Microclimates

Abstract

Microclimates David S. Maduli I Your family's weekend drive from Lola's house in Outer Mission To the Presidio is a jagged roiling run Impossible to trace by the tourists you spy lining Up to catch a cable car down San Francisco's Hilly grid. Past Glen Park station the road Hairpins in the shadows of Twin Peaks Waterfalls into West Portal then sinks into the canyons And gauntlet of trees around McAteer High. The grid Is true here, you track the alphabetic order Of streets Quintara Pacheco Ortega Noriega Moraga Lawton Kirkham Judah Irving into Golden Gate Park From one side to the other is not a straight line more like A half-remembered dream dozing in and out between joggers and Bicyclists and jarring you onto Arguello and another grid up Geary Clement where you pull over For a box of fresh steamed siopao tied with pink String then the steepest ridge into the old army Base where you take photos with your sister Perching on cannons and standing barely taller Than cannon balls. Then around to the Old fort under the famous bridge Where dad folds down the back of the Volvo Mom opens the box still warm and dotted with moisture You watch the waves and the seagulls Feed them the sticky sweet blood-pink Pork, only eating the chewy White bun. You always drift [End Page 15] Asleep on the ride home head rocking and Bumping slightly on the window as dusk Overtakes you. Years later you tell college friends The story of the Golden Gate Park Runners. As you drive through The trees a figure appears jogging Next to your window. You speed up and Even faster still and the runner is still There beside you As you twist and turn and it is nearly pitch dark Except what's in front of your headlights You can't shake the runner even if You mash the gas to the carpet and they don't Stop running and the ghosts keep Slipping the lakes and windmills and Buffalo meadows until this San Francisco And every San Francisco is long gone Come run grandson, on another fog we will rest. II Look, she points. A hand-sizeswallowtail flutters throughravine's sunrays. Beyond redwood limbs a glimpseof city, silver crystals perchedon low fog as if built atop clouds and also from them. Rootspunctuate trail with arcanesymbols polished by footsteps and seasons. Ferns extend open wingsGreen, the intricate unfurling green.We look; we're still looking. [End Page 16] III "Oh, boy," she breathes. As a grownup it might sound more like "Oh, shit," or simply, "Fuck." For her distance learning 3rd grade science assignment she's collecting snails in order to observe, record, and describe. The thumbnail-size baby snail was somehow caught in the lid of the container and she slightly smashed the shell. There's a hairline crack and a small piece hanging loose at the end. When I see what happened I open my mouth to say her name as a scold, but I catch myself when I see her face, crestfallen. Her eyes are suspended in that moment when they might pour—just like she's in that moment of understanding what childhood and adulthood might be, almost about to pour into an older version of herself—a young adult who will say oh shit and maybe want to hurt something or someone or even herself when she fucks up. Right now we decide to return the snail to its leaf in the front yard bushes. It slides off surprisingly fast. We hope that in the habitat and freedom it will heal itself—just like I hope she will have ways to heal herself, and leaves to seek refuge under when the world cracks her shell. Right now that "Oh boy," that 9 year-old awareness and apology, that understanding of her footprint on the world and the acknowledgement of life's gift, a glimpse on the brink of innocence lost and integrity earned. "It'll be ok," we both say with a silent question mark, and climb the steps home. IV This houseAmalgamation...