We arrived in Maricopa April 2. Uncle Bill thought it was funny that we came from Maricopa, Arizona, to Maricopa, California.
“Just think about how many people will get a kick outta that one,” he said.
“I’m going for a run,” I said.
Dad glanced up, not at me. Near me. “Go up along Klipstein to the highway. Open Country.”
I took off.
*
The streets were flat and dusty, cracked asphalt until the highway began. I ran the shoulder. I could see mountains in the distance. There was a For Rent sign in front of a trailer off the highway. I wondered how far off the mountains were and went blank. I just ran.
*
They were all in the backyard sitting on lawn chairs with drinks. I saw them through the kitchen window. They looked like they were having a good time. Bill was telling a story. They all seemed to be enjoying it.
My parents got the extra room. I took the couch. It didn’t matter. I could sleep anywhere.
Mom was sitting on the bed when I got out of the shower. “Maybe we’ll take up running.”
She looked up at me. We were all trying. But it was harder for them.
*
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Greg Beckman 