My phone buzzes once. Then twice. Then three and four times. It’s one of my childhood friends, Russell. He’s panicking for me.

Dude. Your parents are here, he’s texting me. He means at the church my mom goes to, and he wants to know how they got there since he knows I was out of town a day or so ago.

I tell him that I’m actually back, and then everything’s okay and I’ll take them home.

“I was so worried,” he says when we hang out later that day. “I saw your dad when I walked in and I was all ‘wait, how did you get here?’”

I wrote once that, if possible, I always park next to shopping cart lots. This story is why.

Costco parking lots are chaos incarnate, particularly the ones in suburban neighbourhoods. They’re packed, people are stressed and impatient, and everyone is trying to navigate every possible corner to either get a parking spot, or to get out.

Now add in my dad.

My dad is helping me push our shopping cart out of Costco and into chaos, when he suddenly starts jerking the cart towards my right. I counter this by pushing us ever so slightly back to the left. This, of course, makes my dad upset.

“Are you happy today?”

“Yes.”

My mom continues to mumble. I think it’s an involuntary motion, she’s not trying to speak and it’s not some kind of loud breathing. Something is forcing her to keep making short, gentle “huh”-like sounds.

“How come?” I press.

A few weeks ago, I spontaneously bought a plane ticket to Seattle. I can’t remember what made me both angry and sad (how many choices are there, between my dad or my mom), but I was emotionally aching for some semblance of sanity. I clicked ‘purchase,’ and immediately felt better since I now had something to look forward to.

The past two months have been crazy and I’m questioning whether my life makes any sense or if there’s any connection to the person I was two months before. When I lived in Seattle, a friend once told me he was jealous of me, that in his eyes, I was the quintessential “guy to be.” I had a really good job, made good money, had a lot of friends and was well-liked. I even went to church, even if I didn’t love it, and I’d probably find a wife soon and get married. Add on the activities I was into, like the great outdoors, or helping others in local communities, or how I pursued creative hobbies on the side. Only two months later, to varying degrees I’m not any of those things anymore. For some of them, maybe I never was.

“Maybe nursing homes are not so bad,” my mom suddenly blurts.

I almost drop my fork on the dinner plate.

“What was that?”

“Your dad’s aunt is in a nursing home now. They just put her there. Maybe it’s a good idea. Being at home is very quiet.”

I almost drop my fork again.

My mom has voluntarily, with zero prodding from me, brought up the idea of some form of assisted care. This world truly is unpredictable.

Invulnerability. The greatest superpower in the world.

Not invincibility, which is slightly different because it technically means “can’t be overcome,” opposed to invulnerability, which means “can’t be harmed.” And also not immortality, which as a little kid, I always got confused with both.

We all love those “between these two nonsensical things, which would you choose” questions because they reflect something about us as people. And if invulnerability is one of the options, I always choose that.

I really like Washington license plates. What a strange thing to say. Maybe the truth is I don’t actually care about license plates, and that I’m simply experiencing some extreme nostalgia as I slowly twist the screwdriver in my hand and gently lift the plates off my car. I wish I could keep them, but the DMV says ‘no’ for obvious reasons and so here I am, swapping my car’s, and my own Washington identity for a California one.

I hold a quick funeral for my former car life. When I first got my Washington license. When I got my car. I had a weird mnemonic I came up to remember my plate number: American Eagle Company, extra wide. Don’t ask, I promise it was meaningful to me.

If you say “eggs with ketchup” I’ll puke a little in my mouth. But “eggs and tomato” and I think of this Chinese comfort food dish which is exactly what it sounds like—scrambled eggs and sauteed tomato.

I don’t actually know if it’s really Chinese. I’ve had it the small Chinese town I taught English in once, but somehow I’m not entirely convinced. A quick Google search turns up an article about a dish that has connections between both Arab and Chinese communities. Nothing super definitive.

Clear skies without a cloud in sight, the sun bearing down but there’s still a cool breeze, kids darting about, climbing up ladders, sliding down tunnels, and parents rushing to soothe their crying, injured offspring.

At some point in my life, this moment in front of my eyes may have been my dream. Not, right now.

I’m standing next to my brother, trying to chat about our parents, work, life, but only in the short bursts between when his kids bounce around yelling for our attention.

Morning is a sacred time. It’s quiet, serene, and I have it all to myself. Because it’s the time before John and Leah wake up.

I’ve noticed the two of them like to open every set of blinds possible first thing in the morning. I decide to get one step ahead of them, fumble around with the little twisty rods because they’re not what I’m used to, and am eventually rewarded with the sun’s golden rays that slip through. I’m new to this house and still figuring out its little nooks and crannies.

Breakfast is my first order of business. There’s two boxes of cereal in the kitchen: the healthy option for me, and Cheerios for John. He’s not a fan of my “grown up” stuff, but I’m not about to let him eat standard-issue ultra sugary goodness. Cheerios, the Honey Nut kind, is a decent compromise. Leah doesn’t eat cereal, so I steam a few Chinese “maan tau” bread buns for her. In case they wake up soon.