![]() ![]() A surveyor walked through the neighborhood last week I watched from my window, and I saw several familiar faces doing the same from theirs. The last time I went home, she kept pointing out places that would be, she said, the next to fall-old brick buildings, crumbling strip malls, grocery stores. “It’s a little less like that here, Mom,” I tell her. There are also people who spend all their money every month on rent and food, and have nothing left over.” “You’re right,” I say, “there are still rich people there. “Mom,” I tell her, “nobody can afford to live in San Francisco anymore.” ![]() ![]() Then we’d only be an hour apart from one another instead of three we might see more of each other on weekends. There are competing wrinkles in the mythical future she imagines for me in one variant, she retires and finds a quaint little house in San Francisco, where I was living until I came here. “When you get done with your little experiment up there,” she says. Mom called yesterday to ask if I was ready to come home yet I went directly to San Francisco from college, and I’ve been in Milpitas for five years now, but she holds fast to her theory that eventually I’m coming back to San Luis Obispo. ![]()
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