But these individual realities, if mastered alone, are meaningless. Not until the lives we alter and inhabit become crossed, tangled, and braided can they be valued beyond their momentary splendor. Without the bonds between our individually composed stories, the thrills are cheap and the wisdom hollow.
In a number of minutes I’ll board an aeroplane bound for San Francisco. There, somewhere beyond the jetway, is the object of my fascination, wishes, and regret. Thirty-one months ago, I saw her last. I came for the wonderful art museum, the big red bridge, and her. She was sarcastic, lovely, and often too smart. For boyish reasons, I treated her poorly. And there, in an otherwise forgettable restaurant between the ocean and the bay, she slipped through my fingers for maybe ever. Only later was I able to admit she’s the one who so famously got away, the one that makes me quiet.
As each day passed, and big decisions trumped whims and gut feelings, she became an awful lesson learned. Someone I did not know.
Forgiveness alone is not warranted, and anything more is the stuff of miraculous legend. But this time, I have no interest in the museum or the big red bridge. My attention is undivided in an abnormal and inexplicable way. I hope only to spend the better part of two days with the only girl that makes me nervous. This will require my A-game, my best material. This will require her forgetful grace and mercy, a dose of Providence maybe. I have packed light, and I dream of returning forgiven, and more—with that which there are no words for. But I’m not the odds-on favorite.
Reality rarely involves second chances. Yet each of the greatest tales of both truth and fiction involve re-do’s and redemption, and I’m a boy for stories. Ours began at a ranch, where it was my job to teach young people how to jump off cliffs, while she made them snacks at the bottom. We met in a room called Lariat. She liked adventure, rebellion, and cloves. And I, her. Just lean back, and jump, I’d say from the rappelling platform, leaning across the edge with them while they’d curse and cry, the longer you wait, the crazier you’ll have to be. I’ve waited a long time, and this harness does not feel secure, but it’s the crazies and stupids that always seem to be truly enjoying themselves. The smallest chance is enough for me to dive over these ancient rocks, into the raw and freshly primed void. And she’s a pretty little chance.
In me the hope of hopes, while failure and embarrassment loom curious. Between us sit two mountain ranges, those who think I’m a fool, those who’d rather see me fail, and a sea of roads and concrete barriers. All of them, belligerent to my wishes. And in spite of each, to her distant and unknowing ears I slowly whisper, This is an adventure.