The park is precarious, so I mainly walk in a field, away from the humans and the tourist spots that draw them here. The grass is wet and I watch as my boots turn from light brown to a soggy deep hue. The sun is bright and air cool; it is a nice day to be in the park. I hold on to the memories of exploring here, when occasional small talk with strangers occurred without underlying fear of contagion. 

I focus on the animals, small birds whose names I do not know, large birds whose names I do, the police horses that hide behind the casting pools, dogs on long leashes, critters underground who have made themselves known with the dirt piles above. I go to see the bison but cannot get close enough to get a proper picture. I admire them from afar and send a mental signal of "hey, remember me?" 

I can picture the other parts of the park I don't dare go on this day. I can recall how I felt standing by the dahlias, sticking my nose in every plant in the fragrance garden, watching the lawn bowlers, pretending I'm in the Netherlands when standing under the windmills, exploring the museums of art and science, listening to music by the park band, eating ice cream out of a local food truck, pedaling my bike through with a smile on my face many glorious days. Those carefree days will come again. For now, a beautiful day with a small side of anxiety is acceptable. 

On this day, I have come to the beach to remember an old friend who left us one year ago this month. I brought with me a candle made by another mutual friend in her honor. I envision myself with the candle lit, walking in the sand, with her spirit beside me. However, to light this candle, I have brought matches I got at a bar over 30 years ago. They are from a place we went together when we were too young to be in bars. These matches, marking the year we met, need to light this particular candle. But they don't. I use every match. 

As the last match is blown out by the wind, I laugh and feel my friend laughing with me. I stop to pick up stones, except they aren't the moody dark stones I normally reach for. They are bright white with hints of green, like moss growing inside snow. My friend is choosing them; my hand is hers. I continue to enthusiastically reach for them until my pocket is heavy and wet with rocks. The unlit candle sits in my other pocket. I feel the weight of absence alongside the joy of the moment, the shared love of the ocean.

I am walking around in an area that exudes incredible wealth. Even though my mouth is covered, it is agape, as I cannot fathom living in one of these grand houses. The funny thing is that I have lived in the Bay Area a long time, and I have never truly studied this neighborhood. It is largely residential so not one of my regular destinations. I have, however, frequented these types of neighborhoods for walks during the pandemic, and they tend to be quiet and calm. 

I stand in awe of one very modern house that looks like a New York gallery. I have my camera aimed at it as a gentleman walks to the car in the driveway. His uniform indicates he is an employee rather than a resident, and he looks at me uncomfortably. I try to casually ask if an art collector lives there. I am not sure why the words come out of my mouth and now feel like a stalker creep. I turn to walk away and spot a well endowed robot sculpture across the street. The absurdity of it in this rather buttoned up neighborhood makes me laugh. 

One house that I find particularly intriguing is adorned with a placard from the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition. Many of the tourist destinations of San Francisco are from that time. I wonder what purpose this mansion served and daydream about the sights and sounds of that era. I come back to earth, with one toe stuck in the past. 

Finally we are collectively breathing a sigh of relief and feel there is still hope to be had. Although faces are mostly still masked, I can tell most people are smiling and stepping a bit lighter. I hear laughter, lots of it. I can't recall when I last witnessed real glee, but it is palpable. My eyes well up with grateful tears. 

Venturing away from the realities of current days, we teeter on the edge of what will become - or what will be our demise. There is so much damage that needs repair in a wounded tired country. 

This once vibrant military base is one of a few in the Bay Area. It is now quiet and isolated, a ghost town, really. There are still some active parts of the shipyard, but overall it is a skeleton of the past. The rust coats heavy steel and wood slowly peels. The air is dry and turkeys wander. 

An eagle is stuck in perpetual launch, encased in glass, protected from passing time. A wooden box calls to me like unearthed treasure. I imagine the beautiful objects hidden within. I know it is not real, but the momentary pretending brings me joy.