This Day, A Year Ago

I was on the Berkeley waterfront pier. The Golden Gate bridge stretched out in front of me, except I could not see it. The infamous Bay Area summer fog obscured it. Beside me there were men fishing. Kids were scampering around, their families in tow.

The pier is almost half a mile long. That day it felt longer. I walked to the end of the pier and paced around, waiting.

There was nothing left in my apartment. No TV. No furniture. Just a bunch of boxes and two large suitcases. Like my first day there, only in reverse. I couldn't bear sitting around in my apartment. It felt like death row. So I took my rental out and ended up at Berkeley Waterfront, my very first relaxation spot and easily my favourite.

I remember crying. I couldn't stop the tears. Some passers-by glanced at me, but I turned away. Every innocent glance looked accusatory to me. I couldn't face them. Not yet.

The fishermen caught a small shark. As they reeled it up, curious children gawked at it. A few of the braver ones approached. After a friendly warning by the fishermen about shark skin, a particularly courageous child poked a finger into the side of the shark. I smiled for a brief moment.

A few moments later, red light washed across the horizon. I looked up, and the moment I had been waiting for passed all too quickly. The sun set over a mountain up north.

I walked back to my rental and headed back to my apartment. I had a plane to catch the next day.