Homesick

California finds me all at once most nights; a shy whisper in the back of my head whose breath I follow down the black skeleton of highway, up the spine of the 5 and across the scattered bones in memories. Flooding across the 152 that drowns the sweet smell of fresh garlic, the cool green vineyards of the 20 through the longest summer, the bleak stone and sand of the 15 that feel so out of place outside of dusk, the sad echoes of the hopes I’ve left across the highways as I wandered through my life; scattered seeds lying awake by the side of the road, still as expectation, awaiting some berth, awaiting some song I just don't know. I’ll never stop dreaming these dreams. Steinbeck’s people, Kerouac’s search, Snyder’s mountains, and some things closer: my dad’s stories of surfing and cheap wine, grandpa’s perfect Spanish and the Ford he drove from Missouri.

Who knows? Is it all somehow real? There is some religion to it, sure. I grew with the burnt kiss of sun on me, freckles the marks of kisses like a proof of passion, a passing love. I grew from the fruit of stolen pomegranates and barely ripe avocados, fault lines and granite a mystery soil that birthed a boy fed by the tributaries of Sierra creeks that slip homesick into the blessing of the Pacific. Every night warmer than a tender heart, each morning a beauty that could break a god.

It's a lonesome word that falls from my mouth, forever changing before it strikes whatever earth I wait upon to return.