Though not that long a drive—less than three hours, past the windmill farm
and through orchards—the road back to the City has been long,
hard-won. My heart, a tree in my chest, has been growing, branches
seeking new sky. And what they have found, and touched, a sweet surprise.
This first week back, the weather is hard, a relentless storm, and cups
and books, kettles and even cats, contained in boxes. I’m not sure where the pieces
of me are any more. And all the things I gave away: candles and vases,
bedding and soap. And here I sit, in a café in San Francisco, a coat
wrapped around my body, while the man I came here for works,
works outside in the rain, traipsing the varied landscapes this place
offers. And it offers so much: hot tea in a large mug, cooling, a window
showing the green hill that marks my new neighborhood. And it’s falling,
rain. And I’m falling, love. And though this weather, all climate change,
challenges, I want it to keep coming down from the sky, washing us all
wet and new. The view from this vantage—though shrouded in clouds—
the most beautiful I’ve known. On Saturday, we’ll plant bulbs for Spring flowers.