Please water (y)our plants

A few weeks ago, our friends who have been renting our house in San Francisco, fully furnished with all our possessions, went out of town, so we came home to house-sit.

"Would you mind watering (y)our plants while you're here?" they asked in a note.

Not a bit. But it sure felt weird.

We slept in our bed, made coffee in our coffee maker, and hula'd in the hoops we'd left out back.

One afternoon, Chris made it up the flight of stairs to our front door, opened it, and completely forgot for a moment that we didn't live there anymore. Meanwhile, Zoey forgot where the bathroom was.

Completely disorienting, the experience of returning home together for one last week in our house before we ship all of our belongings to Montana was also incredibly sweet. Memories that have remained dormant and un-piqued, (not really sure that's a word,) for this past year in Montana snuck up and swirled around me.

At first, Chris and I were incredibly stressed and took it out on each other, souring the long-anticipated La Taqueria tacos that we attacked as soon as we emerged from the 24th street BART stop. Eventually, we hit our stride, stopped trying to do and experience everything in the short time that we had, and took things as they came.

And they did.

Our ten-year anniversary came and went, celebrated partly in Dolores Park where we met, and partly on the stoop at Jenny and Joe's house.

"Anniversaries are so amateur," said Ledia when we ran into her on our way down to the Mission. I have no idea why that made so much sense, but it did. They're a bad setup for the daughter of an incredibly-celebratory couple and a man who says Valentine's day is a corporate holiday made to sell things. (It is, and I know it, but I still want demand, though I hate to admit it, a card.)

Joanna came and took the girls for their first double sleepover ever, disappearing down the hill in a puff of veggie-oil smoke and leaving Chris and I to enjoy a relaxed prowl through town in search of whatever food we fancied.

 

Yamo thai. Fancy? No.

Romantic? Yes. Except for the guy who kept spitting on Chris.

Friends came and brought us to their houses, or joined us at our favorite parks, and we lounged for whole luxurious chunks of days together.

A gluttonous stomachache came for me, the result of abandoning my newly-gluten-free diet in favor of every ethnic food I long for. I was forced to endure 24 hours of white rice as penitence, but it seemed to do the trick.

But the biggest coming by far was the return of Lucas, Agatha, Mike and Judith from Spain. Our trip home to San Francisco was inspired by theirs — by our longing to see them after all this time. It had been three years since we'd seen our niece and nephew, the first children born to any of our siblings, the children who until five years ago lived just up the road.

Stella, Agatha, Lucas, and another cousin, Sam, back in the pre-Zoey day

Agatha and Stella

I've missed them like crazy.

And then, there they were, like no time had gone by. Like Agatha's Spanish accent wasn't so thick that Stella could barely understand her. Like they haven't only seen Zoey three times ever.

None of it mattered.

Agatha and I played Crazy 8's every morning, Lucas and Stella picked up where they'd left off, we filmed hilarious dance videos on our back deck, and they let me steal a hug or two.