Sydney Jin Choi

Sydney Jin Choi 

The Trail 

A  stretch  of creek  runs through  Fremont  in a  subtle
twist   that   only    mildly   affects   how   the   city   is
portioned.   When   it  rains,   the  water  level   is  high
enough to  inhabit fish, and if a small  child fell in,  he’d
probably  drown.   In  the  summer,  the  creek  dries  to
soft marsh  where mosquitoes  thrive.  There’s a cement
trail on either side of the creek,  connected  by a series
of  identical  bridges   which  let  cars  pass   from  one
neighborhood  to   another  neighborhood.   Locals  jog
and bike  along  the trail  to  get  their weekly exercise,
and  once,  a  man  killed  himself  in  a  portable  toilet
stationed  just  before  the  creek  meets  the  Fremont
Hills.  It  happened  when I was  in fifth  grade.  Samuel
Chen  bragged about  how he heard  the gunshot  from
his   bedroom   and   that   some   of   the   blood   had
splattered into  his backyard.  I’m not  sure if I believed
him    then,    but    the    horror   was    familiar.    Last
September,  just  before  the  rain ended  the California
drought,   the  creek  turned   into  a  wispy  grassland.
Children  climbed  down  the rocky  walls of  the  creek
to pull  at foxtails  and discover  lizards beneath damp
leaves.  Teenagers threw the  burnt ends of joints from
the trail into  the grassy void.  It was a fire hazard,  so
the City of Fremont hired goats to graze in fenced-off
sections of the creek. Dusk had settled when we came
upon  a  herd  of  mindless  consumption.  The air  was
thick with  the scent  of family  meals and the  coming
of autumn.  As the sun  fell behind us,  we squinted to
distinguish the goats from the landscape. In darkness,
we  admired the  harmonious echo  of their  munching.