The truck with the moon face

(angel-strangers are everywhere).

I walked as the hot sun threatened to kill me but didn’t. I was on my usual stroll up Monte Vista. Out of my white Spanish adobe house and along the street with its drunk men at 1 pm and bougainvillea. In the golden-white light which dotted my face with freckles, and the dirty sidewalks which hardened my feet, and the wet cement that made me think of theater camp, and the kids coming home from school. I crawled up into the canyon, knowing this crawl was the last of its kind (at least for a while). After ten years doing the same thing nearly every day, I knew I was going to Toronto. I knew I was going to finish my book, going on a self-imposed residency, going to spend time with family, a whole thing that needed to happen but still, it felt faraway. It was foreign. It was snowing there, in April.

I walked up the fairy steps and collected flowers and leaves. I let tears drop down my face and cool my cheeks. Across the street from a large Baptist church and down the block from the mission-style LADWP building, I saw a small art gallery where a medium-sized moving truck was either installing or de-installing a big, beguiling sandbox. The truck had a giant hand-painted face of a moon, with hands from a clock and big red lips. END TIMES HAULING, the truck was named in bold block letters. I smiled, and the young man working the job noticed me. “Nice truck,” I said nonchalantly. “Thanks,” he smiled, “would you like some matches?” I nodded, and he handed me a small pack with the same irreverent moon. “Thank you.” He was handsome with a freckled face and salt and pepper beard. I love Highland Park.

It’s kind of heartbreaking to leave behind everything and everyone you know and love. I mean, really heartbreaking, actually. When I arrived and slept the first night in my empty apartment, I dressed my brand-new Ikea bed and started to unpack the few things I brought to remind me of home. Some silk dresses from a local shop (also on Monte Vista), some boots, pictures of my dad and Matilda, plus lots of journals and writing utensils because I will finish my book, if it’s the last thing I do. I also brought my favorite candle from California, a brand called Mar Mar where everything is genuinely made in Los Angeles. The scent I like best is “North” and is colored kind of a pale blue-green, like algae. I thought it might connect me with my north star or at least bring me close to her aura.

Candles make me feel grounded. The evocative smells. The tiny flames, dancing like Tinkerbell’s ancestors in the center. I thought, I could really make anywhere feel like home, as long as I have my special candle. Then, I looked around and realized I somehow lost my lighter. Ugh. I could have gone to my mom’s apartment just one floor above me (!) but it was 1 o’clock in the morning, and I did not want to wake her in the middle of the night. So here I was, in the calm, un-flickering dark.

Then, I remembered the matches. I felt around in my well-loved satchel, and they were there waiting patiently (almost grinning if you can imagine). Even though I’m a little timid around matches, I lit one on the first try. Suddenly, the whole place started whispering with possible quiet stories, memories that hadn’t happened yet. And I was home. Kind of. At least for the moment. x

“The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.”

Mary Oliver