I Should Be In Houston Today

I should be leaving Austin this morning and heading east on Highway 290 just after sunrise en route to Houston. I should see those last fields of bonnets cling to blue. I should see paintbrush give way to pink and yellow flowers dotting the Texas country greenery.

I should have Petty and the Stones on the stereo with the windows rolled down. Wind in my face. Whiffs of small-town barbecue, oak and pecan, brisket and ribs, in my nose.

I should be thinking of things to say when I get to Houston, though. I shouldn’t be on the road for a luxurious, three-hour springtime drive. I should be prepared to say something to calm and to soothe. I should have something to say. But nothing but tears will come out.

I should be in Houston today because on this day two years ago, my friend Stephanie lost her only daughter, Jade Ariana Richardson to a heroin overdose. She was just 26 years old.

I should be in Houston to celebrate Jade’s endless exuberance for dancing in the car. Or her wizardry with a makeup kit that would rival any Hollywood effects artist. I should be in Houston because she loved the sea and space, and her hometown is where the Gulf of Mexico and NASA meet as neighbors separated only by pavement and concrete fences.

I should be in Houston to hug Stephanie. To hug Jade’s brothers. To hug Jade’s daughter. I should be in Houston to release balloons in a local park in honor of her memory. I should be in Houston to take everyone out for Dairy Queen afterwards. I don’t have any kids, but I have three nephews, and Dairy Queen is almost always a great idea.

But that’s not the only reason I should be in Houston this weekend. This was also going to be a weekend of fun in spite of mourning. This weekend my beloved but dishonest Houston Astros were supposed to play the Los Angeles Angels. One of my best friends lives in Houston now, but grew up in Orange County. He’s a die-hard Angels fan, and ever since the Astros moved to the AL West, we’ve tried to catch at least one game in every weekend series. We’ve seen Mike Trout and Jose Altuve square off countless times now. We’ve seen the Angels when they were awesome in 2015, but fell short to the World Champion Royals. We’ve seen the Astros during seasons where they lost 100 games, and then won 100 more albeit in dubious fashion.

We were supposed to sit in Section 318 of Minute Maid Park, and heckle each other mercilessly for nine innings or more. But here’s something that I was supposed to do as well that I never revealed to anyone until just now. I was going to invite Stephanie and her granddaughter Luna to the game with us. Completely on my dime. No worries about anything. I know good and well that Stephanie is ambivalent about baseball, but that’s not even the point. I wanted them both know how much they were loved, cared for, and looked after especially on a terrible day like April 18.

For Luna, in particular, I want her to know that adults, even adults she’s never met yet, are looking out for her and care about her enough to spend time with her teaching her about infield shifts, why Minute Maid has such a short porch in left field or why the Astros need redemption after becoming baseball’s new evil empire. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to care at all.

Or maybe she would smile and laugh like her mom. And that would make all the difference to me.

We were supposed to part ways after the game with hugs and tears and bittersweet smiles.

I was supposed to do all of this in Houston today. But I can’t.

The Coronavirus has crippled our bodies and our economy. Social distancing has impaired our freedom and our movements. Right now we can grieve, but we cannot console. We can cry, but we cannot lean into hug. We can huddle in private to express, but we cannot gather in public to release.

We cannot sit outside on a 80–degree day, eat ice cream with kids and share fellowship with adults. We cannot have a beer and a hot dog while watching the sunset at first pitch. We cannot cheer. We cannot high five.

We cannot embrace. Not in grief. Nor in happiness.

I was supposed to leave Houston and head back to Austin after a late breakfast of migas and coffee at a local taqueria. I was supposed to head back home this time on Highway 71 so I could swing by Hruska’s and get some blueberry kolaches in Ellinger.

I was supposed to squint to see the last bit of the bluebonnets while entering Bastrop County. I was supposed to be home knowing I made a difference in a time of mourning.

I was supposed to be in Houston this weekend. But what if Jade hadn’t made that one awful decision on that fateful day two years?

I suppose she would be in Houston this weekend too.