California waits for us to come back home like a dog when you leave for work in the morning. But we never come back. So she sits and waits, starves, goes thirsty. Maybe someday? Maybe. Maybe the dog dies waiting.
My skin and nose taste and smell the salty air; the familiar touch of a light sea breeze against my skin. It’s her again.
On the coast in Santa Barbara on a red brick patio with black iron railings. With Spanish tile side tables hosting a cheap glass of red wine. Ceramic lizards and vines crawl up the side of a white stucco and green-shuttered wall that, at some point, can see the ocean. It’s here where my mind begins to stray, when she senses my vulnerability and lures me into thinking what’s possible. What is life without risk. See? I’m rationalizing again.
To my left are the french doors leading into our hotel room cottage where my wife curls her hair and tries on high-heels. Every fifteen minutes she walks outside where I sit to ask how she looks. “Beautiful” I say. She smiles and walks back in.
To my right is a perfectly manicured stream of water with bubbling pipes and lights that turn on at night. A brick wall contains the stream, atop of which sit several dozen giant clay pots with plants I can’t pronounce. And behind them, a variety of palm trees barring grape-like fruits. Then there’s the sun. Oh, that sun- hanging in an always-cloudless sky, adding depth and light to the canopy of plants where it moves against waxy green leaves ever so slightly to the rhythm of the pacific breeze that marches inland towards the mountains. It feels like a bit of a dream honestly. To realize, every couple of years when we visit California, that we took every bit of it for granted. It’s true. And now she does her damnedest to turn us jealous. I would be lying if I said her attempts were ineffective.