Two days ago I drove to Las Vegas with my mother’s remains in the trunk of my car.
It took just under two weeks to clean out the house, hold the service and call the people who needed to be called. I packed until packing turned into throwing things away. I threw things away until all that was left to do was pay a guy named Gilbert $40 to haul what was left to the landfill.
A garage full of trash had emerged from a moderately successful estate sale. The sale took place after two days of sticking prices on things that had suddenly become mine. A house full of things my mother lived among and used every day, things she had collected over the entirety of her life, almost instantly turned into another pile of old stuff for Salvation Army to get rid of. Change happens fast.
I was crying when I drove past the farthest reaches of Phoenix sprawl late in the afternoon. Seven months of sickness and frustration in that awful place had finally met their end. I knew it was too contrived to dwell on, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether I, too, would rise from the ashes like the namesake of the city I just left behind. I prayed a little, floored the gas and focused on the trip ahead.
Sunset over the Hoover dam was a nice touch, and the stereo just happened to play Take a Load Off Fanny as I pulled past its art deco monoliths and motored on toward Vegas to spend the night.
Most of the journey to this point has been unremarkable, but I aim to fix that in the months ahead. I did walk the length of the Las Vegas strip, which is basically a big mall with slot machines. I spent the next day traversing more of the legendary expanses of the American southwest, the kind of places where the view is too big too big to see without turning your head from side to side. Nevada is more or less empty north of Vegas.
I have a lot of miles ahead. My house is for sale. My friends are spread thin across the country. I don’t have a job. I have no place.
This is my time to travel, I’ve been telling people. I don’t have a dog.
I applied for my passport with extra pages the day I left Phoenix between one last trip to my tangled storage space and dropping off mom’s jewelry in the safe deposit box.
I’m in Sun Valley, Idaho, now where one of my good friends from high school will be married tomorrow. I'll scatter mom's ashes in the Salmon river when I leave.
I don’t know where I’ll be in another seven months. I don’t know what I’ll be doing when I get there. But right now I’m back in the folded arms of the mountains where I grew up and in the company of old friends. For the first time in awhile I feel good about what’s ahead.
