We like to get new cars when the mileage gets to two hundred thousand but it looks that plan has been put on hold. Clients can see the dash lights from the back seat and they often remark about the odometer reading. One of the latest cars to be sold had eight hundred sixty four thousand miles. That's a little high. I enjoyed hearing the guffaws when I told them. "How much? Thats unheard of! " they balked. The other cars only had four to six hundred thousand miles.

Dawn on the bay. I don't recall a year when it has been this cold every night so early in winter. It could snow on the hills tonight. There isn't snow every year but last year there was more than usual, from Seattle to Monterey. I was turned around at the summit one morning because the falling snow iced up. We drove up the coast in beautiful weather.

After closing time the store windows glow and shine with reflected lights. The refraction of the glass and crystals sends tiny spectrums onto the sidewalk. The display mirrors the night sky. It's a presentation of promises like offering a child their very own star except these stars and galaxies come with a price tag. It's the thought that counts.

Lights glow brightly and windows offer their ample wares. Slick streets shimmer with a golden aura. The village shines like a festival. It's 4:30am and no one is around. Shopkeepers sleep with visions of margins in their heads. The seal and sanction of the divine descent into the lower subconscient planes hovers high and wide above the aspiring and ardent souls slumbering in terrestrial rest. Only thirteen more shopping days until Christmas.

A storm surge blows bits of tree cover through the forest. Dark massive clouds above the coast line drive inland like laden trains. Sprays of raindrops pelt my face . The fragrance of damp earth permeates the atmosphere. Sunrise was peaceful but the air is now potent with warnings. I have several trips to make on the mountain roads and for the moment I can breath.

Dawn light rises over the bay and expands across the wide sky, begins as crimson and ends in ochre, then fades in familiar hues of daylight. People pull over to watch and take pictures. In Vedic India the dawn was called Ushas, the beautiful one, she holds the sure promise of a rising sun and symbolizes the emergence of higher conciousness. Instead of watching the media I look at a sunrise for the news.

I drove a lady to the airport this morning. As we drove away from the hotel I could hear her crying quietly. When we arrived she requested a wheelchair and I waited by the door to help her. She had a large purse and was having a hard time getting out of the car. I offered to hold her bag. She protected it with her hands and said it was her sons remains. I said I would be very careful and she reluctantly handed it to me, it weighed about five pounds. I held her sons ashes with both hands as she slowly exited the car and slipped into the wheelchair. She asked for the bag and I carefully placed it in her lap. She turned to the skycap and told him it was her sons remains. I thanked her and wished her a lovely journey.

There is always an angel in the sculpture garden of the dead looking over the ornate landscape. It's just another night in the cycle of time. The only sound comes from the bustling road beyond a wrought iron fence. The living rush by pursuing warmth and food, pleasure and importance. Usually the gate here is locked but tonight it is wide open.

I have dreams when someone passes. I see them walking in twilight along a path between steep hills. Two women appear and lead them up the slope. The hillside is pitched too much for me to follow. I wonder what is on top of the mountain.

Across the street from brightly decorated homes a large and wide cemetery lies quietly reflecting the glow from streetlamps and holiday lights. Deep rows of ornate gravestones line the long avenues of soft thick grass like a model of a small city. This neighborhood chooses to let the weekends and festivities pass by unnoticed. There are no windows in the tombs.

Marcia is out of the hospital and is recovering in a facility closer to home. I sent a card, then later saw the moon above the wharf like the first time and enjoyed the view over the wide tableau of the village and bay. The light saturated waves pulsed playfully across the sand. These days the nights are clear and the air feels crisp and cold as I ride my bike along the cliffs.

At the old folks home they go all out for the holidays every year and the neighbors next door join in as well. Turning into the street for the first time can be a blinding experience. I guess it gives them something to look forward to, to talk about, and makes them feel alive. If I could afford a grave I'd like it to look like Santas Village. These old folks can't afford their own home in California just like 76% of the population. I wonder what the percentage is for people who can afford a burial plot. If I knew the date I could budget and plan ahead.

I'm just visiting, I'm not from here. They saved a ten by twenty foot space of prime California real estate to welcome me and make me feel safe and valued. I've seen many of these places around town and out of town as well. A little bigger than a grave, but smaller than a house. After I'm cremated this is where I want my ashes. For the free epitaph.