By AIDAN CAHILL
Photo courtesy of the author.
Boise, Idaho
It is late afternoon, and the June sun flirts with descent like a nervous pool diver. The foothills to my back are sprayed white-gold, as is Riverstone, my old K-12 school just across the cheatgrass field to my right. Its concrete panel walls and sawtoothed roof are a familiar reminder of years subjected to exam booklets and wormish spaghetti. From above, Riverstone looks like a proud X, and since I graduated two years ago, that is the only angle I have witnessed it from. I catch it for fleeting seconds before my plane plunges into the clouds, destined for college 3,000 miles east.
