By Sydney Goldberg
Maybe the future will lead me to a room covered in Corey Duffel posters.
A few minutes earlier, I parked my Honda Accord in a visitor’s spot down the road. When I got out of the car, the air seemed brisker than usual. I popped open my trunk to grab a plaid JanSport backpack and purple Paris Trucks. While I glided down the road there was friction between the rocks and my wheels. I’m at 405, the destination. I was thinking of things to say and hugs to give. It’s been a solid five months since we last spoke, when we used to skateboard together everyday.
His text message read, “Come in. Park on the side.” Too late. The front door was closed but his mother peeked through the blinds on the side window. She greeted me with her beautiful Polish accent and said goodbye as she left. “Nice to meet you” came out of my mouth, but then she corrected me by saying we had met two years earlier on Go Skateboarding Day. I apologized and headed upstairs. It’s been too long.
He turned 18 last week and now looked like a man. Stubble covered his jaw, and “Leave em behind” was tattooed on his forearm in cursive ink. The wound was fresh and beginning to scab. As I stretched out my little old legs, I glanced at the computer screen playing Debacle. When the clip finished, we hopped into the automobile as Bonnie and Clyde and drove far far away while singing along to Lil Wayne’s Tha Carter III album.
I remember when I was 18, and I left em behind. Nothing made sense, not even skateboarding. He came to my rescue on a rainy day. We skated the same box at the park. He told me I shouldn’t care about what the haters say. Just follow your heart, and it will all be okay.
Sydney Goldberg is a senior at Indiana University studying Journalism, Studio Art, and Art History. Twitter me ♥