American River, 2019

I dipped my sore hands into its waters. The iciness soothed the sting of my cracked limbs. I thought about how there are people who will never feel this cold. The kind of cold that will numb you, awaken you, grip you. They were born to kiss the sun, their brown skin baking in nipa huts. Their hands occupied with paypays, fanning over the barbecue or fanning their dripping faces. They may never feel the water that I do, even if I was able to bring it to them.

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