Putancama Desert — Painted Winds of Change
Frustrated and alone, Bob rolled the wardrobe racks out of the back of the van. He hated working in this desert, even though he appreciated the feel of lonesome sky that stretched on for days and days. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been coming back here every year for the performing arts festival, and long since his parents had passed and his sister graduated from Pasadena and had moved on to L.A. he wasn’t sure why he still put himself out there and supported.
The sexier volunteer tasks went to the committee members and their families, a healthy degree of nepotism at play here. He also noticed how the newer volunteers, eager, would tend to get assigned to the easy tasks, keeping them close under the noses of the expert volunteers. But his 34 years of experience merited him the lone task of hauling camera and costume gear out of the van for the art director’s hell bent ideas for photo shoots, cast black and white against the unforgiving terrain of Putancama.
This year’s performance was a ballet, built into a large, flat, hamster wheel — as far as he could tell anyways. “I wonder if they’ll play hamster style music” he mused to himself, grunting as he hoisted the chest of lace tutus and leotards onto the loose clay. They sure were beautiful though, he had to admit to himself. Feeling the silky tulle brush across his thigh, he found himself unbelievably softening, thinking back to the days when he himself danced like the colors of the brush and desert winds across the stage…
Forty years later…
October 10, 2063. Putacama Arts Festival: Opening Day
Valerie swiftly and gracefully lifted her head as her daughter touched shoulder, looking towards the stage. “They’re calling your name”, she whispered. “Thank you, honey”, she floated back. Even though focusing took more effort from her these days, Valerie was still glad she took the opportunity to come back here and be honored at her hometown arts festival. She remembered training for hours and hours in her teenage years, culminating in an annual performance at their harvest festival. Not that there was much of a harvest in Putancama Desert anyways. That’s probably why they branded it as an “Arts Festival” in the first place.
Still, the scent of cider mingled in the air with pumpkins and cheesecake, and the tinge of cinnamon that swirled in her coffee, keeping her awake.
All her life she had found so much meaning in dancing, and here in front of her, the testament to so much effort layed. People don’t really anticipate the effects of aging will take on a dancer; not only did she feel the aching in her body, where her rheumatoid arthritis raged, but she felt the cadence of loss mentally, where she could no longer move to the rhythms as they came. She felt a rigidity in her body where she once had swayed.
As Valerie stepped into the spotlight, several young hometown dancers ran up in their tutus and presented her with flowers, a beautiful bouquet. Their teacher, Ms. Fowler (Lily, as she called her), presented her with an envelope as she gave her a warm, welcomed embrace.
“Thank you for always coming back here” she whispered. “The girls love it. I love it. We all love you, Val…
Feeling herself tearing up, Val interrupted, “It’s been a long time since I donned a stage” she said flatly, pushing through her emotions, though her eyes grinned back.
“We are so happy to have you. You’re as beautiful as ever.” Lily winked as she replied. She squeezed Val’s hands, transferring a bit of exuberance and warmth from her own, stark white and vibrant with a cherry glow.
Back in her seat, Valerie opened the envelope, gliding her once long, graceful fingers inside. Now swollen with the arthritis, and wrinkled by time, even her hands danced differently these days. She traced the contents of the envelope and recognized a glossy texture inside. “It’s a photograph” she thought to herself, glancing briefly in the direction of her daughter. Rosalita seemed oblivious, catching up with her old friends she hadn’t seen in almost a year. Rosa’s best friend had recently had her first baby, reminding Val that she was now old enough to have her own grandkid, though it hadn’t seemed to happen yet that Rosa was ready to settle for less than herself.
Val smiled. “Something about this place”, she thought to herself. Whether it was the beauty of the desert or the Putancaman winds themselves, they always seemed to pull us back to this place. Once a year at the time of harvest, we all descended upon our homes, and even revisited the ghosts of our former selves.
The silken lining of the envelope traced against her palms as she slid out the photo, and she gasped as her eyes fell upon the page. Recognizing herself, she was immediately transported, back in the desert again — aged 16 años.
“Dios Mios”, she whispered.
“My God.”
