I’ve been to Texas many times in my life. In fact it was the first place I flew on my own, excited to board the plane alone as an 8? 10? year-old, off to visit my grandparents. I’ve spent time in Denison, Dallas, Austin, Houston; passed through most of the NW side of the state on a road trip from Santa Fe to Philadelphia (where we saw freezing fog in the desert, a truly unique experience). I’ve watched firework shells fall around me on the beach at a manmade lake, visited antique boutiques on a stretch of Main Street straight out of a Western film, fried donuts until I burned myself and my grandmother had to break an arm off her aloe plant to soothe my wounds, listened as Sheryl Crowe pulled Matthew McConaughey’s son on stage to play drums during her set.
But this trip was different. It was the first time returning after the deaths of both my grandfather and my father, on a mission to clean out a house filled with memories and spread ashes in Lake Texoma. It was a hard trip, but an important one.
There was an incredibly awkward, haphazardly-organized memorial party to which almost nobody showed up and we had to ask the band to quit early. But then there was time to sorting through silly photos and cherished books, and the day on the lake.
I’ve always loved being out on the water, no matter the vessel or the place. Kayak, houseboat, ferry, I’ve been on so many different crafts across the country and world. It felt right that we rent a pontoon boat one last time on this trip, to enjoy the hot Texas sun and explore the lake that meant so much to my dad and my grandparents. How could we not spread some of his ashes here, on a day that shifted from threatening storms to gentle sunshine? And the cove where a tiny sailboat was moored was perfectly fitting for the job, reminding us of the catamaran my father had loved in his youth.
I remembered the trailer by the lake where I would sit with Mimi as she watched the Young and the Restless, venturing outside to light up bottle rockets and light up snaps and snakes with the neighborhood kids. I didn’t spend very much time here, but the time I spent left an impression.
“Who’s driving?” the woman working the boat rental asked as she loaded life jackets onboard, trying to assess if we had experience with a pontoon before.
“My old man always used to drive, but I will today,” Aubrey volunteered, his tone unusually bashful. The rest of us were all suddenly looking in different directions, eyes reflecting the water.
It goes without saying, but I miss you more than your driving and protecting,and fixing. But it’s intertwined somehow - my appreciation for the way you always took care of me and made me feel safe. The way you always steered straight.
The end of the trip took us to Austin, an attempt to make a bit of a vacation out of a tough pilgrimage. Amy gifted me a stay at the Hotel San Jose under the guise of scouting out photoshoot locations, and it turned out to be the perfect secret garden in which I could finally catch my breath. Oh, how I cherish quiet and slowness - the moments of pause between activity. I don’t always want to be alone (and I’d like to think I could share these kinds of silences with the right type of person), but sometimes it’s the thing I need most of all.
Drinking my coffee in this little pool before anyone else was awake and the sun got too hot to avoid the shade was truly a gift. The chain blocking the pool entrance was still up when I entered the lobby, and I considered going back to my room without making a fuss. But the pool was calling and the girl at reception didn’t seem too inconvenienced by my request to open it. Waking up in cool water, surrounded by trailing leaves is a unique experience. I sent Jonathan (who I still hadn’t met) a half-submerged photo featuring my toes, and he laughed at my perpetual search for swimming spots. I’ll never tire of water on my skin. Summer is for swimming, plain and simple.
A young couple and their 7-year-old daughter eventually joined me, the parents smiling apologetically despite the fact that I didn’t mind the company. Sometimes the energy of a child is exactly what is needed to break the spell of a still morning.
Later, I asked Jessica why romantic things never happen to me at home. She said it’s because I don’t paint at pools at dawn. She is wise.
Spending sunrise at the Barton Springs pool on my last day in Texas felt like the right kind of send-off for a trip so fraught and uncomfortable and sweet. A fitting end to a week filled with the water of pools and lakes and tears. It was still completely dark when I parked the rental car (which I did not have permission to drive), but the energy in this place was palpable. A mix of young and old had flocked with me to this morning tradition of fresh air and exercise and socializing. Some wore wet suits and swimming caps; others did laps with snorkels and kick boards. People clung to the edges and rested on the algae-covered stairs. Others peeled off their clothes to reveal underwear, jumping in without a second thought.
I slid into the water, losing my breath to the cold. After a moment I swam a few laps, letting my senses awaken as I smiled and exchanged pleasantries and good mornings with the groups I slowly passed. I pulled myself out as the light started to brighten on the horizon, changing from a pale peach to an electric orange as the sun illuminated the leaves of the trees that lined the stream feeding the natural pool. I felt envious of the people around me who had perpetual access to this place, although in most other ways Texas seemed mostly inhospitable. I dried off, moving to where I’d stacked my belongings and curling up in the grass to paint: I wanted to try to capture the uncapturable.
There was only time for a quick drawing, and soon enough I was packing up. I pulled my kaftan over my head and had to take it off again when I realized it was inside out. I laughed at myself, thankful I didn’t know anyone here before heading towards the entrance, pausing on the little bridge to take a photo of the sparkling water. After a moment I realized I was blocking the exit for a young man who had been walking behind me. “Sorry, you can pass me,” I offered, stepping aside so he could pass by. After admiring the view for a moment I pocketed my phone and started walking again, realizing he had waited for me on the other side of the walkway.
“Can I see your painting?” he asked and I laughed and nodded, digging for the sketchbook in my bag. I wasn’t particularly proud of my work, but I didn’t mind sharing. I explained that I liked sketching my surroundings and he told me that his mom was an art teacher and he was disappointed he hadn’t inherited her gifts. I told him that sometimes all it takes is practice, and he agreed. After a moment he asked if I came here often, and I admitted I was flying out later that day. It was a meet-cute not to be.
I texted Jonathan as I reached the car - I was finally headed home. And I hoped there would be more romance in my future.