fragments

I keep thinking of Chinatown, lately-- of the faces of the people I knew there. I remember a warm breeze blowing silk against my legs through my bright yellow skirt while I was standing in Remi's front yard looking back at the house. It had been condemned and it sagged into the dry grass as if it was weary-- there were too many holes in the fences, too many stray cats wandering the hallways, skittering past our feet. We'd only been able to walk through the back room before water-damaged hoards cluttered the way. Remi had wanted to return one last time. I remember her standing barefoot in a hospital gown outside Dorothy's. She and Gloria were the first friends I made on the street, in on the homeless community. As he always did, Ellie was busy making her smile, a conversation I couldn't hear. I remember looking back, him holding her frail arm, the social worker a few steps behind them. These memories unravel out of nowhere, like the teal blue strands I used to find stuck to my sweaters months after I'd cut off my hair. I feel suddenly homesick for Salinas walking on Broadway when I pass the Mexican store and mariachi music swells out the open doorway. I've been sketching a picture of Lupita, wondering if Juan is still in school, if Connie is still lugging her trash bags back and forth between the day room and the doorway. That life seems so far away, four years past.

On the way home from school today, still in the neighborhood, O. ran out to greet me and threw his arms around my legs, telling me all about his day since I didn't teach him today. The affection of small children always amazes me, wins my heart.

For awhile I'd been thinking that falling in love is just a desire to propel ourselves out of boredom, to impose a drama on our narrative. Yet, listening to a friend this week made me realize that yes, love makes us do reckless, impulsive things-- but it isn't just to escape the ordinariness of living... love (in any of its forms) is about drama, about the narrative of meaning in our life (as the poets remind us over and over...  it all comes down to love.) Love of people, or a place, or even an idea is a creative force, it can unhinge us from our own expectations and norms, it makes us brave enough to re-imagine our story lines, to risk, to believe again in magic, adventure, and wonder-- even to willingly sacrifice ourselves to remain connected. Our love stories are about encounter, a point of connection and relationship (even if directed inwardly)-- and whether momentary or enduring, whether familial, romantic, amiable, environmental, or spiritual- I suppose it is our love stories that give us meaning.

Dorthy's Place, Chinatown, Salinas is a place I loved-- in all those realms-- and I am still discovering what I learned there. The other day I searched google maps for the driveway off Jefferson street that swept into our yard, beneath that thin willow. I hopped through photos-- down Alisal toward Cesar Chavez park, the bend of concrete where I balance beam walked during countless calls to the East coast. I can still taste warm dust in my mouth, hear the sparse grass of park crunching underfoot and the bark of the scraggly dog that always raced the perimeter of it's fence with aggressive possession, the icecream man's jingle and the shouts from the soccer pitches-- all this background noise to my own thoughts or a friend's voice on the other end. I couldn't trace my paths through the neighborhoods, along the creek and the fences to the skate park, crossing the long roads that stretched to the migrant fields and the Gabilan mountains, east of Eden.  Those paths belonged to the bone-deep sentiments I'd try to loosen by footfall, to the static chirping warning the distance was overcoming me-- despite all that was shifting inside of me as I made my daily treks the feeling I was left with was a determined strength that seemed to be growing, I was okay-- there, marooned in the world of men, piecing myself together, I was okay-- pulling my spine erect, my head lifted.

Love only makes us wider.
Love will be left over. 
Yes, Love will be left over.