There is a hole in the road.
Beneath the road, through the hole, I see a dried up creek bed.
Shrubs and bushes grow where water once flowed.
I step down from the curb and my foot is cushioned by rotting leaves.
They compress and receive my weight with purpose and grace.
I smell their scent.
Reminiscent of a place in this lifetime I haven’t much spent.
I smell something fried. La Santisima.
The breeze, like ice water, mixed with the radiant sunshine, feels like a heart too big for its chest.
A tear falls from a place of longing joy, like home.
Between me and the man with a handkerchief in his hand are a car door, a handrail, a tree and a fence.