I left the Mojave desert in the late morning on September 11th. As I made my way east from my home in the Morongo Basin I was inundated with nationalists occupying Highway 62, revving their engines in an attempt to embody yet another level of patriarchal violence and settler colonialism. Once I pass the military base in 29 Palms the flags and noise subside and I am once again hypnotized by the incredible quietness of the landscape. Desert milkweed, palo verdes and smoke trees wave farewell as the solitude invites my heart to lean into my internal ocean.

My mom had just had surgery the day before and although her procedure went well I had received an update that she had had a bad reaction to a medicine she was given: ‘unresponsive’ read my sister’s text. My parents and I had not really spoken since summer solstice due to a conflict that involved a heartbreaking conversation around sexual assault and domestic violence. We had not yet resolved the conflict before leaving for my trip and I was unable to hug them mostly because it felt performative; a familial pattern I am trying to break free from.

I managed to get to my first stop in Tucson safely albeit with a anxious gaze from my check engine light that decided to turn on after driving through Phoenix. That evening I cried deeply into my friend’s bedsheets, tummy full of birria tacos and topo chico. I woke up later that night after two consecutive days of nightmares involving my mother’s death which prompted me to put aside the conflict and call her the next morning: she was finally doing better in ICU, eating and managing to walk again. I told her that Tucson greeted me with butterflies as I spoke to her on the phone, that it was so lush due to the recent monsoons. She laughed and said “Oh Tucson was where your dad got thrown into a detention center in 1985 because he wouldn’t go back to México!” Just two years before she birthed me. I laugh because they share these trauma stories through dark humor, a way to cope over the years as migrants. I can’t see her face but I can tell she’s smiling. I let my heart rip open even further and cry over the phone, our vulnerable exchange accesible to my sister and father since the call had been put on speaker due to her arthritis and inability to hold the phone. “Me siento tan conectada a ti,” I sing-cry to her, apologizing for not giving her a hug before I left California. She responds and says it’s probably because we’re both Blancas.

Blanca in the ICU in Southern CA wearing a blue hospital gown as she speaks to her daughter Blanca who is in Tucson, AZ. She is smiling while she communicates over speakerphone. Blanca is laying in an ICU bed and there is a simple wooden cross hanging on the wall behind her.