this is winter in san francisco

Everyday I stride confidently beyond the shelter of my four walls, and with the jarring clang of the front gate that disturbs the quiet of the early morning birdsong and muffled sounds of distant traffic, I am ushered into the world, feeling as out of place in my surroundings as the scraping metal on metal is against the backdrop of seagulls on rising sun.

In January, I tread the concrete waves before my doorstep, always with my next step in mind as I carefully anticipate the dodging of the rotting trees strewn about the sidewalk that have suddenly become devoid of their merely temporary Christmas spirit. Yesterday’s treasure is today’s trash, indeed, and the branches that once so majestically cradled twinkling lights and floating orbs of cheer are no longer so respected, as the same branches, now splintered and cracked under the weight of uncaring passersby, are naked twigs that, were they a bit smaller, would be tossed in the trash can beneath (on a good day) half-eaten sandwiches, food wrappers, and wads of tasteless chewing gum. Sprigs of evergreen now gently flow in rivers of urine towards the all-welcoming sewer, where they meet their final resting place among cigarette butts, used condoms, and everything else that a matter of hours have turned from gold to garbage.

In February, I walk on, and my steps slow before quickening as I approach a small pile of children’s clothing, lying limply across the line between sidewalk and lawn, as if the garments were simply dropped and then forgotten about in the distractedness of daily living. Yellow ducks and socks the color of Pepto-Bismol are streaked with dirt, wet with morning dew and other liquids whose smell is more discernable than their color. Just a few steps away, the outer shell of a cereal box lies flattened beside the YEILD sign, walked over almost too many times to decipher the Lucky Charms logo that brings a hope and normality to the dismal scene.

In January and February, the warmth of December abruptly packs itself away until next year, and the remnants of the tender season make the unfeeling present all the more bleak.

But look up.

Below, the drains are clogged with yesterday’s magic and the forgotten material comforts of childhood, and above, the sky is pink with the rising sun of tomorrow. Uninterrupted oceans of sky stretch infinitely upward and outward, brightening the smile of the charmed, torn leprechaun, adding a sense of quaintness, even, to the entire scene.

**

On a Saturday morning, I spot two oranges swimming in the pools of last night’s rainfall, caught in the crook of the curb as cars speed off in search of supermarket oranges, oranges that are picked up out of a bin and placed in fresh plastic bags by manicured hands that have convinced themselves that sterility implies cleanliness and healthiness. But the fluorescence of grocery store overhead lighting is nothing compared to the golden rays that glint off the wet rinds of these twin pieces of fruit. In the sparkling light, I am tempted to have a second breakfast, right there on the side of the highway.

Ah, tricks of the light. Deceiving.

But I march on, passing it all by.

My instinct is to cradle the rejected corpse of a tree, to give it over to a bed of compost and let the world turn the rotting bark into decomposing life. My instinct is to pause to care for the discarded yellow ducks and the fading pink promise of warm feet, and to reconstruct the cereal box to make it able to contain the inner plastic chamber of marshmallow and grain; but these are not my goods to care for. Someone threw them out, I say to myself, perhaps. Perhaps? But perhaps not. Perhaps my small picture of the story is not all of the story. Perhaps there is a tree heaven that some kind soul has provided transport to. And perhaps the clothes will be retrieved later – they were dropped and no one has yet had time to collect them; perhaps the owner became unexpectedly infatuated with the wholegrain and marshmallow experience of the lilting cartoon character and left the miniature pieces of cloth to reach the miniature candy pot of gold at the end of the painted rainbow.

Trash? To some, perhaps. But to others, it is all still treasure. To someone, it is all still treasure. And these oranges are someone else’s breakfast.