Circle

Golden Valley

39 Golden Valley The stench of radish choked the kitchen. Two men appeared at the front door, one man asked my father if he could light a cigar. My father nodded, but he hated smoke. The other man spelled out English words— freeway, water tower, development. They showed slides of single-story ranches, never to be built, hugged by palm trees never to be planted. No money down and a ten-year financing plan. Our new neighbors stayed inside, their screen door hung on one hinge. Kangaroo rats learn how to manufacture their own water from digesting seeds— mesquite, creosote bush, purslane, grama grass. They won’t even drink water in captivity. I’ll never understand such visible change, our time so finite, mere crumbs of globe. My father knelt on the ground, washing his hands with dirt. ...