California Nights Haunt Me

Walking alone in the dark of December is haunting, melancholic, and mystical. Even among such suburban streets, it becomes most apparent to me that California is truly cloaked in myth and mystery. The land of magical thinking, sun-drenched dreaming. A golden paradox, nature and machines, kissed by death, frothy brine, hugged by mountain peaks, baking with blazing, and the dirt shaking with the possibility of destruction.

I pause, looking up to see the sky brushed in a deep Prussian blue; rich, vast, endless. All around me, the soft glowing windows, the orange heat radiating from the street lamps, illuminating trees; the sprinkles of Christmas lights all over rose bushes, and those homes, quaint and quiet. I think of the familial warmth inside. I think of all that isn’t mine. Yet, it is all mesmerizing.

I admire the towering palm tree’s leaves pointing at the yellow full moon, and all the scattered stars surrounding it. I watch the shadows moving in closer, closer around every corner. I feel a gentle chill on my skin. I breathe in cold, and out float ghosts. For the first time today, I’m in a cocoon of calm.

I drop back to a few months ago, those San Diego nights; the midnight walks and talks across several blocks; the salty air seasoned with a sense of optimism, lightness blooming inside, even if only temporary. The comfort of kinship. And, of course, the ocean. Those distant waves crashing. Even now, I hear them whispering. My heart swells. My memory becomes a memory of a memory. The textures of what once was is now mist in my mind.