I am looking at ...

Thoughts from my living room.

She always sleeps so weirdly—limbs splayed, head cranked to the side, paws up on the wall, or she crams herself into a tight little space. She is snoring softly, a little snorting inhale that makes me sleepy and relaxed.

Beside her is the plant table—carrier of things growing, or which I hope will grow. A table of hope and a strange, wandering plant that dries and wilts and never fails to recover. Add water, revive is the rhythm of our relationship.

The plants sit in the east-facing window, perfect for the winter months but burning and too warm in the summer. The drapes are drawn, a thick velveteen texture, opaque, camel-colored set of curtains layered over sheer-style cotton and the large window facing our backyard, a small yard full of cement which drops down and descends to a chainlink fence with tan privacy slats inserted.

These slats rattle in the wind, soft, shaking sound that sounds like distant clapping. I can just see over the top of the fence to a distance determined by the day, by the atmosphere or lack of it. Some days I can see for over 30 miles—the benefits of having no trees here in the desert. Some days I imagine what it would look like if the landscape were full of trees and a profusion of green like my family’s home in Pennsylvania. We wouldn’t see past the first tree, much less 30 miles of trees.

Across the desert, I see layered hills.