i found myself looking for out of state license plates in la. making my way back to where i spent most of my life, as a visitor, felt isolating and lonely and wondrous. the sand was heavier than i remembered and the sea swallowed my glasses. the roscoe’s in inglewood empty except for us and rico and 90s R&B. the packed freeways were a collective experience of safety and frustration, “we’re in this together, just merge,” each car says. i say, as i cried outside of laveta over what the 22nd meant and what could’ve been, “thank god, that happened. i trust what i know about myself.” i’m at the Getty, when i wander in the room of pastels and find a white woman immortalized with black tulle draped on her shoulders. her gaze direct and memorable, without context, i wouldn’t have thought her a widow. my eyes dart from her when my partner’s hand on my back forces me to acknowledge that i’m not alone, in this city or this life.