I remember seeing Orion's belt in Spain, behind La Alhambra, and I don't know why I was so amazed that the same stars I saw back home were the same stars in Granada. I was confused with what was home, and I decided that home is wherever those stars are. It still doesn't make sense to me, but it feels like home. It feels right. It feels like swimming in our outdoor pool at night. In Turlock. Baba telling biblical stories about serpents. Mama telling us to come inside. The moon's reflection blinding us in the black, moving waters. Baba only swims backwards, floats on his back, sighs in ah's, looks up at nothing, or everything, and whispers khzee dunyeh (look at the world). Shivering as we leave the pool. A luscious chill. Eating ice cream or melon or spicy ramen when we get inside. When I see those stars, I think of those nights. And I think of La Alhambra, and meeting Juan and realizing we have the same orange birthmark.
I had another dream that I was moving out of my apartment, and I had remembered-- while leaving through the door-- that I had forgotten my black purse, hanging on my closet door. I wasn't able to get it back, my dream had decided.
It wasn't the purse that I wanted to get back so badly; it was the keys to my suburban home that were in the zipper pocket.
