In the car I let him control the radio. He plugged in his phone, queued up Nirvana, “About A Girl.” It was the MTV Unplugged version, the one where Kurt Cobain was filmed wearing a tan cardigan among candles and adoring fans. I’m standing in your line, I do hope you have the time …
“Thanks for coming
out with me,” I said. It felt weirdly formal to be thanking him like that, this
being who used to kick me from the inside out, but I meant it. We’d spent so
little time together recently that this felt like a rendezvous of sorts, an
adventure. When he was younger I took him everywhere: Sausalito, Pacifica, the train
museum in Sacramento where he ran wild and wide-eyed, taking it all in. Always
a great traveling companion. Always amenable to being strapped in, observing
from the back seat. By the time he was old enough to travel shotgun, he was no
longer interested. He started saying no, shaking his head, when I asked. Sorry,
Meredith. Can’t today. No reason given. Never a reason. Just a simple refusal.
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