12 hours with Will
Leaving the fluttering city for the habitat, your whole body reacts in enrapt. On a perfect Saturday afternoon, when the streets of Manhattan are stuffed with spring-filled people savoring every last strand of the sun’s flowing locks, the suburb is dressed in the same fashion as it would be on a Monday, Tuesday, Friday, or Sunday, like someone’s grandfather who wears the same dress shirt and flushed denim every day. Not caring for anything whatsoever, it envelopes you in an embrace so warm and serene, whispering in your ears, ‘My love.’
Stepping onto the train station without a gate, we throw our boards down and skate under the tree’s courteous shades. Your ears take in a lack of sound it cannot equate, hearing nothing more than rolling wheels, chirping birds, and the feelings it relates. Will holds the red-covered 1984 I lent him in his left hand, and with his right, he directs traffic, telling me which house belongs to who and which roads belonged to his teenage heart. Turning the corner en route to his home, we hear golf carts roaming and smiles rolling. Seniors stop the cart for us to pass, looking at us, with a content expression, perhaps envious of our youthful vitality. 76 holes down, just a few more to go.
Arriving at his house, opening the door that was not and does not have to be locked, hearing the familial shouts of parental beckoning. We’ve met before haven’t we? Yes ma’am, about a year ago. A trampoline in the backyard, a pair of rocking chairs on the porch. Scuttering steps down the stairs, the sister I haven’t met slips to his side. This is Phoebe, hi I’m Julian. Good luck with your lacrosse game. You guys sure you don’t want to bring some chicken sandwiches? Thank you, but I already had lunch. We take the keys from the cupboard and we take the car. 5:30! That’s when we need to use it! We nod and confirm their stipulation, well aware that 5:30 meant 6:00, well aware that worries meant care.
Windows down, music up. Eyes on the road, hearts unload. Smoke trails out of the car in more than one place. Running into childhood friends, aunts, mom’s friends, dad’s friends. Will waves and greets as I sit next to him like a new specimen. Get to the skatepark, see a friend we haven’t seen in months. The very first two people I met in New York City. Can’t forget that.
Hours pass by, we spend 30 minutes just saying goodbye. Fran accidentally calls Will, Bill. We get in the car at 5:20. 25 minute drive home. On time. Let me play a few songs this time. Two missed calls from dad. We get home, dad is on the porch steps. How much gas is left? Enough. Parents left for the city, sister sleeping over at a friend’s place, what do we do? We warm up mom’s leftover spaghetti, eat it on the porch, exhaling breaths of happiness, talking about nothing of significance but everything of importance. Rinse the dishes, dump the ashtray out, and we’re walking under the somber evening light towards the train station without a gate.
