Not quite Las Vegas.
Ten years ago my family made a pact: on November 11, 2011 we would all meet in Las Vegas. A reunion of sorts; we had calculated our future ages and knew we could be anywhere. I looked forward to it for years. And then completely forgot about it.
And now we’re here. An unexpected combination of circumstance and chance threw us all together. It’s not quite Las Vegas, that grimy city of neon that teenage me found so enchanting and adult me cannot stand. My youngest brother couldn’t make it, but the rest of us are here. We’re so close to the silly numbers game we concocted.
A decade ago I was sure that I’d be living in this new meeting place, my profession practically demands it. But the person I am today is not the person I was ten years ago. I’m missing the gene, I guess. I’m content to call this 11/11 meeting place nothing more than a reunion destination. Living here would be a concession.
You can keep your expected post-college career destination, just give me a place with history and life. A place where the statues outnumber the movie references, where strangers aren’t as familiar with the street names. Let me get lost in my home; let the cows decide where the streets should be paved, make traffic go in a circle before anyone can go straight, give me a bus that runs on overhead wires.
It’s sentimental, but I’m making an impossible wish right now. It has something to do with writing and it has something to do with comfort and it has something to do with happiness. Now, blow out your candles.
