In Oxford Once Again

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I am in Oxford once again, having arrived a few days ago in the usual state of exhaustion and befuddlement, wondering at the incongruous fact that this has become a regular destination, a place not just of literature, history, and Inspector Morse, but my daughter's home (for now, anyway) and thus a point in my own personal and emotional geography.

After some rest and recalibration, we spent a glorious day walking to the far reaches of the city, enjoying the crisp autumn air while September's angled light cast its gold upon leaves and lawns and building facades. Everything seems so beautiful sometimes: the green glossy paint on a wooden door, the ginger swirls of a young man's hair, sky feathered with stray strands of cloud, a lamplight at dusk with the turrets of Christ Church in the background...so heartbreakingly beautiful.And everyone is young, but they can't help it. Even I am young here, at least in certain moments.

It's strange to realize now that while we were in Oxford eating Indian take-out food from the restaurant across the street, my dear friend Bob died. He was at home in California where it was still afternoon, and the same moon would soon rise over the hills he loved, and the Gaviota winds were no doubt rustling the leaves of the oak trees as his soul made its passage beyond Point Conception and the Western gate. I haven't quite incorporated this new fact into my consciousness. Not even sure what to say about him yet. All I know is that he is forever in our history and our hearts.