Walking home tonight, the night was a blur and buzzing because I’d had one too many drinks and it was a night that finally felt like summer. It finally felt like summer because it was finally a sticky hot still Toronto summer night and I’d had one too many drinks so I could close my eyes and feel a part of all those Toronto summers that came before. Those summers are always stickier and hotter in my memories of them because I always had more than one too many drinks and so I can remember them any way I want because the truth is I never really could remember them to begin with.
Talking with Sarah tonight, I remembered the feelings that came with all those summers before. Seven or eight drinks later, everything always felt all sorts of new and possible and now, at twenty-five and “grown up”, everything feels familiar. And familiar is good and maybe even great at times, but at other times, like tonight, all I want is to let the night carry me home the way it did all those summers before.
And I think this sudden yearning for those years before makes me dream extra hard about returning to San Francisco. I went almost two years ago, a week after finishing my Masters. I was numb about life and planless at the time, but there was something about that city, the constant blue, the smell of the ocean, the feeling of possibility that hit me with the breeze coming off the water, the way it felt to walk the Golden Gate Bridge, the feeling of grass on my legs and the sight of the skyline in the distance, the poems scribbled on a bookstore wall, that make me dream long and hard about returning. Maybe this is just me trying to recapture old feelings but maybe not. Maybe California really is the bluest sky and the brightest sun and real possibilities.