where i live

I live in a place where the train comes through on the hour, rattling on its tracks and shaking the mirror on my bedroom wall. Sometimes Marc’s car alarm goes off when the freight train passes at nine, and he has to run to his keys to press the stop button. Last night was one of those nights.
Anyway, I live in a place where the sunlight hit’s the leaves of the eucalyptus trees and bounces into our window, giving our apartment a green tinge, like an aquarium. But the light is rich and golden, and smells like the eucalyptus it reflects. I am in love with that smell. It smells like oil and deserts and wind. It makes me think of Santa Cruz, and where my step-dad lived. I cant think of a better smell. Maybe the smell of wet skin after a shower.
There are other trees outside. A pine, go figure. And a tree that my grandma thinks is a banyan tree, even though it almost certainly is not. That tree, the not-banyan tree, is Nani to me, and she is an old wise tree that pricks your palm before she lets you sit in her branches.
I live in a place where the pears are allowed to ripen all the way before you eat them, and where pasta is both lunch and dinner. A place where mold grows in the tub like paint, and the parking lot floods when it rains. I live in a paradise, an inspiring place. I cross the street and walk miles until I see the ocean, and then the walk is worth it.
I live in a place where there is always music playing, something soft and nostalgic, or hard and reviving. Sometimes it is played over speakers, sometimes in earphones, sometimes its Marc playing his guitar for no reason but the joy of creating sound. It is a place that hugs you with its plush furniture and rich colors, a place that points its finger at you when you have left the dishes undone. Again.
I live in a place where dreamcatchers hang over the bed, where pillows are numerous and highly sought-after. It is a place that longs for peace, where the couch is just as comfortable as the bed and slept on just as often. It's a place where books are treated like gold and paper like silver, and the tv is never on because there is no tv.
I live in a place where I cut my fingernails to the skin, where make-up is optional and rarely worn, where silence is held as precious and broken like your grandmother's china as the train rolls by, on the hour, rattling it its tracks...