Recently, while opening baskets and boxes on our messy dresser of overlapping life chapters, we were re-united with this find:
One day, a few years ago on a bike ride in Fort Ord, the Art Ranger came upon this parcel of folded paper on the ground. So precious we imagine it was to someone, that they wished to walk or ride with this in their pocket and somehow, it fell to the ground where our eyes rolled by.
As we rode, we looked for the possible person of origin, we made a fruitless attempt to post a number near the find that could be called if someone had lost an important letter. Should we have just left it there on the ground? Perhaps. We don't even know this person, but the contents took our breath away. We were not meant to see or have this, but it was useful to see and more moving to us than we would imagine someone elses' stuff to be. It was both awkward to keep and impossible to throw away as we drove through farm fields listening to stories about the more than two million deportations that have occurred during this administration.
* locally loaded term designating both real and imagined barrier between Peninsula cities and farm fields |
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