What strikes me now is not that this no longer exists
but that it ever existed at all.
That place you rented in Old Hollywood,
small backyard dense with foliage,
avocados like heavy bells in the cathedral of a tree.
Thick branches bursting with fruit
while we sat under it on lawn chairs,
mottled sun filtered through stained glass leaves,
muffled traffic on Franklin, and Griffith Park just a few blocks away.
Hollywood: always straddling the public and the private;
crowded streets and hidden oases.
The tree had so much fruit that you’d leave
a card board box out front for passersby,
and people would take a couple,
hold the plump, cool containers in their palms
as if it was no big deal to pick up little miracles
and carry on with their day. Beneath us,
fault lines shuddered in the deep earth,
but we ignored the low rumble of the shifting landscape.
Days were as plentiful as avocados
piled up in faded cartons,
as if one season of fruit would last us a lifetime.
Photo by Gil Ndjouwou on Unsplash
Published Threshold 2026