It feels like we owe ourselves a visit there. We will drive past J's dad's old house (who lives there now?), look for that jacaranda tree on Hatteras St. Of course I will be driving: I now regret not driving while we were there.
California appealed to me in a way I never thought it would. The dry, crisp air, the hills, the long palm trees with sunlight laced through just so. I felt like I was returning. (Maybe my soul had been there not so long ago.) J and I were then a pair of recently reunited lovers, and would spend our weekends on little discovery trips. Picnics in Griffith Park. The book festival at UCLA. That strange cafe in Melrose and the one on Ventura which we began frequenting. Always in that California light that made the whole time there seem like a golden dream.
There is really no point to this post...I am getting so sentimental because I read a novel with a few familiar place names.
But love has many forms. One of them is memory.