1:34 pm
The corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, GA)
The heat has nestled in. The days of jumping from 75 degrees back down to 50 are over. We won't see another day below 70 for months and months.
Everything is weighed down. The branches droop slightly. Leaves turn downward, sighing, uninterested in the brutal sun. I am in the middle of a cacophony of bird calls. Their chattering seems eager, excited, rushed. Maybe I am projecting.
A car- red, covered with the yellow-green pollen layer that has blanketed the entire city- takes the turn at the corner too fast, narrowly avoiding hitting a silver sedan, kicking up gravel, dust and exhaust.
An open-faced sun highlights the insidious pollen. I see it on my black and white shoes, along the white concrete edge of the sidewalk. I can see it on the leaves of the ivy growing up my oak tree pal. This has been torture for most of the city's residents. I am struggling not to itch my hands and face. Liquid fills every cavity in my face, creating pressure and a struggle to breathe.
Atlanta, I was recently informed, is the worst city in the country for allergy sufferers. It is not just the thick, yellow dust of pollen. It is the pollution as well. In the past 15 years, Atlanta's population has boomed so greatly that the majority of the state (63%) now lives in the metro area. Fourteen lanes of traffic on city thoroughfares spew exhaust in all directions. This layer of detritus is invisible but thick. It is pulled into my lungs as I breathe the hot, dusty air.
Another car drives by. A woman pushes a baby in a stroller. The chubby child sleeps heavily, scratching at its eyes through dreams.
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