Rekindled
When I was nineteen, I burned down a small field of bamboo. It was one of the loneliest afternoons I can remember.
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When I was nineteen, I burned down a small field of bamboo. It was one of the loneliest afternoons I can remember.
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The tin fence is half-collapsed, and the smoke that billows out of the shack might be meat or it might be trash—or by the smell, both.
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We were checking in when a woman came storming out of her room to the desk and said, “There’s shit on them sheets.”
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The year I moved back home to California—the year I got sick and resigned, more or less, from life altogether—I had, for the first few months, traveling dreams…
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On the other end of the line my mother’s phone was ringing, but the familiar tones sounded distant, thin and faded.
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Wait, wait—you’re moving to Cambodia?!” I nod. “I was just out there for a few months earlier this year. And now I’m headed back.”
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There was an art opening at the Centro Fotográfico the Friday the federal troops came. I went out to the Hotel Victoria for piña coladas with a few friends beforehand.
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