An excerpt from Rene’s book Sextolet.
The heat looms so thick, Addie mindlessly tries to pull it back like a drape— part the dense dry hot with her rugged hand but all she does is wave the molecules and fire ‘em up hotter—even hotter. There’s no wind today to sweep through the house—no wind to push into her window and sing so as to remind her that even though they are in the middle of nowhere, they are not alone.
Oh, welcome the wind even though it blows dust all over her rug. Dust under her rug and dust over her rug. Dust on her hands and dust between all forty toes that press …dust from the endless Mojave, mother of all destitution. When wind blows, a mother stops her humming. Wind sends its own song, it does. The way it comes in and rattles things. The joshuas don’t feel the need to move. They stand there all day; they never tire. The wind ignores the likes of the joshuas. Not so much as a branch waving or bristle rustling. Addie’s curtains wave. They wave in the kitchen and in the bedroom. Only two rooms with sheers. She likes when they wave, friendly most of the time, only sometimes is it treacherous. She boards up the bedroom window on those nights. How can the babies sleep in that much wind? Even a tent would be better than this old adobe without shutters during the treacherous winds.
Learn more about Sextolet.