Most of all, thank you for leaving me the blanket for when I curl up on the couch to sleep tonight, my laptop at my side, a pile of books at hands’ reach -- the way you first found me, only so much more. You leave me as more, not less, because of your refusal to let me leave that first time I tried -- the second and third, so long ago now -- when I was terrified of closeness. You taught me that closeness was possible. You taught the wildfire the beauty of a hearth. And maybe I'm not meant to be a hearth, but now I know what it means to be a safe place even as I rush across Sepulveda Pass.