The weekend before last, we went to San Francisco. Crossing the new bridge, the whole City stretched before us not in the Technicolor of tourists’ postcards or snapshots; instead, it spread in the sepia tone photograph of memory, of good times that span great distance.
Usually skylines remind me of punctuation, the score of the sentence, but I am certain today’s illustration is the printout of an electrocardiograph, beep, beep, beeping as we race over the bridge.
It is hard not to recall the pine set of blocks from grandma’s house and how I loved the sound of them clapping and clinking together in the construction of a farmhouse, barn, and arena in those carefree days full of sun and shine — when I couldn’t fathom an entire city.
shewhodaresnothing 