This Moment: 9:02 P.M. July 15 The Land of Deseret

It has taken me three days to accept that I am once again on desert soil, and yet I find myself closing my eyes, straining for the sound of the ocean, the wet kiss of island air. I am disappointed by the muted green of the Rockies. My garden, the basil and tomatoes, the beets, peppers and cucumbers all doubled in size in the dry heat the week I was away.Growth will not wait. My suitcase sits unpacked in the dining room where I dropped it. Like any traveler returned home to her life and its mundane tasks, nostalgia has arrived as an irritating house guest. I know that I am a creature of the moment, that I love who and whatever is directly before me, that my love for the land born of fire may be a longing for something much deeper. I also know that I am twice my father's age when he first set foot on the island as a young sailor. My father once dove from Waimea Falls, the same waterfall I stood across from on a rock in the cold water. I imagine him running the length of the island's beaches, drinking his weight on leave days, sleeping it off before reporting for duty. I imagine him shouting his name into the crosswinds of Nu'uana Pali, the same overlook I gripped my phone taking photos so as not to have it ripped free by the relentless wind. His body is bent with age now, like a branch from my Corkscrew Willow tree. His legs have betrayed him and his stride is now uncertain. His blues eyes, and his mind, are a razor sharpened on a leather strop. He has spent the last three days returning to the South Pacific, tale after tale.