Painted Desert Faces

As I rounded the curve leading me into Tucson, I realized something was not the same. Some thing, or many things, were very, very different. Starting, with the mountains. Here, the mountains look like faces. Personal profiles lining the night, looking up at the stars as I pass by and look at them. Here, the sky is painted regularly with reds, yellows, pinks, and oranges from what must be a very large bucket, and a very streaky brush. Here, the morning and night are marked by the magic hour, which here happens for two, and then fades into the sparkles of the sky. Here too, I am unknown. Unknown by the coyotes, crying like children into the night, or like bandits shouting out orders as they steal another dog. Here, I am completely unknown by the lady at the coffee shop I went to for the first time, jerking my car to the side when I saw it’s sign; and even more unknown by the room full of people that I won't recognize no matter how long I stare at the backs of their heads. Here, I am unknown to even the mountains, which insist on staring at the sky and not looking at me. Here, the dirt mixes with dust and rocks, and the green is a gray, and the green is pointed and prickly.
But, strangely enough, the new landscape, the new dust, the people and places that don’t recognize my name, are comforting. None of them know who I was three months ago, a year ago, even two weeks ago. They know nothing of my past, and all eagerly listen for a future, which I excitedly create with my words. Memories that I want to hold on to remain framed and written, and those I want to forget disappear like the frost in the morning. The painted desert is my untainted place, my blank canvas, and I started to paint again, adding new streaks day by day.