Sands of Time

On the road between Barstow and Needles, time stops marching.

Maybe it’s the heat, because in the near-vacant towns dotting the Mojave Desert, time ambles, rests, takes its time.

Still, there’s been change. Things have aged. Motel signs, once awash in neon urgency, now stare unblinking, ambivalent to boarders. And people have moved on. That’s why gas pumps stand ready for service, but stand alone, frozen in an era when refueling cost 33 cents per gallon.

But people have stayed too. They patch together a living from the remnants of the past--cafes that serve meatloaf and cream pies on checkered-cloth tables; auto part yards full of rusted cars abandoned on roadsides.

And entranced by the silence and mystery of the desert, they pledge allegiance. They amble through a life where nothing happens in an instance. They rest, they take their time.

Maybe it’s the heat.