The First Days of California

The section of Magnolia Boulevard, from Buena Vista to Vineland, is a wide sidewalk-lined two way street between media-driven downtown Burbank and the North Hollywood Wasteland. We now live in this quiet neighborhood of vintage shops full of ladies clothing from the twentieth century, beauty parlors, and small, well-tended houses. I buy a loaf of airy, tough-crust bread from the familiar Pinocchio deli, where the old man smiles at us and gives Violet a slice of salami and a bread stick while we wait. We go to the playground, where Mexican nannies, twenty-something nannies, and the token dad and I all watch toddlers act like antisocial lunatics. They climb up slides and steal each others sand toys. Violet loves to hold hands and slide side by side. We visit our library branch. There's a tree in the children's room. And also outside trees are living, roses in bloom, austere, steep conifers, and of course iconic palms. It feels good to stand in the breeze. Between five and five-thirty parrots arrive, from where I don't know. I think it's mating season. They are noisy and beautiful as one would expect. Every day I've wished I had a dollar in cash to buy a rocket pop from the ice cream man. Perhaps tomorrow. Mostly I feel nothing.