Bermuda grass is a weed, in my mind. Something unwanted, with a root system extending 35 feet down into the bowels of the wash that runs through my neighborhood. A friend told me this, with a sad smile, when I mentioned to her that I pull it.
Walking home around 4PM last fall, I spotted a can in the middle of the sidewalk. Strikingly silver and apparently full, since it wasn’t blown over. No logo, no nutrition facts, no label, only the reflected sun and these words, in shaky black Sharpie: CUM CAN, PLZ DRINK.
It’s easier and faster to cross into Mexico on foot. Park on the U.S. side, tuck a passport into a pocket, and walk about a mile down a dusty road, toward the Nogales border. Walking into Mexico has always been uncomplicated and relatively effortless for me.
Even though I was finally piecing my life together, I wanted desperately to get the hell out of Nebraska and away from the ruins I was trying to leave in my own past. Maybe I was trying to give myself something to look forward to as well, something other than interminable sobriety, that terrifying prospect.