Rear View

In the rear view I am looking. I see my grandmother cooking. I see the moist parchment of her hands and fingers holding the ginger, slicing; its fragrance on her hands, dipping into the river of my mind, warming the belly. In the rear view the city skyline sits on the skin of a postcard set aflame. I look in the rear view. Buildings stand side by side like a police barricade surrounded by the troubled reflections off the bay. In the rear view I see my grandfather, his shadow filled face covering features that were once so clear and recognizable. In the rear view the postcard is a razor lashing the face, slashing the roots, leaving invisible marks. I look in the rear view at the postcard city inhabited by skeletons and painted ladies doused in vinegar. I see my grandmother again. Her hands are moving across the skin of an onion. She slices with one stroke. I look into the rear view. The edges of the postcard are dull and can no longer cut into me. The fragrance of grandma’s story is on my skin. Tears form in the creases of my eyes. I look in the rear view, the city getting smaller as I go forward. My eyes glide across the face of the rear view and finally slide off and take in what’s in front of me.