Higher Ground

When I was a girl in San Francisco I lived on the top of Sutro Mountain. Everyday after school my brother, a few friends and I would make the steep climb home from Parnassus Avenue, up Willard, round the bend to Belmont, then to the final stretch of Edgewood Avenue, our beautiful plum tree-lined, red brick street. But the truth is, I wouldn't always make that trek with my compatriots. The truth is, I had a reputation with the neighborhood gentry for perching myself on top of the big blue mailbox at the bottom of the hill and waiting there until a familiar face in a car would spot me on their way home, pull over and give me a lift. The truth is, there were days I would sit on that mailbox so long that I wouldn't walk in the door until my mother was putting supper on the table.