At seven, packing up two large moving trucks with everything you own seems like an adventure. This is where my favorite swing hangs, in my favorite park, the place I go to contemplate life, or to wait for a phone call from a boy that may or may not come.
We have history, Spokane and I. I woke up in the wee hours to catch my flight to California. The temperature hovered somewhere right around freezing. This is the October I have come to know. But when I stepped out of the airport and into the Southern California afternoon, I intuitively peeled off my cardigan.
My bare shoulders recognized the October sun. All of this is true. It takes more than being born into a place or a family to make it yours. Although my skin pinkens and burns easily, I notice that my joints are less creaky in the warmth. My Tinder matches tell me that their perfect date includes a hike, or a bike ride, or a snowshoeing excursion. I could drift through the streets of my birthplace endlessly, following the scent of Mexican food.
As we waited for a table, I watched the hypnotic motions of the women making homemade tortillas, tossing them onto an endless pile that never seemed to dwindle as waitstaff came to wrap a handful in paper to take to one of their tables.
I like to try new food and drink wherever I go, but not here. Here, there is only one possible order, a tostada suprema which comes with shredded beef and pork.
