The last May I did not slog all my belongings together in suitcases whose zipper teeth where yanking into each other was back when Alyssa and I still celebrated each other’s birthdays together. 18. Very much a teenager and one whose life was far more stationary (should we suggest that this is a proxy for something to do with maturity?) than I believe I’ve ever realized.
In 2009, I hugged Nate goodbye and roadtripped up to Mollie’s woodsy Yarmouth home. Maine was so sweet–surprisingly chilly weather moods when Pennsylvania was practically sweating when we left. I came home for a week after our four day jaunt and then left for Turkey for three weeks.
In 2010, after a whirlwind of questions about China to California, I celebrated my arrival back to Pennsylvania by going to Baker’s Diner with my Pennsylvania family. I supposed I should have been more grateful for the West Coast interrogation–the homecoming of inside jokes made my insides feel far warmer than they ever had with my China cohort–but I don’t think they ever asked about what it felt like to defy instructions, bike around the Xian city wall, and have your bike breakdown.
In 2011, I moved from North Complex (Kelly) to South Complex (Witmer) or Grantham to Grantham or maybe not so much at all. Except for the fact that I left an apartment that I had shared with four slightly frenzied nurses for a roommate who was perhaps the best bowler I’d ever befriended. (Should memory serve, I’d say she played in some sort of championships in July.) For the entire month of June, every morning, I attempted to conquer the Witmer cliff on Victoria’s trendy and character-inducing, one-gear bicycle.
No one in my family wants to think that the Morgan they know and love actually existed on graduation day last year when I basically abandoned all packing and cleaning (uh, thanks roommates?) to fall within the less than twenty-four hours of their trip to commemorate me. Not only did did my father run out for a last-minute Rubbermaid run, at one point, I stuffed my Subaru, powered to Dr. Harles, tried to find a decent place to chow down with the family without breaking into shameful tears, and then left for New Orleans, via Birmingham, via Isle of Palms, South Carolina. We left at 9 or 10 or 11pm that night. I only remember lying on the pavement at one point when talking to David.
In 2013, I left the first New York home I ever had with the aid of two near-and-dear oldie but goodie friends from the alma mater. Instead of donning green robes this year, Dawnique, Tom and I instead reinvigorated our relationship by injecting me with huge doses of encouragement, loading Tom’s car, stuffing hangers in plastic bins and carrying large objects. They deserve a mighty thanks.
Goodbye Corona. (You were where I become.)