I moved here to San Francisco from the Dominican Republic three years ago.
I live upstairs from my younger son, his wife, and two daughters. He convinced me to move here when his mother, my wife, died.
I work three days a week at the barber shop a few blocks away, on Church street. Most of the Dominican people I know in the city come here for their haircut. It doesn’t feel much like home, but it feels more like Santo Domingo than the rest of San Francisco does.
Everything I know about is far away and doesn’t matter anymore.