My camera couldn’t capture it but my memory sealed it forever.
My oldest daughter asked me to join her on a night hike in the Marin headlands recently.
We started at dusk and soon broke a sweat scampering up the steep terrain.
Darkness fell. The path was illuminated mostly by a few scant stars.
We wondered a couple of times if her directionally challenged significant other had gotten us lost and whether we’d soon be food for cougars.
Soon we crested the hill’s peak. The bay bridge that forever tells me I’m home glistened. Yet the skyline had an odd orangish hue, as if the building lights had been purposefully colored for some type of event.
We had come to see this, but it still seemed somewhat unfathomable. As the moon rose, we saw the source of the artistic expression. The super moon (I call them Italian moons as they spur romance wherever they rise) rose like a diva with a dramatic entrance on a grand stage. Her light bathed the city I love in warm colors and brilliance against a the black backdrop of the night sky.
We stared in awe. She rose fuller, soon leaving a perfect trail across the bay right to the foot of the dramatic, appropriately dressed in Orange for the theme of the night, Golden Gate bridge.
Home, I thought. This is home.
And it was glorious.