We drive down Sycamore Lane under a redwood tree canopy, past the leaning cabin, there being no foundation, where brownies we baked came out an inch thick on one end and paper thin on the other. Lights on all day, mossy steps, sunshine a recollection. Who knows what we are hoping to find ... new paint, garden flowers, branches thinned for light? But it’s dark under all those trees at midday. Except for memories in this sweet cabin where we went from being kids to having one. We drive on. Trees give way to afternoon light, shade of regret in the rearview, as we head towards Richardson’s Bay, our home now, afloat in the sun.

Bio: Guy Biederman