November, 2016

A daily fixture.
A rhythm etched into pavement and heartbeats.

I drove today through streets that once felt like mine—every corner a memory, every crack in the sidewalk a whisper of who I used to be. These were the streets I rode with laughter in my lungs. The streets I cried on when the world felt too heavy. The streets that led me to friends’ houses, to dreams, to heartbreaks, to hotdogs and Thursday night TV.

That freedom—those carefree days—was paid in blood. Not just the blood of history, but the quiet sacrifices of growing up. Of letting go.

I miss the jovial, nonchalant nature of my youth. The way I’d come home, throw my bag down, and make two hotdogs like it was a sacred ritual. Cheers on the screen, the clinking of glasses and the comfort of knowing everybody’s name. Gushing over the charm of Tom Selleck in Magnum, P.I., or the cool swagger of Don Johnson in Miami Vice. Life was simple then. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Now I sit in a dingy cubicle, the hum of fluorescent lights replacing the buzz of city life. Some friends are thousands of miles away. Some are close but feel far. And the streets? They’re still there. But they feel hollow. Like echoes of a song I used to sing.

©️ Beatriz Esmer