The Forgotten

The sound of Wynonna and Naomi harmonizing on "Love Can Build a Bridge" drifted out the window of the old red brick building. The widespread and persistent drought meant virtually no tomatoes, and certainly no melons to speak of at the corner store, nor any other market in this part of town, but the sweet melody and reassuring lyrics The Judds' voices carried brought comfort in a time wherein it was a scarcity.

Katy used to be naive to the realities of her city, and ones like it all over the place, but since learning not everyone was sharing in her experience, a bitter seed planted itself deep in her gut and each time she was reminded, the small sprout grew at a rate that far surpassed that which can be achieved through the use of Miracle Grow and genetic modification. She wanted justice and she spent these stifling days simmering in her own sweat pining over it.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when Katy was younger that she remembers her neighborhood having a much more livable vibe. In her youth, one had only to walk to the corner, or around the block to pick up everything for one's meal that evening. Now she had to take a bus and ride twenty minutes out of her way, the whole trip taking a little over an hour between getting to the bus station, waiting for it to arrive, the ride there, the shopping, waiting again, riding it back, walking back to the apartment. The worst part was that this trek had to be made multiple times a week because even if she could carry more bags each trip, it was prohibited by someone in some office somewhere who never took the bus a day in their life.

Anyone who had the means has since moved out. The friends she grew up with weren't around anymore to chat or commiserate. There was simply dryness, seething rage, longing for a time she'd never get back and a deep burning loathing in her soul for the forces that constructed the system which created these circumstances for her in the first place.

The only way she ever realistically escaped her circumstances was in her dreams. And recently, the good ones seemed to be few and far between. More often, in the past few weeks especially, they seemed to be reflective of her waking reality. Like last night, for example, she found herself in some weird, barren landscape and she was searching for something. She didn't know where she was or how she had gotten there or for what she was looking, but she knew one thing: It felt dangerous.

Not much happened here. There wasn't really anything that went on that would pass as something to write home about. Not that she wrote to anyone. Though she reckoned she would like that, given the opportunity, connecting with another human being through the written word. The problem was she had no idea how to go about it, so she continued to sit and spiral as the afternoon heat showed no mercy.

She found herself continually returning to this idea of communicating a story, her thoughts and ideas, in a form that could be read by another, rather than spoken out into the air aloud. Sometimes that felt too harsh, or as though perhaps it would take too much courage to allow a specified set of words to leave her lips. She had so much burning inside her that she wanted to share with the world, but she found hurdle after hurdle holding her back when she tried to express these thoughts and feelings to those she encountered on an everyday basis. She thought to herself, “This could be the way I make it all happen. This could be my ticket out of here.” She took out her phone and began writing her story:

Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.