Iām bounding up an endless flight of stairs. Itās nighttime. All around me loom the dark, expressive silhouettes of flowing bougainvilleas and giant banana fronds.
Iām bounding upwards, filled with hope. Somewhere, youāre there waiting.
I hear your voice. āTim?ā
The shadow of a girl, slight and carefree, stands just ahead on the next landing beneath the drooping banana leaves.
I climb the last few steps ā a little bit breathless; a little bit terrified; a little bit in love.
We embrace. āDid you find your way alright?ā
No, Crystal, Iām still finding my way.
Itās almost a year later and Iām still bounding up those stairs, looking for you. But with every shadow-dappled new landing I reach, youāre not there.
Is that the silhouette of a girl in a hoodie and jeans? There under the dark, swaying fronds? Is that her long, flowing hair? No ā itās just the bougainvilleas.
What pushes me up these endless stairs? Why this hope still? From where?
I clamber breathlessly up the next flight. I stop. I listen for your voice. Thereās only the rustling of leaves in the cool November breeze. Where are you?
Iām on the I-15, speeding through a tiny corner of Arizona where striated red and brown bluffs tower over the winding freeway on all sides. Iāve been on the road for 5 hours, bounding up these stairs towards you for 5 hours. Iām headed to LA, where you are. Maybe this time Iāll hear your voice calling out: āTim?ā
Iām not terrified any more. What is there to be terrified of? I have nothing left to lose.
Silver Lake. I roamed these streets with you last November. Is that your wonderful, perfect shadow, there down the block? No ā itās just an apparition. Perhaps on the next landing, up under the blue shadows of the banana leaves.
Itās morning. Iām pulling my socks on, on the floor by your bed.
āGo the rest of the way up, to the top of the hill, and check out the view before you head down,ā you tell me sleepily. āItās beautiful in the morning.ā
I climb the last little bit to the dusty crest of the hill. Down below, our city spreads out before me, bathed in sunlight. It is beautiful.
Slowly, unwillingly, I turn and descend back down the stairs. The gentle banana leaves wave goodbye in the waking light. Orange and pink bougainvilleas cascade down like fiery waterfalls on my left and right. It is beautiful.
I donāt care. I hate to go down these stairs.
I long to turn and bound up towards you once more. What are these resplendent tangles of bougainvillea to your tousled morning hair? What do the lavender blooms of the sun-drenched jacarandas have on your wide, brimming smile? What is the carefree sway of the banana leaves to the warm rhythm of your pulsing heart?
Thanksgiving. Itās been a year now. A year since you told me, with the top down in the moonlit Pasadena outskirts, that we couldnāt be. That you werenāt āthe one.ā
So why canāt I stop bounding up those stairs?
Koko is back in town from Raleigh. Itās her third annual Friendsgiving, and Iām slumped in a white plastic lawn chair in the driveway, staring into the licking flames of the fire pit.
I met you at the first one of these, two years ago. At the second one, you told me you were too broken to love again, to love me. āIām trouble,ā you told me as we drove through the nighttime fog.
At the third one, I thought, I would see you again. We would talk; we would start fresh. I would listen to your stories, and soak in everything Iāve missed, and tell you that I care and that I didnāt mean to hurt you, that I had just been insecure and stupid but Iāve grown now and Iām not broken the way I was before and even if youāre still broken, I want to be there for you to help you fight your way out.
It would have been poetic. Thatās how I would have written it, if I was writing the story. The third Thanksgiving. The pieces come back together, full circle.
But no one writes the story of real life. You didnāt come. I thought I saw your shadow coming up the dark driveway; it was only an apparition.
Iām almost to the next landing. I donāt see you anywhere. Iām a little bit breathless, but something keeps me bounding. I donāt know what it is. If I was writing the story, I would say that itās hope. I donāt think it is.
The shadows loom around me, embracing me. A November breeze is blowing. My feet pound against the concrete steps. Maybe on the next landing, youāll be there, calling out my name.
Iām still looking for you.
Iām still finding my way.