i have to start packing again soon.
Yesterday I went to Bowling Green with Sara to visit the old office. Today John and I went to Camden to see my father-in-law. Tomorrow we're going to Atlanta to see our friends there.
This all amounts to, for me, final good-byes. Well, not final. These people aren't out of my life. But we're still leaving.
I walked around campus yesterday feeling a little disoriented. Could this really be my life? Am I really moving to California? Did I really even graduate college? It's the middle of August--shouldn't I be buying paper and folders in the back-to-school aisle at Wal-Mart? And Sara and I were kind of quiet on the ride back to Nashville. I wonder when I'll be in her car again.
The land around Camden looks like a swamp. Wesley took us to Bruceton, the town where he grew up, and these huge expanses of puddled fields and large-leafed ground plants surrounding dead, branchless, colorless trees lined the highway. How can something that looks so nourishing have so much stagnation and death in it?
I'm leaving the South in the summertime. The humidity has gone back up, now that Hurricane Charley has run its course. And everything is sticky again. My skin feels dry and flaky from my not slathering lotion all over myself after I shave. And, of course, I have to shave or my legs would suffocate.
The first time I ever saw Sara, she was wearing a Cats T-shirt and she looked bored. I was bored. We were in this weird meeting in our dorm during orientation week in which the RA's and the Hall Director kept trying to convince us that we were living in the best dorm on campus, referencing their own inside jokes as often as possible. Even though the dorm hadn't been renovated since the 70's. Even though it still didn't have air conditioning to justify moving to Kentucky in August. Even though it was painfully obvious no one liked it there.
The second time I saw Sara, I asked if I could sit with her to eat my breakfast when I saw her in the cafeteria. All I really remember about the conversation was that we talked about going to Barnes & Noble together sometime. (Going to Barnes & Noble would later become a social activity for us.)
The first time I ever saw Wesley, he had a mullet. We were at the Irish Parade in Erin and were all supposed to look for John's sister when the band went by. I don't remember anything he said to me. I remember what John was wearing. And who was standing down the street. I remember the fluttering feeling in my stomach, like something important was happening.
When I came back from New York, my parents' house looked drastically different because they'd ripped out the bushes in front of their house. They were huge, overgrown bushes that needed more room and a backdrop other than the house. I watched my dad pull what was left of their roots out of the ground with his new tractor. It looked as easy spooning the stewed cabbage my Grandma used to make out of one of her big, green and brass pots.
I wonder how long the roots of palm trees grow. What could hold those lanky, California palms in place? What could keep something so iconic from tumbling over, off the cliffs into the Pacific?
The field by my Grandma's house, where my life is being stored, is full of Queen Anne's Lace. By November, hay bales will be there instead. They'll sit there, spread apart, looking neat and clean, like a village awaiting the Big Bad Wolf.
This all amounts to, for me, final good-byes. Well, not final. These people aren't out of my life. But we're still leaving.
I walked around campus yesterday feeling a little disoriented. Could this really be my life? Am I really moving to California? Did I really even graduate college? It's the middle of August--shouldn't I be buying paper and folders in the back-to-school aisle at Wal-Mart? And Sara and I were kind of quiet on the ride back to Nashville. I wonder when I'll be in her car again.
The land around Camden looks like a swamp. Wesley took us to Bruceton, the town where he grew up, and these huge expanses of puddled fields and large-leafed ground plants surrounding dead, branchless, colorless trees lined the highway. How can something that looks so nourishing have so much stagnation and death in it?
I'm leaving the South in the summertime. The humidity has gone back up, now that Hurricane Charley has run its course. And everything is sticky again. My skin feels dry and flaky from my not slathering lotion all over myself after I shave. And, of course, I have to shave or my legs would suffocate.
The first time I ever saw Sara, she was wearing a Cats T-shirt and she looked bored. I was bored. We were in this weird meeting in our dorm during orientation week in which the RA's and the Hall Director kept trying to convince us that we were living in the best dorm on campus, referencing their own inside jokes as often as possible. Even though the dorm hadn't been renovated since the 70's. Even though it still didn't have air conditioning to justify moving to Kentucky in August. Even though it was painfully obvious no one liked it there.
The second time I saw Sara, I asked if I could sit with her to eat my breakfast when I saw her in the cafeteria. All I really remember about the conversation was that we talked about going to Barnes & Noble together sometime. (Going to Barnes & Noble would later become a social activity for us.)
The first time I ever saw Wesley, he had a mullet. We were at the Irish Parade in Erin and were all supposed to look for John's sister when the band went by. I don't remember anything he said to me. I remember what John was wearing. And who was standing down the street. I remember the fluttering feeling in my stomach, like something important was happening.
When I came back from New York, my parents' house looked drastically different because they'd ripped out the bushes in front of their house. They were huge, overgrown bushes that needed more room and a backdrop other than the house. I watched my dad pull what was left of their roots out of the ground with his new tractor. It looked as easy spooning the stewed cabbage my Grandma used to make out of one of her big, green and brass pots.
I wonder how long the roots of palm trees grow. What could hold those lanky, California palms in place? What could keep something so iconic from tumbling over, off the cliffs into the Pacific?
The field by my Grandma's house, where my life is being stored, is full of Queen Anne's Lace. By November, hay bales will be there instead. They'll sit there, spread apart, looking neat and clean, like a village awaiting the Big Bad Wolf.
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