He spoke in minor chords- his voice a combination of melancholy songs and deep, meaningful inflections. One always got the impression that when he partook in a conversation, that part of him was somewhat removed, as if remembering a lost love, or recalling a special poem. His eyes would sort of glaze over, and you'd know he was somewhere else. Regardless of the importance of the discussion at hand, I inherently found this habit of his more endearing than annoying. How could I not? I was in love with him.
His hair was a deep, resonant blonde that bore it's history, in steaks of yellow, stretching back to the windmills and tulips of a Holland long past. Wild Pacific-Ocean was the shade of his blue eyes, and within them they held the depths of the swells of so-many waves.
He was mine, but for a moment in time, in the startingly fresh way a person can belong to another, more a connection than an ownership. Our eyes, our hands, our bodies interlocked, and we felt that compelling need for one another, that engulfing fire that burns out before it has the proper chance to grow into all it's possibilities.
Yes, he was mine, and I know that he tried to stay, tried to relinquish his traveler's heart for the committment of togetherness, but the uncontrollable nature of solidarity continually fueled his desires, and I simply could not compare.
On drizzle-tinged New York evenings, as I drink coffee with whomever I'm currently seated across from, my mind is inexplicably drawn back to him, and I remember his music-voic, haunting me with his words, like song lyrics I can not forget. The most beautiful phrase he ever chocked out, amidst tears of apologies, was "good bye".

Oh, Pacifica

There is a morning that is unlike any other morning on the planet, and that is the one where you wake up in Pacifica, CA, where you can FEEL the density of the fog creeping in. I've heard others tell similar stories about special, interesting mornings elsewhere... in Woodward, Pennsylvania, where you can view the majestic mountains in the distance... or on the coast of Alabama, where long stretches of sand and Southern traditions meld into a comfortable, homey atmosphere.

Oh, but for Pacifica... what with it's practically incandescent fog, it's slightly chilled air; there is no other place quite like it. The fog rolls in, covers you as if it were a blanket, and you are aware that not far away is the famed city of San Francisco, where people wore flowers in their hair some 40 years hence, but now they just kind of sit back, smoke grass, and blend into the background.

San Francisco basks in the sun, only a short distance away from Pacifica, yet the sharpest contrast. There is Fisherman's Wharf, the Golden Gate bridge, Alcatraz, the Rainbow District, you name it... there are little cities within the main one. Something for every one. It is truly the tourist's delight.

But Pacifica is something else entirely. The sites to see here are the ones you have to know of ahead of time, to go looking for... the old Sutro Baths, the Taco Bell perched on the beach where you're allowed to go in barefoot. The ocean swells here, dark and foreboding, and you can't help but miss the calmer feel of the Atlantic, back home on Long Island. The Pacific Ocean is somehow wilder, filled with a sort of reckless abandonment that both terrifies you and draws you in.

I do not know if I shall ever return to Pacifica, but to have another morning there would be more than worth a million spent elsewhere.

There is a man. He exists under palm trees of light, along the shores of the Pacific Ocean, as if in a dream. He lives thousands, perhaps trillions, of miles away from me.

Hawaii. It may as well be Alaska, or Guatemala, for that matter.

"I'll see you later". Those were the last words he said to me in person. I stood on the stoop of the homeless shelter, our baby son in my arms, watching as he got into the taxi and left. I kept waiting for it to stop, to turn around, for him to rush back out, in a fit of tears, or some kind of emotion... to say he was wrong, that he loved me, that he wasn't leaving.

"I'll see you later".

Now, it is five months later. Much later. And I've still not seen him. I don't know if I ever will. As the days grow further, and time spreads us thin, I slowly collect the pieces of my shattered self, and I move on. I have to be a good mother to my son, and my newly born daughter. I have to focus on them.