Morning will arrive, and my husband with it (San Francisco fog)

We drove toward Santa Rosa at two in the afternoon, when the fog, which had been absent all weekend, began to roll in. In the distance, the plumes of the Mount Diablo State Park fire had begun to show; I would read about this massive fire later, when I was home in Philadelphia. On the Golden Gate Bridge, pedestrians stood watching the bay fill with the yachts of the America's Cup.

By six that evening, on the way back to the airport, the fog was dense and blowing hard—so fast that it seemed to be on a chase of some kind, escaping something. I felt chased with it, but not escaped. It would be a long ride home in a cold plane that hurtled through winds—turbulent, noisy, a little panic.

I am always glad to be home. Always grateful for this quiet place and for my handsome husband and for the things we do that keep me grounded in a life that moves too fast. We talk business over lunch. We rearrange the house for client photo shoots. We watch Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance and Master Chef and congratulate the winners, discuss the losers, allow ourselves to be seduced by the idea of the "real" in reality TV. And when I cannot sleep at night, and these days I so rarely sleep at night, I always know that he is up there, near. That if I really cannot bear the weight of so many things, morning will eventually arrive, and my husband with it.

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