We are driving back from Tiburon. Traffic is steadily moving across the bridge towards The City. The temperature is dropping five degrees, ten degrees, further down as a chill fills the car.
The layer of fog is hanging low, teasing the car tops as it rolls across the lanes. The sun fades behind us until it is a faint glow, hazy through the mist.
We each breathe a short laugh, anticipating the windy days ahead, until we next get into the car and head north. I reach across the seat and squeeze her hand. This is where we chose to live. We are home.