42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I guess I’m a different person every time I go home, but things there stay rooted in comfort. And I have so much to say and yet nothing about the perfect visit.

My dad was glad to have me home. He made his famous pizza at my request. And chicken and mashed potatoes. And Donna made death by chocolate cake. And I got a long ride in the Vega and a burnout, too.

My whole week stretched out before me. I didn’t have that much time, but I managed to see a handful of people. My best friend and her little one, no longer a baby at 16 months. Friends from work. My grandpa, who had a stroke earlier this year, and my aunt.

Things were so green. I came at a good time of year. Some leaves were just starting to turn, but for the most part, the weather and vegetation resembled the neverending perfect summer of childhood.
We drove past the home of my childhood and everything seemed so much smaller, so much different. We drove through my old town and took the long way back home. Everywhere I drove, some things seemed the same and some had changed. A handful of new buildings popped up in this place that changes slowly compared to Fresno. But everything seemed smaller, stifling, a little like jeans you really shouldn’t wear anymore.

Crickets chirped when my dad first drove me up to the house that will always remain home for me. My home away from home, anyway. The air was a little muggy and warm.

I was so happy to see my dad, to chatter about stuff, to just be able to hang out and be comfortable. My brother and I hung out. I couldn’t have asked for a better time.

I looked forward to this visit for months and it was all I could think about. Now that it’s over, that’s all I can think about too. I keep thinking of some little thing we said or did, and it makes me happy.

I think life would be perfect if I could somehow stick California and Michigan and my family in a blender and make it all work. Green and mountains and oceans and thunderstorms and the people I love.
Still, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I know if I came around more often, I’d have less leverage to get Dad’s pizza. Which was worth the price of the plane ticket. Pizza made with love.