The Rights of Spring

A bridge would be simple enough and yet it was time for me to go as this one crested and I found myself not caring.

I cared less for that than I did for this, a place where I stood and once pretended that I was in Monterey.

Turns out I didn't need to be in Monterey to smell pine or feel clean by the ocean.

And yet, I still had to cross that bridge, or at least another one - a longer one that I wanted to stop in the middle of, and take a long look at both sides.

But, who can really stop on a bridge? I tried to look over the edge but things moved too quickly.

When I visited Mom, we walked in the morning but were cranky in the wind.

When the day warmed, we walked again in the afternoon.
I stared at blue bottles and realized we were in false spring.

I left late Sunday, already missing the oaks and the green hillsides.
But I realized it was my old life that I missed, as I caught the rhythm of a freedom awakened by a quiet drive down Highway 101.

How long had I been a passenger when I'd thought I was behind the wheel?

To be fair, it's not everyone who can approach a cloud...

... And wish for a three-pronged justice.

Still, I walked by this wall and knew I had come to the wrong place.
(That was September.)

But, I had to celebrate something through those months.

Or we'd all fall down.

Around Christmas, I had lunch downtown but didn't feel much like kissing the man I was with. I wished my mom was coming to the concert with us instead. We'd have sat at a banquette, sipped Earl Grey, not rushed through dessert, and allowed this painting to take us away.

There was always, Venice, I suppose. Venice Boulevard, that is. Though I can't seem to find the glory in that, even if my great-grandmother lived there by herself for thirty years, twisting her waist-length hair into a bun and dusting her face with fine powder before she sat down, fully dressed, for breakfast. She lived alone but there was a sense of ceremony to her self-care. And Venice Boulevard or not, there was a reason why she lived to be 97-years-old:
she was fiercely independent.

So, this journey started last summer, when I packed my books and my things...

... and took a picture of the sky before I left.

Just how does the sky manage to pull us back and right us every time?