razor-sharp rocks that slice through my clothes and embed in my flesh—jamming my nose with the stench of burnt rubber, charred skin.
    An image of the old black-and-white photo bearing my dad’s smiling face the last thing I see.
    His dark eyes narrowed in judgment—disappointed with me.
    I didn’t listen to his warning.
    I was too focused on the gruesome state of his head back in that Moroccan square to listen to the words he tried to tell me.
    And now, because of my failing, I am like him.
    Only worse.
    I failed to escape.
    Failed to find a way out.
    And now, because of it, I will die in this town.

twelve
    Paloma leans over the grave site; murmuring in her native Spanish, she clears the film of dirt with her fingers before placing the flowers just so. A handful of blooms plucked straight from her garden—bright blossoms of violet and gold that continue to flourish despite the onset of fall.
    Her gaze solemn, mouth set, knees pushing into a patch of dried grass, as her long dark braid slips over her shoulder and sweeps the length of the simple, rectangular marker, before she grabs the braid, tames it, turning to me when I ask, “So, is this where he rests?” Regretting the way my words came out much louder than planned.
    She shakes her head, eyes fixed on mine, surprising me when she says, “No.”
    I cock my head, peer at the grave marker again, ensuring the mistake isn’t mine.
    “This is where he was laid to rest. This is where we buried his body. But make no mistake, Daire, he no longer remains in this place.”
    I do my best not to balk, but I’m pretty sure I did anyway. You’d think I’d be used to Paloma’s plainspoken ways, but really, it’s just so odd to hear a parent speak about her dead child’s body in such a frank and clinical way.
    “Don’t make the mistake of confusing this place with your father.” Her eyes narrow, urging me to listen. “This is not where he lives. If you want to come here to visit, have a place to speak with him, commune with him—if you find that it helps, then by all means, go ahead. It’s perfectly understandable, and I would never move to stop you. But never forget that your father is everywhere. His soul’s been released, unbound from this earth, left to become one with the wind that blows through your hair, the dirt that shifts under your feet. He’s the rain in the storm cloud that hovers over those mountains beyond.” She extends a slim, elegant arm, gesturing toward the beautiful Sangre de Cristo Mountain range—a wide sweep of navy and gray with a cap of white snow at the top. “He’s the bloom in every flower. He is one with the energy of the earth. He is everywhere you look. Which means you can speak to him here, just as easily as you can speak to him anywhere. And if you go very quiet and listen with care, you just might hear his reply.”
    I swallow hard, still caught on the part about my dad being one with the wind, and the dirt, and the rain. Her words reminding me of the dream I had the first night I arrived. The one where I realized that I was an integral part of everything—and not long after that, my true love was dead.
    I lean hard on my crutches, my gaze sweeping the length of the graveyard, still unused to the quiet humbleness of this place. In Los Angeles, the cemeteries are carefully planned, heeding strict zoning laws and consisting of wide, grassy, well tended knolls with the occasional pond near which to pause and reflect. They go by glossy Hollywood names like Forest Lawn Memorial Park—encouraging the illusion that your loved one isn’t really gone, but rather they’ve been recruited for some elite, afterlife golf tournament.
    But this place is nothing like that—it’s raw and accessible, with no fancy, euphemistic name, no shiny marble mausoleums. It’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is—a place for common folks to bury their loved ones. Set right off the side of the highway, pretty much in the middle of nowhere—it seems random, unplanned, crowded with handmade crosses and markers that, at first look, all seem to clash.
    But as shabby as it seemed at first glance, now I see that the graves are often visited and well kept. Marked with generous handfuls of flowers—some plastic, some real—set alongside freshly filled balloons grounded by rocks and left to sway in the wind. All of it making for so much color, so much comfort and love, I