I don't see Ashton again the next night, or the next night. In fact, he never picks me up again.

Rick's funeral is that weekend. One of Rick's many interests was skateboarding. He could skateboard, he could rollerblade, he could snowboard, skii, he even sported a pretty cool unicycle. But one day, the board won.

As we drive to the funeral together, Sal tells me a little bit about him. She's stoically unemotional. But that's because she's determined enough to hide it.

"He wasn't perfect, but he was smart. He wanted to go places. He was artistic and well liked and he cared about things that no one else did. And I loved him," she says monotonically.

I suddenly regret the jealousy I felt towards her.

I make an effort to re-connect with my mom after that. We don't say much, but we go on drives together, mostly. I like the change in scenery.

We drive through the mountains together and I think about how my life is going to be.

I write a poem for my honors English class about a drive I took with Nolan that I should have taken with my mom.

This isn't how my life turns out.

A cold chill falls on the valley,

and for the first time this season,

snow can be seen on the mountain tops.

Disappointment;

fall must be at its end;

I missed it.

But not quite.

In the last dying days of September,

from the mountain tops,

lovely autumn still shows its face.

We turn the heat up in the car,

and take the trip,

I always take,

at this time,

to see the brilliant trees,

showing off on branches,

which winter will strip,

to bare threads.

Colors peaked,

in late September,

my favorite season,

ferocious,

tick, tock,

slipping by.

We fall onto the familiar path;

in small mounds at first,

snow sits upon the tainted leaves,

faint discrepancy to fall.

Last year snow did not sit upon these leaves.

Snow bites fiery leaves,

like white clouds,

and the colorful rainbow,

in childrens books,

they coexist.

Peculiar,

imperfect,

strange,

dead,

odd,

new,

trees bare,

trees tainted,

with color and cold.

Nature,

magically appealing,

bittersweet,

full of memories.

How my older siblings,

my dad,

my mom,

 my step-mom,

little siblings,

would have loved,

to see the mountains this year.

Time like the seconds,

on the ticking clock;

minutes insignificant,

hours meaningless.

Now sixteen, my birthday just past,

September.

A significant month,

it passes quickly.

Snow falls,

through the open windows,

of my mom's little green ford;

heat blasting,

a winter wonderland,

of quiet memories.

Tires crunch,

on rock littered pavement,

as we leave the path.

Snow like mist ripples,

down the windshield,

flakes turn to dew,

memories drip down hot glass.

I think to myself that in future years,

when I am off to college,

to new places,

to new things,

 I might visit this place again,

every autumn,

as the last days of September wilt,

die,

and the trees are at their most brilliant.

I might get a glimpse of the leaves,

before they begin to fall,

on Lambs Canyon.