Party in the Presidio

The light at the end of the day sometimes looks like the light at the beginning of the day.

So that the difference between them is so sleight it's difficult to tell.

Morning light is buoyant, it rises up as if out of nowhere, as if it knows how lucky it is to be alive. Evening light is subdued, often wheeled down a corridor with a dozen yellow roses in its lap and a little smile on its face.

Morning light comes before the party and evening light comes after.

By noon everyone's had a little cake. There's soda and candy for the kids and beer for the adults.

Someone's celebrating their third birthday and someone their ninty-third.

And you're the one who takes the picture after the party, after everyone's gone home and the party balloons that daddy strung between the palm trees are left behind to fend for themselves, the evening light having caught your eye.

You can thank Mommy for buying such pretty colorful balloons and Daddy for blowing them up big enough so that they didn't lose all their air overnight.