She is no stranger to the desert, the scrub, the dust, the sun.
It melts into her skin,
And warms her from within.
She squints from the glint - and imagines the scenes,
the people and their machines.
Her mind is racing, heart is pounding, soul is thirsty.
She wants to store the feeling from this place, the electricity, the innovation, the respect.
It's chain link fences hold back millions of memories,
Rusting into dust, just as the brilliant minds that created them.
Their stories are not all happy, but undeniably meaningful, absolutely poignant.
Their metal skins are just like hers - a bond connecting woman and machine, memories and miracles, lonesomeness and legend.
And some are championed, celebrated, protected.
Those machines are the movie stars of this place.
They are watched and cherished,
They are science fiction come-trues.
But their time is coming, just as their wiser brothers already know,
They will melt into the memories too.
So what is the significance of this seemingly insignificant place?
Where are the parents of these freak-show contraptions?
When will they transition to complacent?
Who will remember this place...remember them...after its all over, after everyone has moved on?
Who is going to hold onto the dream set forth, the idea turned tangible, the legacy of generations?
The first commercial, reusable, round-trip to space...
The idea only realized via the crumpled, pitted, failed and forgotten pieces of yesteryear in the surround.