Cities

Traveling always opens my mind to the true realm of possibility. Moving through what few bodies remain in that third world city remind me of how far I’ve come, and oh not really.

I put myself in stark relief against the barren, scarred landscape I barely escaped more than ten years ago now. I can see the Me that would’ve staggered through this muck had I not made my daring dash for freedom. The picture is hard to even imagine.

I stand on the periphery of what is still such a grim reality for so many and I am thankful, humbled before the enormity of the rusted sense of defeat that drizzles over everything like rain.

I smell of cigarettes, down to my underwear. I can legally talk on my cellphone while driving. Denny’s closes at midnight. The night quiet is vaguely sinister, like those last nervous moments before a storm.

I smoke a joint as I drive north on the freeway at four in the morning. The oversized rental car lumbers aggressively towards the most anonymous hotel imaginable.

My sister tells me raunchy stories. I always knew she was wild when she was my age and younger, but woo. I think my favorite is the one about the time the “love of her life” put a loaded gun to her head. She now says she deserved it. She’d been stealing cash from his wallet for months.

If he’d know how much she wheezes now, he would have pulled the trigger. I find it sad but wholly appropriate that this guy was married the entire duration of their relationship, which lasted more than 20 years and only ended when he died. My sister swears that his wife called her and invited her to the funeral. She says she declined out of good taste. I like to pretend that’s true.