On the corner of Hyde and Union lives a magical place called Swensen’s Ice Cream. Where

San Francisco fog hugs the scent of sugar.

On nights when the sky is the rippled reflection of geraniums and jared fireflies, we walk, each licking our favorite flavors.

Reminders of playing in warm rain and laughing as we run through the house and the East Coast and sitting in front of the oven watching cookies rise like the sun on celebratory mornings.

We take the long way home, just to walk down the skinny, mist-blackened sidewalked street and imagine

a shooting star or a green flash even when we know one won’t show. And instead, we see pearly black sky endless enough to hope there is a green flash somewhere else.