(no subject)
Can core memories be places? Streetlights and white lines, curbs and easements; the view from that one neighborhood on the hill. Sandwich shops and taqueras, coffee spots and bodegas. A well-stocked (but fallen-on-hard-times) 7-11 and the bar that just looked like it had seen some stuff.
Is a place like that core memory the way a grandfather reading childrens books, long Saturdays in a pool, grandmother imparting wisdom in ways that seem easy like Sunday dinners after church and an over large bathroom that swamped me are?
Don’t know but I think so.
I think about that visit to San Francisco the way I recall sun-drenched weekends, the behind-the-scenes of radio, and a warm spot in the way back of a white Chevy SUV (pillows and Nancy Drew books; warm naps and crawling over the back bench to interrupt conversations and sing off-key) on the way to a Ramada in the lush green hills of the Smokey Mountains.
You drove expensive storied streets, with corners that echoed protests and activism decades ago. I marveled at huge homes I’d never own, their front windows facing down yet another gray and foggy day. Finally, the remnants of walls at what was once a fort. Encroaching tides ate away at rocks and swallowed sand, the concrete staid and steady. The fog rolled in and the wind blew, I fell off-balance and you pulled me in. You were secure with practiced ease but the wind ruffled my hair and I shuddered with the cold.