This afternoon I drove from Long beach to Santa Monica and up PCH towards Malibu and my car knew how to go without me guiding it.
Wait a minute. Busted. Not this car. That one burned. Mayhaps this is its next incarnation. It must be.
We rode…and every bump, every crack, every twist and turn was familiar and I LOVED it. Going up, the ocean on the left, coming down, the ocean on the right..and the sun just so. For nine years, every single day, we greeted the world and inhaled the beauty, the miracle of living here….and it is still here. Thank you, God.
I sat on my steps…the only thing left of my house, but welcoming and happy to see me, and I wrote…and wrote….and wrote.
When my family first moved to India, we stopped in Sri Lanka…there were hospitals and schools that my father needed to acquaint himself with….and my mother opened the door for me for what would be my refuge for the rest of my life….writing.
I was 7 and my sister was 5. She took us up on the top verandah of the yellow house by the sea, where we could see fishermen off in the distance casting nets with their dark skin shining and wearing only loin cloths. She had set two small tables, with paper, pencils, crayons and a glass of lime juice on each. She said,”I want you girls to go out into the world and look…see…hold it… and then come back and Francie, you write, and Margie, you draw, whatever it is you felt, and your lime juice will be waiting.
And we did.
Thank you, Mom.