Bone-Dry High Desert Dirt, Pt. 2
We used to sit in the dirt. Unworried about those tiny particles working their way into our nailbeds. Unbothered by the summer sun in the high desert mediated by little atmosphere.
We were fearless in the face of mess and germs. All of us were children, and our conditioning was incomplete (hopefully, mine still isn't).
Bubba, Maddy, my sister, and I were happy. But I barely recall the winters, and spread evenly over the good years is foreshadowing. Foreshadowing so think it seems happiness never graced our young, plastic minds.
In our ignorance, we couldn't conceive of the jihad in which we so helplessly involved ourselves simply by existing. If we chose the skin of that which we were born in, then perhaps we chose this in some place long forgotten. But, if this course we chose not, then a profound tragedy has occurred.
A profound tragedy has occurred.
We manipulated, used, and were horrible to each other; some never quit. Our families, friends, lovers, leaders, and even ourselves forced us, and we trusted it all. We thought it was the only valid, loving choice.
Bubba sat on a lounge chair on the second-story back porch of his family home. The house is built on a slope, so the front door is on the second floor. He read a Calvin and Hobbes comic when his phone buzzed under his overweight thigh.
"Pulling up."
I listened to Cynic driving to Bubba's from my house, less than five minutes away by car but 20 on foot. Swerving down the blacktop, I followed the driveway as it threaded through the trees. My jeep dissolved into the trees moments after turning onto the driveway.
I parked next to the shop and started down the hill his house was built into. Past the ball courts and to the right, there's a tiny bridge leading towards the stairs to the porch my father built. I wonder if it's the last time I'd climb them.
"I saw your sister at Ray's," I said, "she's headed to Scout Lake."
"That's right," he said, unmoving, "she's trying to get a tan. I told her to break a leg!"
I sat on the chair next to him, looking out at the pine trees while my friend finished reading a page. The small valley in his backyard created almost complete privacy. I envisioned the many church parties hosted on the paver patio below. The memories grew sour and drifted into a consciousness of things that have been and never could be.
The book slapped shut, a thick, hardcover anthology of comics I never cared for but still occasionally tried, like raw tomatoes. "So," he said, "what are you up to today?"
"Chillin'" I lied, "getting ready for the week since I'm about to start working with my dad again. You're lucky you still have another year of school left."
"No way! I can't wait to get it over with."
The wind blew through the trees in its eternal manner; I laughed inaudibly through my nose. I watched it move, anything to avoid eye contact. "I have something to say."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I sighed and took a breath, "I'm getting disfellowshipped on Tuesday."
"Wow, really?"
"I know."
"But you'll be back soon, right? It'll just take some time, like six months, don't you think?"
"I don't know," and that was the truth.