I caught a glimpse of you.

Driving through the Grapevine

at the crux of midnight.

On the road to nowhere,

making something out of nothing

with the poison between our lips.

Angels flying by at full throttle,

with little to no sign of stopping.

Wings stitched to their leathered backs

without reserve or a damn to give.

Revving their motors,

howling at the moon,

but I couldn’t stop staring at you.

Ground zero of Los Alamos,

I held my breath.

Eyes wide shut when the bomb dropped,

awaiting desolation at the hands of god.

But lost it when you rested your head

on my shoulder and said “this movie is so fucking good.”

In arms reach of a giant,

who told stories of his past

& his treasures.

Earned, not bought.

Pancho Villa’s trigger finger.

The same finger that led a revolution.

Born to die, living to fight

for a different Mexico.

Not the Mexico

that slit your dad’s throat

& sunk him in gravel.

A double-headed newborn, owned once by Ronald McDonald himself.

And a toaster possessed by the Devil.

When asked why he’d had it & why it was still around, George said,

“You know, at the end of the day Charlie, it makes good toast.”

Sometimes I go back to those recordings

to hear your laugh.

In fields of strawberries swarmed by the bees,

you held a basket for only the best of the best.

If I think hard enough, I can see the colors of your dress.

& the way you smiled when you crowned Queen of the Berries.

From the snowy sidewalks of Boise, Idaho,

to the ferris wheels of Fresno, California.

Locked hands on the streets of Little Italy,

romanticizing suicide on the search for the purity of eucalyptus.

Ice rinks on each corner of the city

& a hole where my favorite tree used to be.

“Did I wait too long?
Did I wait too long?
Did I wait too long?
Did I wait too long?”

I didn’t listen. Even when you said,

“This isn’t going to end well.”

I didn’t listen.

“But I don’t know what’s harder.

Letting go or just being okay with it.”

I’m bad with words

& even worst with luck.

A quarter tucked

into the sleeve of my passport

in case you called

& ask if i’m ready to runaway.

We made it before daybreak

& exchanged one last goodbye.

“you may never see me again,” she said.

but i wasn’t hurt.

I know this ending.

I know it well.

“But this just might be better for us, you know?”

Author Bio: Ruben Mejia, a.k.a. Charlie Hazel, is a Central Valley Chicano artist whose work reflects the raw realities and triumphs of his life. Featured in various publications and journals, as well as through an ongoing zine project, Ruben invites everyone to witness the intertwined tragedies and victories of his journey. Through his website, https://www.canibeyourpoet.com, Ruben has created a platform for both his work and the voices of others to be freely shared and celebrated.

Recollections: Of Being is a literary column brought to you by The Collegian, founded and organized by Aura Peredia. We publish writing and art, either political or personal, to create a bridge between varying valley voices.

For previous installments of Recollections: Of Being, click here.