Shared Air
Hispanic Heritage Month is an unlocked door to memory. It’s a door I know I could open regularly, but I don’t. I drive to work through downtown. Smothering. Exhaust. Bright sun and vibrant color through a window glass, but I’m in my car not a chicken bus so my stomach remains calm. The mural on the Mexican grocery store slowly fills in. Should I stop? Go in? Tell them how beautiful it is?
Al aire libre
Shared air.
Hebrew homework asks, “Have you packed for a journey?” I slowly describe individual items I packed in the hiker’s backpack that accompanied me up volcano paths. Some, not all, were worth their weight. Sweat. Chills. At the top thin
Al aire libre
(thin but)
Shared air.
I click the arrow on the Netflix series, Street Food, Latin America. The light, yet melancholy blue sky blankets the nestled town. I can feel it. Wet. Cool. Smoky. I inhale the scent thousands of miles away and years ago.
Al aire libre
Shared air.
The video’s view settles down into the market. I inhale the produce piled rot and the warm bubble of beans or atol or something else I’ve never tried. My hands are chilled waiting for the mismatched ceramic mug to be plucked from a tray. My stomach growls. Or maybe it’s disappointment eked in the chair slid across the floor. Voices and breath exhaled in the workshop room. English. Spanish. Something missing. Something more.
Al aire libre
Shared air.
I stand up and feel a long ago rise from cement steps or plastic chairs. I walk tall with no carga on my back. I turn easily without weight depending on my head for balance. The video pauses before it fades out. Clouds above. Stars below. I walk. I exhale. I smell. I inhale. In the street. My throat burns. My heart aches. Or is it the reverse?
Al aire libre
Shared air.
Hispanic Heritage Month is an open window to dreams who never ask permission enter. They are always weaving, floating, following.
Words. Skin. Tastes. All that touches.
Shared air.
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