We stare at the red bridge like a god we invented so we could unearth the rare jewel of wonder. Here we know possibility and homegoing.
I’ve come to life in this city and I’ve died in this city, over and over, shuttling between the River Styx and back where I rejoin the animated—where I relish in spring’s cold sun and celebrate the best tasting tap water this side of the Mississippi.
I walk the city—taking on maplessness as a virtue—over San Francisco’s sumptuous hills—the corners of my heart flooded with light like an empty and sun drenched studio apartment.
But there are days I must pull my own hair to extract some wisdom—why has it taken me so many trips through the fog to finally trust that when I decide, the city will bend us toward light, the city will bend us toward an offering.
We know silence from Presidio stillness, as we bear witness to The Headlands. I continue to stack rocks along the shore in hopes of leaving my signature through a song—I love a cold beach—I love the ocean—I love the way we ask to return—to the city where heaven is gold, softening on our tongue.