BY MONIQUE QUINTANA

I keep dreaming of beaches, not night dreams, but daydreams. When I teach from home on Wednesday mornings, my throat hurts because I’m not used to talking for so long anymore. I feel my entire self squirm every time I open a new tab on my computer and a new window opens.

I live in the Central Valley of California, in a town where the heat settles like dust, even on the first day of autumn. It is simultaneously rural and urban.

I daydream about beaches: Santa Cruz and Carmel by the Sea. I think about the last time I saw the sea. I think about how I scooped egg from its shell from my breakfast, packed neatly in a deep brown basket by the sea. I think about my dad buying me blackberry gelato after he and my mom split up. Before I knew what such a thing was and what I should be grateful for, my family setting food in my hands in the cold water breeze made me think of my death and shake.

I document everything I do on looseleaf paper—virtual meetings, missteps, canceled hotel reservations, and daily word count goals. I dream of beaches because they're so close to me. Past vineyards and rusted metal dinosaur statues. Past signs that say, Pray for Rain in large black letters. Two hours in either direction, and I'm there.