It was just an ordinary line of palm trees.
But they were West Coast ones.
Been six years since I'd seen them last.
So from the sky last week I carried water close to my eyes, and I let tears fly.
It is said that scent is closely tied to memory. And even though my memories lift more via sight and sound, I figured I'd well up over the cheeseburger I was soon to have, too. But sunshine and gratitude held me at bay. The heavenly smell of grilled onions and the sight of good folk. It'd been a mighty long time since I sat across a Mexican dude tatted from the neck to the sleeve, and geez, it just felt really good to be so close to home.
Los Angeles is a special place to me.
It’s where my grandparents raised their children, where my Granny was found in her youth, and taken in from the streets by a stranger, where both of my parents were born and raised, where I spent so many long summers and everydays.
It’s where I went to college, met my only forever-for-sure sister boo, worshipped with some other young people who would become my family, worked my first cool job - for the city itself, and the late, great “Mr. Los Angeles," Councilman Tom LaBonge - and, most beautifully, married the love of my life. When people ask me where my home is, I say: home is my husband, and my children, and L.A.
As a Southern California native, you learn to brace for natural reckonings - droughts, earthquakes, wildfires, those pesky Santa Ana winds. You practice protective measures and evacuating responses in school (and if your parents are first responders, you talk about Smokey the Bear - thanks Dad ☁️).
When it rains, you marvel and breathe it in. Thunderstorms rattle the more sensitive of you. And when you depart your dear SoCal, and plant roots in other parts of the country - you find yourself in awe of the ebb and flow of other regions' natural seasons. The bounties of water after plentiful rains, the fresh air to breathe. Charming, coming from a place where the water runs dry. Where the winds, the dust, and the heat predictably fly.
