Starting in the dark, journeys seem epic. But I’m only going for 2 days, to Yosemite. The valley. Valhalla of shutterbugs.
The wheels of the suitcase roll rudely loudly over the sidewalk. I picture neighbors awakened in bed, tracking the receding sound, distinguishable; someone going somewhere.
Sleepy suitcase, stumbling drunkenly over the curb. Wake up.
Mission Street’s mustard light obliterates night’s intimacy. Buses wheeze past, half full, or half empty. At the defunct Blockbuster mirrored windows offer several chances at self-reflection. More than enough to see the pale blue muffler peripherally.
Now the wheels have a rhythm, a clackety train rhythm, over the cracks. To move is to live. At the curb outside Dianda’s a man all in white unloads pink boxes; the day’s cakes and pastries. “Good morning,” he says, confirming what’s obvious.