Dear Winter
Before flying back home to Chicago, I took a quick detour trip to visit a dear friend.
The scorching desert sun had set behind the Sandia Mountains of Albuquerque when my flight landed.
I was famished after a month of traveling away from home, from comfort food. D and I dined at Frontier Diner on Route 66.
At the counter, as I placed my order, I was asked the state question: “Red or Green?” “Can I have one of each?” I replied.
“Yes, Christmas—you absolutely can.” “Christmas”— the pairing of red and green enchiladas—was something I knew well.
Mom had taught me how to cook both the red enchiladas de papa y zhannahoria and green chicken enchiladas.
Behind Delilah my eyes drifted to a familiar face: a large canvas painting of the iconic John Wayne.
Father loved to watch movies set in the days of the “Wild West”— where cowboys and Indians traced the rugged landscapes of the Southwest.
This wasn't my first time in the dry heat of the Southwest. Several times, we traveled as a family from Chicago to Michoacán.
As a family we crossed the states en route to the land we call home, two days to reach the border crossing at Nuevo Laredo and one more day to cross the sierra and reach our destination.
At the cusp where North Oakland meets Berkeley stood a pastel, peachy-pink shoe box of a building.
Its pink stucco walls reminded me of the house that held my earliest memories in Mexico— the home where my father eventually retired.
That whimsical Dingbat apartment on King Street became my home during the summer of 2023.
I managed to save enough money to fund a new experience for myself, savoring the sweet taste of flight.
When the acceptance email from Ashley arrived, I didn't think twice. I packed my belongings into a single
suitcase and headed west.
In the early daylight hours of morning, I woke to the sounds of early risers pedaling down King Street.
Sunlight shimmered through the east-facing windows of my third-floor bedroom. Weekends were spent tracing
the quiet residential streets of Berkeley and frequenting the Ashby BART stop to move between Bay cities.
12/2023
Le pedi que me llevara hasta la sima,
donde se cosecha camote y vive el Pochote
Dejamos atrás las calles pavimentadas de cemento
para entrar a los pulmones de los cerros
Saludamos a los ejidos, a las cabañas de madera y casas moldeadas en adobe
El Jeep dio paso a senderos desconocidos
Al llegar a la loma, el sol mañanero se estiraba detrás de los cerros
