Shawls of cool sea fog wafted along Anapamu Street just in time for the event, chilling the artists set up on the gallery’s front patio and across the way—in front of the hushed, monolithic library—attempting to capture the full moon on their easels. I was handed a glass of wine and introduced to poets and songwriters and artists and local bookstore owners and scientists and professors and musicians (their full-moon-playlist as easy on the ears as the gallery’s outdoor courtyard—subtly festooned in twinkle lights—was on the eyes). Even though I hadn’t read yet, I did it: Relaxed. The atmosphere required it. The distressing traffic from L.A. to Santa Barbara, worry that my son didn’t eat enough dinner or wouldn’t sleep for his grandmother, my weariness from sacrificing a nap in order to get into town—lifted with the fog (lifting to veil the moon). Everywhere I turned there was an appealing view, inside and outside the humming gallery. My introduction to Lockwood de Forest? The beginning of a wistful awareness of his art. Poems were read on a raised stage in the courtyard, into a standing, silver old-fashioned microphone—the best kind. I read my poem—and heard myself. Eventually we moved into the cafe for the kind of dinner my son would never stand for: Delicacies in vertical. Divinely complicated dessert. The moon, yes, the music, right, the art, of course, the poets, bravo!—but more: In the company of two of my sisters, discussing the paintings, sharing that wistfulness, wine, moon(s)— hearing them…My son not needing me for any of those magical hours…It’s becoming imperative that we find a way to move home.