At ten in the morning on New Year's Eve, your dad drove to Matt's apartment. Cupped between a Coca-Cola bottling plant and a Burger King, the apartments on Forest Hills Drive had neither a forest or hills nearby. Your dad parallel parked on the street, then re-parked in a row of parking spots for guests next to Matt's small, rented U-Haul van. Ice coated the windshields and made the white-painted lines slick in the parking lot.
Matt pulled up in his Scion, rubbing his hands together. "Thanks for coming, dude," Matt said. "I hate helping people move. I wouldn't have offered to help."
"No one likes helping people move," your dad said. "You only help people move because, one day, you know you'll have to move."
Matt nodded, and they headed up the stairs to Matt's apartment to move Matt's stuff into the U-Haul.
Your home is on the outside elbow of a low traffic density street corner. It's white with minty green trim (not your mom's favorite color combo) and sits behind a streetlight obscured by a Quaking Aspen huddling up to a street sign that says La Mesa on one arm and Jubilant on the other.
When your mom and dad were still house hunting with their Realtor, two strands of multicolored flags ran from the garage door to the sidewalk. They looked like backstroke flags hung at a municipal pool: yellow and red and blue triangles. Your mom and dad called it "The Swim Meet House" and immediately bought it.
It's possible, sometime in the future, that you and your mom and dad might move. Matt might be over to help that day.
