To San Francisco

My father is making it possible for my two boys and me to travel to one of my very favorite cities in a few weeks—the city of hills, San Francisco. I never stop walking when I'm there. I never stop going up and down and in and out, looking over and past and through. I am happy in San Francisco. I find gifts there for people I love—the sorts of things that don't exist where I live. I find happiness just in moving through, in standing on street corners, in watching tango dancers in the square, in waiting for a light to turn green beside the likes of Tracey Ullman. I like the bookstores. I like the people. I'm in love with San Francisco.

And I'm empty here. I have been, for awhile. I'm in desperate need of the new. New streets. New people. New photographs.

Do you want to know who my father is? I will tell you. He sent a letter, and in the letter he wrote: "It would gladden my heart if you all would take a few days off together and go somewhere you could enjoy building a fond memory. Do it," he wrote, "for Grandpop."

We will.