Last morning.

The rooster makes me giggle every time. He’s just so. loud.

We manage to stuff everything back into the bags from which they came and then head out for an empanada and coffee. The fog is still so thick and low but there’s the hazy glow of yellow off in the distance which promises a sunny day.

It’s a short walk and yet there is so much to see even though there is nothing to see.

Sage, artichoke flowers, brussel sprouts, horsemint, tarragon, rosemary, perfectly shaped heads of lettuce.

But the view. Can you even imagine?

I drive and try not to think about the fact that this is the end of the weekend, that this means going back. What am I even going back to? Each time I leave, I see another thing that needs changing. Not fixing. But changing. Nothing is necessarily wrong but I can see where I’ve bent the ends of pieces to make them fit.

I remind myself to not romanticize it too much.

We split a spicy gingersnap as we drive across the Golden Gate Bridge. To the left, the too-closeness of the the city. To the right, nothing but water and air.

I worry he will criticize the stack of books I brought back from Dawn’s caboose, but instead he seems excited. I am just tired. Tired and sad. Tired and sad and full of questions. Tired, sad, full of questions, worried that there’s not enough space anymore to figure things out.