When the plane lands I am not home. The recognition is there, but home is not. Home is over a thousand miles away.
When the plane lands it is recognizable and unavoidable.
The mountains lurk in the south, the brown of dead things left outside in the sun. A place where people die with some frequency by just taking a little stroll at the wrong time of day.
The air is warm and makes my eyes burn a little. I predict an allergy.
The sky is almost white with heat. All of the nascent blue has been leached away, leaving just pallid emptiness.
Dust creeps along the edges of everything, from my pores to the cracks in the sidewalk. Empty lots glitter with broken glass and metal. They are also along the edges of everything.
Trees that are really not trees, but sticks with leaves on top line the streets.
It is my personal version of hell. And not to be attempted without good cause.