Bodega | California Roll

I listen to the slowed-down version of myself. On repeat, anything

sounds good. Birds flock nearby, towards the shore. We are falling

short of greatness, whatever that means in this context. I cut my hair

during quarantine and people ask me if I play soccer. My family

still gathers in small settings—a backyard, Coronas, the 49ers

game playing the background, masks off. You can’t slow down this drip. I ride

a wave hoping not to drown. Weeks ago, my cousin invited me to L.A. I stayed in

his apartment. He rolled kush every morning with his brown fingers.

The beach was waiting for us. It’s still there.

California Roll