The early songs are the ones that came to me by force in the years that my parents bought the records, eight-track tapes, and eventually cassettes that were played in our home and in their cars. Our eternally long road trips to Bakersfield, where my brother and I whined and fought and just generally suffered and caused suffering were framed, ironically, to the perky beat and lyrics of Anne Murray’s “Snowbird.” During that phase of life, all I could hope was that my brother would make like that snowbird and spread his tiny wings and fly… the hell away from me.

Knock. Knock.

I’d answer with the proverbial who’s there, but I know very well that this is the knock of a solar salesperson. This is suburbia 2022. No one knocks unless they’re selling something and, in sunny California, during what I hope is the apex of global warming, there’s a 90% chance that it’s them.

Silly me. I keep thinking I have reached acceptance with my mom’s mortality, like it is a physical place I can arrive to and decide to stay. Build it a picket fence and a a flourishing garden with a deep-rooted tree to symbolize its permanence.

1530 Ben Roe Drive is the unofficial fifth member of my family of origin. I say “unofficial” only because the therapists in my office might otherwise stop referring clients to my coaching practice, citing annoying evidence from their Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. But between you and me, She’s as much a part of my family as anyone connected to us by birth or vows.

My best friend and I were looking for adventure during our senior year of high school. We found it at a fraternity house party full of rugby players who introduced us to new drinking games, and rape.