My parents wanted to take a drive on Saturday. I said okay.
My mother said I should have a “change of scenery.” The word scenery made me think of a play. And as we were driving around, it made sense that way. Because no matter how much the scenery changed, we were still on the same stage.
Your life is inescapable. Unless you decide to escape it.
My parents asked about school. About friends. About colleges. About what I was reading. And as I sat there, I felt again like you. Your parents must have asked you the same questions. They must have tried the same way. Knowing there was a problem, but thinking it would be a bigger problem if they brought it up. So instead they tried to muffle it with ordinary things. They saw the scenery, not the stage.
“So it’s all come full circle,” you said.
“Would you like that?” my mother asked.
“What?” I said.
“To go rafting over the summer. To go away.”
“Let’s talk about the summer like it’s sure to exist,” you whispered in my ear. This wasn’t a memory. You were whispering it now. “But you and I know better, don’t we? How about we do away with the summer?”
“That sounds great,” I said.