When People Ask Me What It’s Like to Move From a City of 4 Million to a Town of 161
I tell them it’s Alice in Wonderland meets White Rabbit.
In the morning, the coyotes call out to one another, celebrating their fresh kill. I wake to their hunger and howling. When people ask me about my day, I tell them I stepped over a tarantula on my walk and hiked past bunnies in the thicket. Bleached-out lizards whiplash between gravel and rock. I tell them about having to walk a quarter-mile to collect my mail, and how the small strip of road is the town hotspot. A few times a week someone leaves boxes of fresh bagels, grapefruit, or Concord grapes. I walk back to my home, fingers stained violet. Fruit spilling out of my arms and rolling down the pavement.
At night, the sky teems with stars. Outside, it’s black and mouse-quiet, both the kind you have to feel your way through. I wear a sweater and crank the heat because of the mountain cold. I sit on my porch and think of coiled snakes. I listen for the rattle.
I hike through the wilderness and the hot morning sun paints my face pink. I count cacti and shout out loud, that’s me!
I tell a friend about a Confederate flag covering a porch up the road. Two trucks parked in the drive. Three men — bone-white — wave to me with one hand, a beer…
