A Layer of Dust

Going back to Southern California is like returning to the scene of a crime. Each exit of a freeway is a clue, a trigger, a flashback. Those long lanes twist and turn. They are clogged veins of a childhood, a loss, a loneliness.

But there is sun. Too much light shining on all that hurt. Drying those dark rich streams. Fading them. Making them brittle. But they are not gone. They are the dust below our feet. The grime beneath our nails. And no matter how frequently we sweep or scrape, we will never be rid of them.

Still we let the sun kiss our cheeks. And you call it paradise. When really, you are just grateful for a sun that blinds.