The Avocado and Me

I think voice memos can tell a lot about a person, maybe more so than pictures. Pictures we expect people to see, so we look pretty. We smile nice. Not voice memos. No one goes around sharing voice memos, unless 'they' is 'me' and the voice memo being shared is a Muppet rendition of We Three Kings. Really, though. I think there is a certain level of gravity here. I have an iPhone SE, and it runs out of storage every, oh, I don't know... let's say 3-4 hours. I'm always deleting things to make room for something more. Those things are sometimes voice memos. Picture the scene: I'm lying in my bed at 12:41 in the morning because I belong to the John Green school of adolescence. I'm trying to download Shantaram  by Gregory David Roberts, the audio book that made me late to choir (how does an audio book make you late to choir, you ask? When your Spanish teacher keeps you after class and sings its praises in six-part harmony). Download. My phone shakes its

We were in the car, speeding down the highway. We'd been at my aunt and uncle's house for dinner. For an hour after we'd polished off the Rocky Road, my aunt and I sat in a cramped hallway, petting the dog, talking about film schools that will be and weekend visits to Phoenix that probably won't. It was dark, and smoky, and the streetlights were cast in eerie halos. The city was alive in reds and blues and yellows. Everything felt very real. Everything felt very alive. I've been thinking about how my time here is dwindling; only 22 months, 96 weeks, 672 days until I depart for college. 671. 670. And counting. My dreams are hyperbolic and bold, but I am almost more interested in the dreams of those around me. I want to know what they wish. I want to know what they will do, how they will touch the world, the journey they'll undertake to do so. Through the chaos of 2020, there remains a tangible sense of hope. The halls are sterile and quiet and ripe with potential