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  • Carrying a pink potted dahlia, a guitar, and two platters of food up a hill in four inch heels and a long skirt, I certainly look like I'm a both a miracle, and, about to spill – myself and, as a consequence, all of these other items.

    A gentlemen stranger approaches and offers to help, taking the platter of cake, which is both covered and surrounded by peanut butter cups, and the guitar.

    I am appreciative.

    I am also hopeful that he is confused, bewildered, and/or convinced that I am a whimsical warrior, fighting the battle against growing up, against the loss of imagination.

    My sister, Laura – who helped me do the shopping, prepare the veggie platter, the cheese platter, stuff endive leaves with goat cheese candied walnuts and a drizzle of balsamic, and scolded me over the strangeness of my cake preparation (it looks weird, she said) – snaps a portrait of me standing on the bench.

    I feel like a dream: a swirl of vintage Chanel stripes, my mother's pearls, a hand-made lace corset, and plush faux fur in the late afternoon sun.

    Friends appear one by one, up the hill, winded. An unusually warm San Francisco evening, some break a sweat.

    I am again, appreciative.

    We eat and talk and eat and watch the setting sun set the city on fire, looking west.

    I tell myself, I'm an adult now, responsible for things. Responsible for orchestrating ridiculous things that only an adult could manage, but only a child could dream up.
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