Page 4 of Returning to Pine Ridge
I stand up fast, looking around for another exit, another escape. My eyes catch on the shape of the vintage trailer, curved and metallic, parked on the grass.
The Airstream.
I step inside and close the door behind me, and the sounds of the party muffle instantly. The small space wraps around me like a protective shell, quiet and dim and blessedly empty.
The Airstream’s interior is smaller than I expected, but not cramped. A small table against one wall is set with two microphones—professional-looking with pop filters and stands. Headphones rest on a small hook, and a lamp with a warm bulb provides the only light, casting everything in amber and shadows.
It smells like cedar and pencil shavings.
A placard sits on the table beside the microphones. The text is handwritten in careful print:
NEIGHBOR STORIES—SHARE YOUR MEMORY
PRESS THE BUTTON TO BEGIN RECORDING. PRESS AGAIN TO STOP. YOUR STORY WILL BE PRESERVED IN OUR COMMUNITY ARCHIVE.
THANK YOU FOR CONTRIBUTING TO OUR COLLECTIVE MEMORY.
A prominent red button next to the placard is attached to what I’m guessing is the recording device.
I move to the table and sit in the single chair positioned in front of the microphones. The cushion is worn but comfortable.The microphones are angled toward the seat, waiting. The red button sits between them, unlit, patient.
The lamp’s warm light makes everything feel distant, as if I’m disconnected from the world outside. In here, it’s just me and the microphones and the quiet. No one watching. No one expecting anything. No audience to perform for.
What would I even say? Where would I start?
I put the headphones on and reach for the button. My finger hovers over it, not quite touching.
What’s the worst that could happen?
I press the button.
The red light comes on with a soft beep. The recording device hums steadily, almost imperceptibly. The microphones wait.
I take a breath. Let it out.
“Hi, Mom and Dad. It’s Atlas.”
My voice sounds strange coming back at me through the headphones. Hollow and close at the same time. I clear my throat and start again.
“I wanted to record a message for your anniversary. Forty years is incredible. I mean, really incredible. You two have built a life so solid, so real. And I’ve always … I’ve always admired that.”
The words come easier than I expected. Maybe because I can’t see their faces. Maybe because the microphone just listens, doesn’t react, doesn’t judge.
“I’m really proud of you both. And I’m sorry I don’t say that enough. I’m sorry I don’t come home more often.”
The pause stretches out. I can hear my own breathing in the headphones. The party is still happening outside, but in here it’s just me and my voice and the truth I’m trying to find.
“I just … there’s so much happening in Denver, and I’ve been so focused on … on proving myself, I guess. On building this career and making you proud.”
My throat tightens. My eyes burn. I blink hard, twice, pushing back against the tears that want to come.
“I moved to Denver because I wanted to be someone. Someone important. Someone successful. I wanted to prove that leaving Pine Ridge was the right choice, that I could build a successful career and make you proud. And for a while, I thought I did. I thought I’d made it. Good job, good salary, working on interesting projects. I thought I was exactly who I was supposed to be.”
I run my thumb over my fingers. One breath. Two breaths.
“But I think … I think maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. Because the thing is?—”
My voice cracks. I stop. Start again.
