Diary Entry on Any Given Day in San Francisco

Everything here has that Bay Area smell: half-washed and waiting. The Sun only shines down in spots half the size of a narrow porch (of which this house has two, one front, one back) -even that rectangle of gold is clammy where it embraces me. It’s usually cloudy most of the year (although I write this in the summer of February 2021). That means that everything – the air, the light, little kid screams from 23rd and Treat – arrives to us wet. 

I am not used to this. I come from the bottom half of California, where things stay parched well into April. My lungs suck in muddy air, and I wonder how a strawberry accent managed to get lost here, reverberating through the streets of Atlantis. I’m convinced this city sank in the reconstruction of ’89, when the first Pomeranian yapped across the street from Somebody’s Uncle in the Fillmore. I wasn’t even a thought then, as my mother would say. I’m but a visitor now.

Three story houses shudder in damp glow, whispers of another one coming. Are you ready? An only child in Superman pajamas considers flying, third stoop on the right. My throat tickles. I wonder if I’ve caught my death of cold, and if this city will ever get to be his.

Author:

Moriah Katz

Moriah Katz is a Black/Jewish writer. Her work explores the imprint of race, gender, and sexuality on the human experience, and can be found in Stellium Literary Magazine, DeifyCbr.com, Orange Peel Literary Magazine, and the Queer26. She is the current non-fiction editor at Stellium Literary Magazine, and forever lover of good food. She holds a degree in Literature from the University of California, Santa Cruz.