My mother's visit came to an end. She kissed us goodbye early in the morning, leaving Gavin and I curled under the sparse blankets of a stiff bed at Motel 6. The two of us drove home from LAX by ourselves, eating a gas station breakfast of dry cereal, pink milk, and beef jerky. We crested the mountain to see an endless expanse of clear-skied valley, the highway disappearing into the northern horizon, and it felt like being hit by the sun.
Gavin and I cleaned up the visiting mess, put in laundry, rolled through Trader Joe's. We enjoyed the last of the evening light walking through the prairie dog field, throwing stones into the water pooled in the ruts. "I smell animal," I said, looking at the burrows ringing the wash. Gavin stood up straight and sniffed. "I don't. I smell dirt, and water, and grass." ""Well, that's a good smell, isn't it?" "Yeah, it sure is." We smiled at each other, listened to the silence of buzzing insects and talking crows, then walked back to the apartment. While Gavin snacked on letter-shaped cookies and crashed cars on the computer, I folded laundry and watched Stranger than Fiction. Po lumped herself on the balcony to watch college students walk their dogs. At the very moment the narrator typed, The phone rang, my phone rang along with the one in the movie. I jumped, grabbed it, talked to my mom and listened to my grandfather in the background. Pictures of the new baby up on my screen. I both happy and sad. Hiding among other refugees, waiting for the Next Big Thing. Looking at that horizon.
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