Staying Anchored
Nostalgia washes warmly through you as you pull into the parking lot of your hometown coffee shop. You see your old friends perched on the sidewalk. Sophia is fresh, makeup free, leggy and glowing tan from her seven-week escapade in Southeast Asia. Canyon is fidgeting with the pockets of his shorts, as always unable to keep still, and somehow even taller than he was last summer. The welcome familiarity of their presence is punctuated by a swirl of something unrecognized, a result of the years spent apart.
Sophia glances ruefully at the mosquito bites covering her calves from yesterday’s bonfire — “did everyone remember bug spray?” Of course, Canyon’s forgotten, along with sunscreen and water in preparation for the hike. Laughing, you and Sophia take turns “mom”-ing him with the extra supplies you brought.
Canyon offers to drive, so you’re sitting shotgun in his old pickup, adding songs to the queue from his phone. You race along the highway, plunging into the breathtaking Washington State expanse of mountains and forests. The Pacific Northwest summer explodes through the windows as Sophia buzzes excitedly from the backseat about the hike you’re about to embark on.
Your mild anxiety about making the right selections on aux quickly dissipates as you scroll through Canyon’s music library and discover that past the everyday Kanye and Post Malone is also the secret flavor of music you indulge in alone. Somehow, he’s also found the same random indie artists with a total of 83 SoundCloud likes. You’ve learned better than to share this with your college friends, met too many times with a disdainful “what are we listening to?” In a wordless exchange, some vulnerable part of you is met with immediate acceptance. The worn leather seat feels softer, and the sunlight caresses your skin, more radiant than before.
The conversation starts off lightly, catching up about your past week and post-college plans. You fantasize about the future, each of the shining cities where you’re headed off to start bright new careers at the end of the summer. Sophia and Canyon chat as you continue to queue music, and you look up, stealing glances at each of them. You are bursting with pride; irrationally, their accomplishments feel like your own. Just yesterday, it seems, they were middle schoolers with rolling backpacks.
Gravity by Jai Wolf is on, and the conversation grows thick and heavy — insecurities, fears, and heartbreak. Canyon is so tall now that his hair brushes the car roof and his knees graze lightly under the wheel. His fingers absently drum along to the music. Sophia listens intently, reassuring as she stares out the window. Now even wiser beyond her years, her careful observations leave you feeling a little exposed. You curl up and hug your knees to your chest. Despite the clear marks of time passed, somehow the years waver and fall away; you are young and fragile again, kids on the verge of the unknown. Die Trying by Michl consumes the empty space in the car.
As you roll up at the trailhead, Canyon requests Lovebug by the Jonas Brothers. A nostalgic, light, almost-guilty pleasure — you stay in the car and belt out the last few lyrics before unbuckling and hopping out. The canopy of trees immediately envelopes the three of you in a cool, protective shade. The gurgling creek along the trail drowns out the conversation, so you hike for the next few miles with only the forest as your soundtrack.
At the end of the trail, a waterfall erupts over the edge of a cliff into a crystal clear basin below. Canyon eagerly pushes ahead, tearing off his t-shirt and jumping into the glacial alpine water. You and Sophia sit at the edge, gingerly dipping your feet in. It’s been a long year — a long four years — since you’ve been home for the summer, and you just want to absorb this moment of serenity, a stark contrast from the bustling east-coast city internships of the past few years. You lay back against your backpack, your face against the sun. In this moment, you can literally see the insignificance of your existence against the mountain and wilderness, but you’re anchored by your importance to the people you love. You’re too bashful to burden your companions with this existential daydream, but you silently yearn to tell them how much they matter to you. For this enormous instant, everything is perfect.
You’re back in the truck and the La La Land soundtrack is on; John Legend is crooning in the background. You are making plans to capture the last fleeting weeks of the Seattle summer before reality thrusts the three of you into young adulthood. Your heart skips a beat talking about comfort food from your favorite authentic Chinese restaurants in Seattle’s rundown international district — the chicken feet, pork belly buns, rice porridge, and pickled mustard greens embedded in your childhood. These foods, this private part of you revealed only when you came home, were deemed too ugly and unfamiliar for comfort for your sceney, prep-school Ivy League peers. Now, you cock your head, trying to rationalize, Why did I feel so ashamed? Normal is not so impressive.
The truck whizzes back along the freeway, away from the lush Washington forest and back home towards sparkling suburban Bellevue, which has flourished with the booming Seattle tech scene over the past half decade. Overcoat’s Hold Me Close floods the car, reaching through you. The drive back is a metaphor for this summer; a fleeting transition between a warm, serene past, which is simultaneously integral to your identity yet easily taken for granted, and an eager prospective future, at once exciting and unfamiliar.
You’re astonished how refreshing one day with your old friends has been. They’ve reminded you that authenticity is defined by fierce loyalty to yourself. Radical Face’s Welcome Home comes on, and you lean your head against the window, embracing the vibrations that pour through your ears and chest.
