Saturdays Like This

New board, old shoes, old trucks. Perfect. Coffee next. You all know the spot. Hear about last night's antics, and laugh at the ones still working on recovery. Talk endlessly about the first spot to go to, decide on none until someone starts to leave, and then follow. 

Some tricks are landed, most aren't, but no one seems to care. Something feels right. We need to keep this going. Barbecue in the backyard while skating the dilapidated quarter pipe will do it. 

It's only evening. Hold steady. 

Grab a burrito, tall cans for some, sparkling French for others. Climb the highest hill, look out at the city, realize you're small. Talk about aliens, a little death, listen to your one cool friend go on about those great bands, architects, artists, and thinkers, and nod along, pretending you know too. Take it in. You've had a lot of Saturdays, but this one's special. Watch the sunset; know you won't be going home anytime soon. Someone's board won't make it back tonight; the excuse to lurk at the shop in the morning will have been met. 

Tomorrow you'll know it was a good day. Next Saturday you'll hope it will be as good, but it won't compare. Next year you'll have forgotten. Five years, not a thought. Eight years, you'll see a photo, remember how much you love your friends and the feeling of sitting on boards in high places where nothing else matters.