The day Kay turned 18 she zoomed up Highway 101 from Ventura to San Francisco in her maroon Mustang bought with tip money, chasing married love. She invited her 14-year-old brother up for a getaway week in her apartment on 19th & Church. He found his way north with a friend. Blown away by Chinatown, trolleys, Broadway, Ghirardelli, wharf life, the bridge, all the beauty and possibilities of San Francisco, he knew one day he’d return for good. And he did. What he didn’t know was that one day he would be a writer. And one day, 50 years later, he would read his poems at the magnificent library on Larkin for his wife and friends, and his books would appear on library shelves to be read by friends he hadn’t met yet. And on the way to the reading, he would pause and look up from the ground floor and see, through the library’s high glass dome, a pinpoint of blue sky above this City he called home with its people and bay and fog and libraries, bookstores and cafes, a City that had shaped him and brought him to this day, this fifty-year minute, this blue-sky moment.

—In memory of Karen Kay Biederman Haig (1954–2012)

“Just a pinkie, a crooked little lifetime reminder...”

⚡ Truck Stop Open, microfiction by Guy in Issue 25 of MacQueen’s Quinterly aka MacQ-25 (September 2024)

⚡ There You Are and Here I Am, microfiction in the first issue of MacQ (January 2020)

⚡ Two-Handed Touch, micro-CNF in MacQ-6 (January 2021)

Bio: Guy Biederman