And the thickness comes in slow. Probably because I have been away so long.

This used to be a swamp. All of it. Back at college, you could run your finger up and down a strip of stone on the architecture school to imitate the frog songs that used to pepper this place. A crude honor. They say Houston was built on top of a swamp, not in place of it. In my neighborhood there are alligator warning signs and no alligators. I did see a mutilated animal carcass on one of my walks near where the alligators supposedly reside. Maggots and flies was all that I saw of the alligators.

The air continues as I open the window in my room. The smell is the best now, when I am not concerned about getting anywhere, but more about staying somewhere.

Songs I miss come up in conversations with people, memories I have forgotten because they are associated with place, with the placement of my feet in relation to the placement of my mother’s feet. Where I sit on the sofa and where my sister sits. Where I type and where my dad’s glasses are propped on his nose. The timing of the air in relation to every other piece of me. These are the structures that help me remember.

They help me remember what they were feeling and how I was feeling, what went on in our minds, hearts at those times when we were together.

This is what I miss, this memory that I am remembering. When these structures are no longer there, when they change, I am afraid these memories will be gone forever. These triggers make me think twice about a lot of things, about change, about the immense ramifications of where and what I am living now in LA, and about the kind of air I have chosen to breathe, and wade through.

I near the huge bubbling, bursting apparatus. I hope and I hope its not my house; my parents are asleep. I near the nearest bend near the fire, and I see it; its my neighborhood. Orchard Lakes consists of many houses, priced between 200 and 500,000, a series of beautiful lakes, one natural and the rest man-made. It abuts the alligator infested Cullinan Park off of Highway 6 – one of the trails offers this savory warning: Please be careful with little children and pets – Alligators in these waters. On any given day, when there is sunlight, there are women walking – their husbands away at work. These women wear sunglasses and sport saris or shorts – in summertime the walking costumes generally diversify and have so of late. They speed walk and regular walk, but don’t run. SUVs are the vehicle of choice here. There was a petition by some homeowners last year to stop the building of sidewalks because it would increase the amount of the annual homeowners fee. During any time of day, the new houses and gardens are built and tended by Mexican and Central and South Americans, and taco trucks are a frequent smell, Roc en Espanol a frequent sound, immigrant skin a frequent sight.

I click the tiny button on the black remote; the gates creak open and I’m in. The monstrosity of it hits me instantly – 3 model homes are blazing, 2 already razed to the ground, all three abutting a man-made lake and a gazebo strategically placed for daytime relaxation and nighttime lusty trysts. The one still standing is what likely gave shape to the mutating frame I saw earlier. The wooden grid is exposed now and fire trucks are parked awkwardly while firepeople shoot streams of water into the mess.

A police officer runs over to me. He is coming over to me in the way police officers do. Shouting commences.

“What are you doing here!”
“I live here.”
“Well, you gotta get out of here!”
“I just need to go to my house.”
“You need to get out or I’m going to give you a ticket…!”
“Why can’t I just go to my house?”
“You can park your car near the gate and walk! Move or you’ll get a ticket!”
“Are you serious?” I was serious.
“You better move or else you’ll get a ticket!”

I had no choice, I had to move. I squeezed my car between the two police cars I had scurried through just 5 minutes earlier. I reversed and left, my sister’s house only five minutes away. I call her, asking for a place to sleep.