Selective memory

Walking to the subway from work last night time-warped me to childhood. The air was heavy—legitimately humid, East Coast naysayers—too thick for any kind of jacket. There was a slight breeze with no coolness to it. Just about the opposite of normal San Francisco.

It was 7 p.m., the sun was setting, and it felt exactly like every Massachusetts summer when all I wanted to do was lie in front of a fan and die. Until the heat broke and the warm rain made Indian Hill into a makeshift water park.

Tonight, the same walk at the same hour was cold and gray, with a sharp, lifting wind. Short sleeves didn't cut it, leather didn't cut it, I made a meal of my hair, and the last block to BART felt like a football field. Dry leaves crinkling across my path.

It's not that we don't have seasons here. They're just fickle, so you never have the time or will to master them. But there's also no real need to try.