Love and the Sea and Everything in Between

chapter nine

Early Friday morning, I decide to visit my parents in San Jose for the weekend. It crosses my mind to invite Liz, but I decide against it.

I pull into the trailer park and park in front of my parent's house, a rusty single-wide that I was all-too-happy to move out of when the opportunity presented itself. Five weeks have gone by since I was home for Christmas and they still haven't taken down the decorations.

Growing up, I remember that Christmas was always a big deal for our family. Even now, it's still my favorite holiday and winter is still my favorite season. There's something curiously alluring about the cold and the dark. Perhaps it's because winter marks the end of all things.

I think there is a certain comfort in knowing that all things end, that endings are inevitable. Perhaps it reminds us that all the hell we see in the world is only temporary. Pain ends. Sorrow ends. Life ends. Relationships end. Perhaps it's a comfort to know that there is absolute fulfillment to this thing called the circle of life, that death is the one thing you can count on to make good on its promise.

And perhaps it's a relief to know that with every ending there is a new beginning. Like the tree that grows and grows, grasping at the sky, never quite reaching its zenith, it lives life dreaming and reaching, never knowing it will fall short of the mark in the end.

And then it dies.

But the dream doesn't die with it. Because from the decay of that tree is birthed a new tree and the purpose, the dream, is renewed.

Perhaps all things end so that those who follow might never know that it is impossible to reach the sky. Perhaps all things end so that the world might begin again. Without winter, where would be the wonder in spring?

That's why I like winter; it does all the work and spring gets all the credit. It's is the nerdy introvert of the seasons.

I'm startled from my thoughts as Dad comes out of the trailer, a bag of trash in his hand. He sees me and grins. I smile through the windshield and climb out of the van, closing the door behind me.

Dad calls back into the house, "Honey, Adam's home."

I meet him at the bottom of the porch stairs and he pulls me into his warm embrace. From inside, comes a loud crash as my mother scrambles out the door, nearly tripping over her own loose slipper. She runs over to us and pulls us into a group hug.

"We've missed you, son," Dad says.

"I have missed you too."

"We were just getting ready to sit down for breakfast. I guess it's a good thing we decided to make a meal of it."

I smile and follow them inside. Nothing sounds better than my mom's home-cooking.

* * *

I slide my plate away, unable to eat the last few bites of biscuits and gravy. I lean back in my chair just as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Liz: You skipping class?

Me: I'm visiting my parents for the weekend.

Her: Oh.

Me: I'll be back Monday.

Her: Ok.

"Who's that?" Mom asks as she starts to clear the table.

"No one," I say. "Just a girl from school."

She exchanges a look with Dad and I just roll my eyes and say, "I'll do the dishes."

* * *

I sit on the back deck, watching the sun slip slowly behind the horizon, my journal open on my lap and a cup of hot chocolate in my hand.

"Hey, son," Dad says as he sits in the chair beside me.

"Hey."

"How's school going?"

"Good." I move my hand so that it covers the words in my journal. He doesn't notice.

"Are you learning lots of new things? Making any new friends?"

I recall my Intro to Philosophy class when we talked about heaven and hell. "I'm definitely learning some interesting things," I say. "As for friends, only one that counts."

"The girl you were texting earlier," he says, more of a statement than a question, as though knows Liz is more than a friend.

"Yeah. Liz."

"Good. I'm happy for you." He pauses. "Just be careful. First loves can be a challenge. And when they break your heart, the healing isn't easy."

"Who said anything about love?"

He smiles at me. "You're my son. I saw the way your eyes lit up when she texted you at breakfast. Nothing short of love has that kind of an effect on a man."

"Ok," I say. "Thanks."

"Anytime, son." He stands, leaving me to my own devices.

In myjournal, I write, Maybe it's love that isthis brutal, distant thing we seek.

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