School starts today in California, which is something I can hardly remember. I remember the smell of crayons and the feeling of stiff new shoes – I remember air conditioning, the creaking of lockers, and the beveled edge of a flip-top desk. It was laid out clothes the night before, anticipation, and nerves—the first day of school. I saw a Delta commercial about coming home the other day. Coming home. I'm always so focused on the exit, the adventure, the emancipation. Sometimes, it's good to remember the other direction. The reentry, the homecoming, and the first day of school instead of the last are important contexts. We don't leave unless we are home first. We don't get summer vacation unless we go to school in August first.
When I was twenty years old, I was sitting on a beach in Santa Cruz, California, on the last night of summer. We were sitting around a fire, and the sun was going down – bright Pacific Coast Orange across the dark blue toward Monterey. I wasn't listening to the conversation anymore because there was one person surfing on 26th Street. He was lying with his arms out; he had his feet up on his surfboard. I could see his toes sticking up into the sunset. I think about that guy all the time. I bet he doesn't even remember that day. It's funny what sticks into us.
I spent my summer doing a tour of my past. I bought a Harley Davidson motorcycle. My dad said it wasn't practical. My neighbor Jeff didn't say so, but he thought it wasn't practical, too, and I could tell by his face. The motorcycle broke down in Bend, Oregon. Something called a "BCM" melted. I hitchhiked to Washington State and saw my family, and then I went to my 20th High School reunion. A lot of other things happened, but I'll save those things for later.
At my high school reunion, I walked to the place we were supposed to meet for dinner. There were 50 of us that said we were coming, via a Facebook event page. Nobody was there yet. I got scared and left again. I walked to my hotel room and looked at myself in the mirror. It was the first day of school all over again. I could feel it in my stomach and across the back of my shoulders. I've played my guitar and sang for thousands of people many times. It isn't scary anymore. But going back home again, facing all those years of my own compiled expectations and childhood projections – that was about as scary as it gets.
One guy cuts trails in Montana now. He has an army of children. One guy works for the airlines. Some dentists. One guy was terrible in High School, and as it turns out, he is still terrible. It's nice when some things don't change.
One of the single moms told me that she just wished she could have made more of her life. She wants more for her kids, she said. You're not not dead, is what I was thinking, but I guess twenty years is plenty of time to make some irreversible decisions. Maybe the only thing worse is not making any decisions at all. There were some people like that at my high school reunion, too.
I loved them again. I loved some of them for the first time. Our lives go so quickly, and eventually, there are only a few left who were there at the beginning. I don't remember the first day of school anymore. I don't know if I remember anything about myself, at least not objectively. I couldn't escape the feeling that maybe these guys did. Maybe they remember me. Maybe they remember me like I can't remember me anymore. It felt like that Delta commercial. I've spent a lot of time leaving. I haven't spent enough time coming home.
Written by Tyson Motsenbocker