verde vista

The lady from the GPS on my phone suggests I turn right onto Verde Vista, in a tone that reminds me of my grandfather: slightly southern, and with no knowledge of Spanish. verdeee vista.

The road is not very green but it is still beautiful. I appreciate it no matter how poorly named it was. But still, I drive on it to get somewhere else. This is not my final destination. This green road, this city. I’m not really sure where I’m going, my life doesn’t have a GPS lady telling me what to do. Other than myself. But we all seem to be going somewhere. And it’s best to keep moving, to keep driving down the green views. If you stop you might not ever make it to all the other beautiful places. If you wait, you might not be around for the next season, no matter how old or young you are. You might not ever get there, if your phone loses service somewhere in the middle of a roundabout and you keep circling until you run out of gas.

I’ll see you next time, he says, as you drive toward and then past. But there might not be a next time. The GPS lady in my head cannot be trusted, just like most other GPS ladies.

The boy at the mexican restaurant sets down chips and guacamole on the table, yells in Spanish to his coworker, grins at us and asks if we’d like water. He is beautiful. We leave and the air is warm, perfect, green, new, lovely.

“You are lovely,” he tells me, in another language I don’t understand.  There is no time to waste on people who aren’t wonderful.

My car is not green but I can imagine that it is. I have no idea where it and I will take me. The road is terrifying and beautiful and long and if you want to come with me, you can, but I’m not turning around for you.