I Dream of Red Dirt

So far from Central Australia, I dream of red dirt.

I dream of sunrises and sunsets, stillness and whispers, a sky scattered with stars.

When I look out my window now, I see green liquid amber trees and bitumen roads, snaking around crowded buildings that are crushed by the busyness of life.

I dream of a place where time goes slower and the riverbeds are dry until the rains come and then their depths change the world. Wildflowers and birdsong burst into life and mist laces the ranges. Was this place once my home?

Papunya, Central Australia (Photo credit: Tracy Allen)

The bite of cold and the lull of a winter wind. Early morning frost in a land painted pink and gold by the hand that brought it forth. The belly of the night full of magic and moonlight, slit only by dawn.

In summer, heat sears a weary traveler's breath and fallen gum leaves crackle underfoot. Patchy grass scratches ankles, and the waters of Ellery rise to my shoulders, iciness penetrating my blood.

Now I realize these are not dreams, but memories.  

I am so very lucky they're mine.