Day of Rest

I spent the afternoon at Kelly's place in Laurel Heights eating scrambled eggs with arugula and drinking Bellinis in the bay window of her living room. Her apartment is decorated like the set of a Katherine Heigl rom-com, I think, all impossibly adorable French doors and side tables, the walls adorned with smartly framed photographs set behind clever matting. It's as if the entire experience of being there was designed to pop on camera. After brunch I assembled two bar stools from IKEA and then hung a white, floral-wrapped 'K' made from thick wire on the wall in the entryway. While I hammered and screwed and tried to read Swedish Kelly chatted to me about nothing and everything, our conversations gliding between boys and work and family and travel, the transitions made smoother, perhaps, by the booze. Regardless, I find that she has a way of making a conversation feel cozy somehow, and so I curled up inside her words and stayed there until long after the sun had drawn tall shadows across her hardwood floor.

On my way home I got off the bus a couple miles from my apartment and walked around Pacific Heights looking for a place to sit and read. Most of the cafés on Fillmore looked busy from the outside so I walked to Alta Plaza Park and climbed to the top of the stairs and sat on the grass near the tennis courts to watch two small women skillfully swat balls back and forth to one another instead. After they'd finished I pulled The Hunger Games out of my backpack and read a few pages for class before the fading sun drew my eyes upward. I called my parents on FaceTime to share the sunset, which was painted in colors without names and delivered through thick layers of fog, and they watched with me as the sun dipped behind Sutro Tower and then they talked about their day, about a cousin's visit and the temperature back home. Later, as I rode the 22 bus back toward the Lower Haight I found myself thinking about just that, about home, the concept of it. I'm not really sure how an idea can make itself less clear in time, but somehow home is a fuzzy one for me now. And so tonight, instead of trying to make sense of it myself, I'm gonna give someone else a try.

"Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go."

Sarah Dessen