Yet

Sistah Sistah. Christmastime 2011.

Like when you're freezing in the Midwestern December, and you come inside from the dark (and it's dark even though it is 4 PM), and you shed your damp coat and kick off your Uggs, but you're still cold, shivering even, and you're blue, you're literally blue in the lips, but there are crescent rolls in the oven, and they smell like doughy divinity, so you walk over and crouch down to the orangey light. Your neck is frigid--oh--you forgot your scarf. It's dripping down your spine. You pull it around and drop it to the linoleum. You open the door and the wave of heat blasts at you. OH, IT FEELS SO GOOD.

That's what it's like here in summer. 90s with no humidity. People don't understand how I can be in love with this endless rock terrain, but, oh, it feels so good.

Yet, I am willing to give it up--neigh, happy to leave--because the prize is my family!

One week.