Today a blessed breeze carries me back almost six decades
to a little pier jutting out adjacent to the Golden Gate Bridge
in San Francisco, called Fort Point.
It is Sunday, and in the womb of that timeless afternoon,
as I sit silently by my father, the two of us nominally fishing for crabs,
the cry of fluttering seagulls echoes lazily in the warm wind.
Inhaling once again the intoxicating fragrance of old creosote
smeared on the pier’s pilings, stirred with the salty sea aromas
and the richness of the drying fish flavors mingling in the sun,
I gaze out across the bay, speckled with the fluttering white sails
of dozens of boats crisscrossing through the emerald waters.
Time and distance dissolve in the perfection of this moment,
and tears stream freely down my face.
This was before I knew anything at all, and yet,
sitting here in the midst of my reveries, I realize that
everything I needed to know was known completely
in that moment, and my father knew it too.
Now it all passes through me like this soft summer wind,
and I am like a swinging door, no longer remembering
in from out, past from present –
just enjoying this meandering breeze of memory,
this perfect afternoon in timelessness.