Yesterday Morgan and I took our kids down to the beach next to the Golden Gate bridge, and laid back on blankets and watched them running around discovering crabs and making sandcastles and high-fiving – god, they are cute together – and I told her how strange it was to be leaving a place that I know so well for a place I don’t know at all, not even a little bit. Sure, we live in the suburbs now, but we’re still right there next to a city that feels like my city. Every corner I turn is filled with memories that I don’t only “remember,” but feel. And we’re moving to another suburb next to another city, but when we drive through the streets of San Francisco I don’t see a single signpost I recognize. I don’t know where to go to get a cup of coffee. I don’t know which direction to drive in if I want to see the water.
I’m nervous to be leaving a city that feels like a part of my bones for a city that doesn’t even contain a whisper of a memory for me. I know I’ll get to know whatever small town we end up in well, but I wonder if I’ll ever really know San Francisco the way I know New York, or ever really feel like it’s “home.”
So we were laying there in the sand, talking about these things and watching our kids splashing down by the edge of the water, and all of a sudden I saw it:
A dolphin.
About fifteen yards off shore; it was swimming right along the edge of the beach, jumping every ten feet or so. And I ran down to the water and grabbed the kids by the hands and we sprinted alongside it, yelling “THERE IT IS” every time it broke the surface, until it swam way, way out under the bridge and we couldn’t see it anymore.
If I believed in signs – and I might – I’d have to say: that’s a good one.
