As a teenager, I cherished the quiet evenings I could retreat to my bedroom and escape the constant noise of daily life and my energetic little brothers. Those were the moments when the house finally settled, and I could find stillness—time to think, imagine, and create.
Although a grand crystal chandelier hung in the center of my room, sparkling when the light struck its prisms, I rarely turned it on. Instead, I reached for the small lamp on my nightstand, a gift from my mother. Its soft amber glow warmed the room and cast gentle shadows across the walls, creating the kind of quiet comfort that invited reflection. In that light, I wrote poetry and songs, or poured my teenage thoughts and secrets into the pages of my journal.
My favorite place to sit was the corner of the room beside the large bay window. I would pull a soft comforter from the daybed along one wall and drag it across the carpet, then grab a pillow from my bed before settling onto the floor. Wrapped in that small cocoon of blankets and lamplight, I could watch the evening slowly unfold outside my window.
From there, I listened as the island eased itself into night. The distant sounds of the neighborhood softened as families finished their dinners and lights flickered on one by one. Pacific thoroughfare—just one street behind ours—gradually slowed from the steady rhythm of passing cars to a gentle hum that often reminded me of a quiet lullaby.
Beyond the rooftops, in the distance, the Mormon temple in the Oakland Hills rose like a glowing castle against the darkening sky. Its soft white lights shimmered in the night, a familiar and comforting sight that never failed to draw my gaze.
Sometimes a cool breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of salt from the bay. Those gentle breezes would brush softly across my hair and cheeks as I rested my arms along the windowsill, staring out into the darkness and letting my thoughts wander.
More than once, still wrapped in my favorite throw, listening to the quiet rhythm of the night, I drifted off to sleep right there on the floor beneath the window—lulled by the island air, the distant hum of traffic, and the peaceful feeling that, for a little while at least, the whole world had grown still.
In the hush of those island evenings, somewhere between the lamplight and the distant hum of traffic, the girl I was, slowly became the storyteller I would one day be.
Calibas. Oakland Mormon Temple. 28 Nov. 2007. 4770 Lincoln Ave, Oakland, CA 94602.
Tales of a Family 