La Muralla by Cristina Cerny

Chicago Literati

The sand is foreign under my feet, invasive between my toes. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my brother’s sweatshirt and think about the cold. About the empty beach on the edge of a city. It feels like home, a lonely place where my feet, bare and unpolished, leave marks for a few minutes before the water comes.

My brothers live close to this beach, in L.A. I live in Chicago with a roommate. When I get back from the city, our apartment is dark. We communicate mostly in notes: There’s pumpkin pie in the fridge help yourself! I’ll write that check when I get back from New York. Don’t be discouraged because you are young, and other fragments of verses and thoughts and little pin holes through post-its. Last time I left for the weekend, drove my car three hours west toward the cornfields to visit my…

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