I’ve been on vacation. Somewhere where palm fronds cut through salt-thick silver air like pirate’s blades, where backyard BBQs and long discussions about the proper method of growing endless varieties of tomatoes are yet a weekly occurrence. Dense gray cloud obscures everything most mornings, making memories seem even more dreamlike, wrapped as they are in a misty blanket that only gradually wears itself out to tattered shreds. Some days it never would fall back, and the sunline would taunt us vitamin D starved residents of the river valley and coastal range, a wavery line of gold always just out of reach on the next brown hill. The Fog, for such an entity is surely deserving of proper noun capitalization, keeps everything from spontaneously igniting in the summer heat, yet even with that there’s not much moisture. Not very many flowering plants left for a butterfly to pause at in that land where the dirt cracks in massive plates, rules for watering gardens and washing cars outnumber the inches of rainfall, and McDonald’s grimly hands out teeny waxed paper shot glasses of water when asked.
Yet there was still one. Amazing, isn’t it?