For our parent's most recent anniversary, the family decided to pile into our old Buick and take a trip to Monterey. After whiling away an hour within the confines of our gold-flecked boat of a sedan— the vast majority of the trip spent alternating between reading Tamora Pierce's Terrier and dozing with my temple pressed against the warm window— we wandered about the shops for a while. Eventually we had reached a main pier, where many shops and restaurants were located. While our parents explored the various boutiques with our five-year-old brother, my sister and I decided to direct our attentions to a far more fascinating exploration: beneath the pier.

Scrambling over the water-worn rocks, being sprayed by waves who dared to break beyond the edge of the sand, taking turns hurriedly writing things in the perfectly moist granules before the ocean could wash our thoughts away; our little adventure left us giggling, slightly damp, and somehow closer then before. The place was magical in a way. Not in the light, sparkly way magic is often thought to be. But the sort of magic that you find in everyday moments that hold so much more meaning than the seconds directly before and after. The sort of magic that can be found in the dark, cold, lonely parts of the world. The sort of magic that blooms from the sense of discovery. When we finally were called back from our shady, isolated playground, we fled back up the hill and towards reality. But I'll never forget that short time we spent there. I'll never forget the magic.