Overlooking the valley from an overpriced monument.
Benotz and I stood on the stairs near the top of the mountain monument, a spiraling concrete spire on the far west side of the city. The desert sun was bright; even with sunglasses the city was hard to see in the glare. I looked at the van and the tiny trailer behind it, packed with assorted personal goods. The move seemed silly. I was giving up a good, albeit small, apartment in the heart of the city with a terrific view, and for what? A little more space?
I supposed another benefit (and reason) might be the escape of memory. But I was about to plant myself near the northernmost end of a road that intersected with so much of my personal history. So many girls, book stores, and coffee shops, ran along that line. There was no escape.