I needed to feel the rush of driving over the bridge one last time. I called it fate when the GPS took me across the Bay Bridge on my way out of California. Moving again. This time toward the upper Pacific Northwest. The car was packed with everything that could fit, including my beloved plant I inherited from the previous tenant. You called it the third wheel. I refused to part with it after my dad told me plants have feelings.
This would be our last road trip and I missed it already. I thought about how you looked at me from the driver’s side with half a smile forming. It was my personal commitment to turn it into a full-blown smile by going HAM with my side pony and full volume on some Clipse. I lived to see you laugh, shake your head, and reach out to squeeze the back of my neck affectionately. You had me.
I crossed the bridge and met you on the other side. This time I was driving. You got in the passenger seat. It felt like home. Of all the places I’ve lived: you were home.
The thought quickly dissolved. I realized this is not the in-between anymore. This is not one day in the future. I am leaving. You’re not coming. There is no home.
One tear slid down my cheek and I swallowed and clenched my jaw. “Fuck,” I said, still staring straight ahead. You looked at me. “Fuck. Pull over.” We came to a stop on a side road in Oakland. And the tears poured down my face.
I told you how scared I was to leave and that maybe I was making the wrong decision. I swear I could physically see you put your own wants and needs to the side. You calmly told me that this is what I want. This is what I need. And it will be okay. You told me you would always be there for me. Again. And again. I believed you.
It’s been years since we last spoke. Since I called you on Christmas Eve and you told me never to contact you again. That we needed space. Driving back over the bridge this summer I fell into that timely trance of being familiar with a place and completely foreign to it at the same time.
I think about you and wonder how much you’ve changed.
What makes you laugh the way I remember it:
When you eyelids narrow.
And your eyebrows raise.
And you clutch your heart with one hand.
I wonder if the crinkles around your eyes have slowly grown into your face with time.
How much have we changed?
Where are you now?
What do you call home?
