I inhale deeply, air fills from my lower belly and pushes out my ribs, but it is never enough. The city air will always be too thick, too smoggy, too suffocating. I breathe, again and again, but my lungs get tighter. My mind wanders further into memories of the ocean. My body remembers the feeling of silk wrapped around my skin. It aches for the weightlessness of water. Instead, I am here, in Orange Grove.
The streets are littered with chaos. I watch out the dusty window as we drive down Louis Bota. I see the tall dilapidated buildings dressed in plastic packets and broken glass. I see a young girl who sings to herself as she props her drooping cabbage leaves against the stained streets where thousands of feet have walked, some in shoes of leather and others in only skin. I see a boy in school uniform holding his baby brothers hand as they cross the road. Streets flood with taxis and broken down cars, with Mercedes and desperate mothers. I see life, one that could have been mine, and I whisper thanks to the ocean, for saving me.
