Charlie takes me through the dark trees of Golden Gate Park, past the bison and the windmill, to see the sun set behind the ocean. The waves are enormous.
His motorbike has sparkly-disco-crazy blue paint. I haven't forgotten how to hold on. We putt up and down hills and then find our way to dinner with an even older friend.
In the early morning, I enter my first (and so, in some ways, only) zendo. Here again. Breath establishes in body. Upstairs we go for service. I wish it would never end. Soji. Breakfast. Lots of hugs and news. Bowls full of soft sweet persimmons, ripened to the point of syrupy perfection.
Being loved this much is dizzying. I don't have to be anything for these people but myself, even if I share more than I should. In these years away, old edges have softened, and we just remember feeling close to one another.
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