THERE WAS NO LONGER A SUSPENSION BRIDGE OF BRIGHT, RUST ORANGE, temperate highs of 65 and strolls along the cloudy or sunny Bay. No uphill both ways or days of Union to Columbus (“Christopho Columbo”) to Kearny to Market, Market to Third. The 71, 49, 6, 45, 30 — all one less passenger. No Tuk Tuk Thai dining on tom kha gai, Citrus Club noodles, North Beach pizza pies. SoMa and NoMa, MoMA and BART, and the Market on Embarcadero, Piers 1 through whatever, Fisherman’s Nightmare (or Wharf), love in Haight, pushing through Powell—gone. Gone. Gone.
I stood in line with a giant suitcase of my summer: New clothing, hand-me-downs, souvenirs, and rolled laundry still wet from the prior evening’s wash. My life was seventeen pounds overweight. I spewed the belongings over the sidewalk outside the airport in despair, as though to hold on, as though to cling to those last moments in the San Francisco air before going through security, and the insecurities of leaving.
Now this, North Dakota and Minnesota—this bittersweet hello. No question I cannot take these values from my mind of the state I was raised, though question enough if I’ll stay here too long.
It took me six days to get to California. It took me five hours to get home. Time works unfairly, I’ll maintain until I go back. The next year will hold the millstones of working toward returning to the Bay, and I’m keeping this chin up all the way.
approximatelyes.com 