from my front porch

This city is rooted in the mountains of the central valley, just west of San Jose.

This barrio has layers of life and cement and paint, with abrupt sidewalks made of weathered pavement, mud and rushing water.

This is my barrio, its people will know me and my bright green rain jacket, one day.

Once a day, the main street of this barrio fills like a river with the green and celeste uniforms of students going and coming, with in no particular pattern and in no hurry to figure it out.

This city is covered in tin roofs; amplifying the sound of rain to a deafening level, and deflecting the sound of my footsteps crackling pebbles beneath my feet as I run into the quiet morning.

This city is full of colour; beige and greens, pink and yellows, blues and reds. And just like others, it is a guarded city; with bars on windows and gates that tuck in their respective families at night.

This barrio is wet; with muddy streets and muddier rivers and try as they might umbrellas can’t keep the water out.

My barrio sits in clouds. On a walk one day, I wasn’t sure if I was walking into the hanging droplets of water in the air or if they had gathered enough gravity to fall towards me.

My barrio is quiet; except during a futbol game where you can hear cheers and yells from all the neighbors, or when Friday night energy spills over into Saturday mornings.

My barrio has a quiet beauty, seen from my front porch at any hour or in the faces of people who live happily and simply in the midst of a shanty town where sidewalks equal thru roads that exist as front yards and where very few things exist for just one persons use, these things just belong here.

This is my home and it is growing on me.