Nov. 2022

In November of 2022, I ride by the red house on the corner and watch them skate their halfpipe in the fading fall light. In their driveway, there is a red Tacoma with a truck topper and kayak rack, and a sticker celebrating FIBArk, and I want to tell them I guided in Buena Vista but don’t know where to go from there. Behind the Tacoma sits a Chevy Tahoe with Washington plates, and I want to tell them I grew up in Seattle but don’t know where to go from there. Beyond the Tahoe, nailed to an eave overlooking the driveway, is a colorful hand-painted sign that reads, in all capitals, “NOTHING LASTS.” In December, as I ride by, they tell me I have a nice bike, and one woman tells me we should ride together. I thank them, agree, smile, and ride off. In January, the rains come. They do not leave. The halfpipe is covered with a tarp, but eventually, it is blown off. In February, I see a notice on the red house’s fence and stop by to ask about it. They tell me six of the seven trees in their yard are to be cut down. The owners need room for development. By Valentine’s Day, a hole has been punched through the halfpipe’s damp particle board. I spend March and April rebuilding and reshaping my jumps in the park after the heavy rains repeatedly destroy them. By the end of April, the grasses in the park are a brilliant life green, and the super blooms are making national headlines. 

 

One late afternoon, as I watch the sun throw gold on these greens and on the land I have helped shape, I cry and thank a greater-than-me Being. That evening, I go to the ocean to swim. In the water, after we all jump in together, an oddly kind man and woman invite me to dinner. I have been feeling lonely for the last five months and jump at the opportunity. I bring white rice and eat their chicken chili. They tell me they are people of God, and I have an enlightening conversation with a woman who has moved here from Michigan to spread His Love. Before leaving, I get the man’s number. I feel simultaneously scammed and holy. He never texts me. 

 

In early May, the grasses in the park are two feet tall and vibrant, and I feel ashamed as I cut them down to create an in-run to the step down I have built. By the end of May, I have finished my finals and have watched Kyle walk across the stage at ASU via livestream. I put in my two weeks at work. Flowers have taken over the grass and stand as tall as I do. In the mountains, the super bloom is over, and I have missed it. In June, at work, anxious about every regret in my whole life, Will sends me the most meaningful text I have ever received. I feel so inferior that it takes me nine hours to send a reply. He graduates the day after. On my last day at work, there is pizza. Laura brings her own fresh pineapple to make sure her slices do not go without it. Tom and I never finish our conversation about New York. I deposit my tips from the last three months, and the ATM counts out $293. I spend $200 the same afternoon getting my bike suspension serviced. Returning home, I drive by the red house on the corner and see their sofa and chairs and tables out on the curb ready to be picked up or thrown away. The woman who once wanted to ride with me is trying to wheelie her friend’s Santa Cruz. After a couple of tries she gives the bike back, and they laugh, almost contagiously. When I drive by again the same day, the red Tacoma and the halfpipe are gone. When Megan goes out to get the mail, I follow her and offer a walk. She has just finished her last final. She will graduate in four days. When we round the corner, the Tahoe has also disappeared. Megan says she likes their couch. I do not reply. I see empty dirt and a missing sign. We walk to the end of the street and take the stairs down to the ocean. On the last landing, where I always do, I begin to cry.