Remembering my home of a bygone era

Good weather lives in one seasonㅡ

stretch of blue patched

with unraveling cotton threads,

sprinkling yellow gold dust

on our eyelashesㅡ

South Bay summer in San Diego.

That's one reason, perhaps the only

string that ties anyone down to the root.

I remember the stained-glass windows

of Saint Charles,

light trickled through

Mary, Joseph, and Jesus

and their pet lamb

and the Cross I held up

down the aisle to the altar

where the Father tried to trip me once,

his side eye smirk, then stone-faced

as he fed his parishioners

Christ's white skin flakes.

Weird. I thought he'd be suntanned

from Bethlehem.

Not far from church

was the drive-in theater,

we went once as

that prescribed nuclear family

of four ㅡ father, mother, son and daughter

in one car behind another family.

Now showing a double feature:

Waterworld & Excess Baggage

We got in line for popcorn,

the soles of our shoes made kissy

noises with the floor

burnt kernels, chewed-up gum, chocoballs

smooshed up like muck

that stuck to our heels,

and someone braided ribbons

of cigarette smoke in my hair,

but we got our bucket of popcorn

the bottom soaked, almost collapsed

in the deluge of heart-attack butter.

We never went again,

instead Papa drove me and my brother

to Hollywood Video and I picked out

for the millionth time: Event Horizon

while he tucked a VHS tape under his arm

hid it from view but I found it later

under the bedㅡ

Cindy Crawford’s Home Workout video.

Funny. There wasn’t enough space

in our little apartment

to stretch and bend and do somersaults

like a slinky.

South Bay summers in San Diego meant

shoveling halo-halo, syrupy shaved ice

melting on our tongues, cooling our palates,

or sometimes on scorching days,

getting lost in the Oasis

with cold drops sliding

off our sticky lips

from the coconut paletas

to guide us back home.

The peak of South Bay summer

was a slow drive down to the pier

in Imperial Beach, where

if we turned our heads south

we'd find ourselves eye to eye

with Tijuana.

Back then, the sea air

didn't scar our lungs

with chemical burns,

the water didn't slough

the flesh off our bones.

Back then, we swam,

we buried our toes

in the hot sand,

blended into the earth

became sand angels,

rose again and wandered down

the halls of sandcastles

as John Philip Sousa bellowed

the Golden Jubilee across

the Sun and Sea parade

where color guards danced

and the festival Queen’s

butterfly kisses

landed on our cheeks.

She waved hello,

farewell

to us, her loyal subjects.

On the 4th of July,

we hopped back into the car,

a family of four

once more

a drive to Silver Strand,

where we breathed in

fresher sea salt and kelp,

the blue-red exploding stars

seared my eyes

swelled my heart,

my home

like smoke wisps,

a dream

I wake from.

[First appeared in Eunoia Review, January 2026]

I wrote this when I was reflecting on my childhood growing up in south San Diego in the 90s and early 2000s. Nothing was perfect but there were good moments that I still think about.

Do you sometimes reflect on the “old days”? What do you miss the most?

For more of my work, visit: cgacosta.substack.com