013126-Diablo Hills

On February 14, the caws outside my bedroom window woke me a moment before my phone did. The birds were insistent, practical. The iPhone, less so. It began blasting a song from my Spotify playlist—something unfamiliar, sung in a language I don’t speak. One word cut through the half-sleep, sharp and repeated, as if aimed directly at me.

Diabo.

The word lingered, and with it came Mount Diablo.

Last February 14, climbing toward the lookout, I passed a biker on the incline—an innocent mistake made with confident legs and poor judgment. The correction came immediately, shouted from behind, carrying uphill with moral clarity. Bicycles had the right of way. Respect was non-negotiable. The word again: diabo.

Later that same day, Marie and I attempted romance on the wrong trail. We spread a picnic at a viewpoint that promised San Francisco and the Golden Gate but delivered only clouds sliding past like uncooperative curtains. The Italian sub from Boudin was already stale, the bumblebee aggressively curious, the mood fragile. Even the bridge refused to show itself. Romance, it turned out, required better planning—and fewer infractions.

This year was supposed to be a correction.

Marie’s connection from Denver was canceled. Weather, logistics, fate—pick one. The Lucibela concert at Getty Sounds of LA went on without us, or rather, without her. I listened to “Stapora do Diabo” alone, the song filling the room with warmth I had not quite earned.

Now, back in bed, the birds quieted, the phone still glowing, I let the song play. February 14, I decided, was not cursed—just persistent. It arrived each year with a reminder: timing matters, routes matter, and some words echo longer than planned.

Diabo faded into melody.
The day, inconvenient as ever, began.