If you were to ask me to describe “home” I would tell you:
Home is big, cotton candy banks of white fog in the late afternoon rolling over the northern Santa Cruz Mountains like an ethereal sea crashing silently down into Crystal Springs Reservoir then running like a river down Highway 92 until it meets San Francisco Bay Or Cascading over the central Santa Cruz Mountains gliding over Palo Alto to meet up with San Francisco Bay Or Flowing over the southern Santa Cruz Mountains getting caught in the pines like ephemeral fabric woven of spider silk before blanketing the Valley of Heart’s Delight beneath its majesty
Home is the sound of the miniature train in Central Park clacking steadfastly along its track to the delight of small children Or The sound of a CalTrain whistle as it approaches Hillsdale Station Or The puff and squeal of the air brakes of a SamTrans bus pulling up to a curb full of chittering teenagers leaving Hillsdale Mall
Home is the tea-colored, glowing hills full of gossamer, golden-hour light on the northward drive through Los Altos and Palo Alto on Highway 280 in the autumn Or Being greeted by The Cats standing guard overlooking the winding, redwood-lined drive on Highway 17 to Santa Cruz Or The moment when the Pacific Ocean becomes visible while driving Highway 92 to Half Moon Bay knowing any minute Pastorino Farm’s pumpkins patch will appear
Home is the gazebo sitting over the lagoon at Leo J Ryan Park while kids run up an down the cement and grass risers while watching the windsurfers on the water Or Walking or ridding along the levee bike path surrounding Foster City, under the San Mateo Bridge and its fisherman until you arrive at Coyote Point Or Remembering which way to curb your wheels while visiting friends who live on or near the insanely steep hill that is Alameda De Las Pulgas
Home is the book of memories stamped upon landmarks, imperfections and inconveniences forgotten due to time or will and held in reverence in the heart forever My home has no walls, only the beauty of time and familiar places
He was a brown-eyed boy Freckles on his cheeks He shared his gummy Coke bottles And always picked me to play at recess He was a little misunderstood But not by me I saw him as kindred He helped transform the gray playground Into space ships and fantastical landscapes It didn't matter I was an icky girl Or that he was a yucky boy He was comfortable with me And I with him My heart broke when he moved away I never meant to lose contact but we did We found each other for a minute Just after high school He sent me a letter and a picture A man's version of the freckled face I once knew Adorned in dress blues I think I responded too enthusiastically I never got another letter And my heart broke a second time I hope that wherever he is He is happy A brown-eyed boy With freckles on his cheeks Sharing gummy Coke bottles With someone he loves
Once so tangible and full of detail
Now blurred to softness like watercolor ghosts
What used to feel like yesterday now reminds that yesterday was a long time ago
Like chalk in rain, only hints of detail remain
Specifics are now impressions wrapped in a soft quilt of nostalgia
I grasp hopelessly at the intangible like trying to hold onto a dream upon waking
I wish I could return to the presence of those times
To stand within myself and see again from my own eyes
Feel again with my own senses
Retouch the blurring lines like an old tattoo
And return the vivid, Technicolor, stereophonic quality of those most precious moments
In Kodachrome vibrancy on the mental reel to reel that are my memories
Before time leeched them of their saturation
Like a well-loved security blanket with its rough edges and snagged seams
I handle these memories with adoration as I explore what remains of something so
precious
And sit in gratitude for still having them at all
-gws
Words Wishes and Wisdom 