The Mask of Death: Hung High on Its Own Bones
Nature has a way to remind us of, well, the transient nature of life.
It rained last night.
That is something that many of you find banal and somewhat of a no-big-deal morning.
I live in the desert.
When it rains here, we notice it.
We notice it instantly.
“WTF is that water doing?”
The dirt road to our little compound is muddy, deeply trenched, and in many ways resembles an arid lake in the throes of drying up.
No motorcycle rides on that road for a couple of days.
The air is crisp and clear.
Oh, so clear.
I can make out every little cholla on the hill across from the house. The saguaros stand tall, glistening a little bit from the overnight drizzle.
And the smell is delicious.
Someone near us is making bacon.
A lot of bacon for the smell to waft this far.
I headed down the gravel entrance to run an errand very early, and while out, I decided to head over to a little patch of road with a good view of one of the little mountains.
As I turned down the road, I saw it right in front of me.
Was it hung here by an ancient people to dissuade the occasional passersby from passing? I’ve seen that scenario in at least a dozen films.
It was hanging on its own bones.
Grotesque and frightful.
But I stopped and took the snap anyway.
I laugh in the face of fear… Haha, fear… I am laughing in your face.
The mask neither smiled nor frowned.
I got in the car and headed home.
I could see it watching me in the rearview mirror as I turned onto the main road.
“I’ll be back”, I said softly in my best Arnold accent.
