Driving in San Francisco, the top down. The air is full of clean, clear crystals. It's hazy out, gray. No, not haze, fog more silver than gray. It's cool. The air is crisp, it makes our lungs seize with cold when we breath in, filling our lungs with the same icy shade of silver. Reminding us that we are alive, that we are fragile, that we, my mother, sister and I, are enjoying this cool, quick escape from the hot high desert.
We are together, mom and Erin in the front seat me in the back. We are driving, driving with no particular destination in mind. We drive, we chat, we laugh, but most of all there is an overwhelming feeling of love and serenity in this precise moment.
We enter an on-ramp to a beautiful, silver bridge. It looks as if it's draped in ice, so cool, clean and quiet. So modern. We drive. We notice we are the only ones on this frozen bridge, so strange and silent for this big city.
The fog becomes so dense it's hard to see. It's so cold, the ice in the air chilling our bones. The fog lifts just enough that we can see through a small opening and through that opening we see that the bridge is unfinished. This is why we feel like ghosts. Why we are here alone, without the noise of the city. The bridge is not done, it ends abruptly just a few feet ahead. We do not panic, but we cannot stop.
We drive off the end of the bridge and are encased by a bank of clouds, we become one with the fog, enveloped by mist and ice crystals; and against the laws of physics we flip backwards, so slowly we flip backwards. I feel the wind in my hair, but I am no longer cold. The ocean comes into view. The ocean should not be above our heads, but below our feet. The sky should not be at our feet, but above our heads. Slowly we drift through the fog towards the ocean. Small waves lapping below, growing larger as we near them.
Mom looks over at us and in a calm that reflects the cool serenity we've been driving in, says "girls, this is it."