Three melodic, high-rent syllables tap-dance across my tongue:
Through good and bad, bubbles and recessions—even involuntary adulthood—you’ve stuck with me. You wrap a blanket of fog around me and let me know it’s OK to hibernate, that it’s OK to escape my racing mind at a matinee. You spoil me with weather: Your frugal ration of heat waves makes them all the more special. The unbridled colors of the sunsets—pink, gold, optimistic—reach out and take my hand. You’ve encouraged me to stand naked on my roof in a rainstorm. Yes, I love you back. Headed south across the Golden Gate Bridge I admire you from afar, always thinking: how stunning, every inch of you. A tsunami would put us oceanfront, but for now, there’s Marina Boulevard. Remember my late-night jog when a fox trotted alongside me on the seawall? Thank you for the sweet surprises. For 14 years, your foghorns have rocked me to sleep, reminding me of the call of mating elk. What a sweet lullaby you sing. Thank you for the companionship. Chestnut Street: a well-choreographed set where the independently lonesome go to be alone together. Enter stage left: a familiar face and brief yet comforting exchange, all for the mere cost of a cup of coffee. What you lack in diversity ... well, you lack in diversity. But any good relationship is guilty of boring conversation and your silence—albeit rare—is beautiful.
Marina, with you I watch the moon rise.