It was a nameless summer night, one of many after my junior year of college. My best friend Katie and I were sitting on her back porch swing outside smoking cigarettes.
Late summer nights were routine for us; ever since we were 15 and 16 we spent part of them together. Midnight swims in her aboveground pool followed by whatever late-night movie was playing on TV. We passed a lot of idle time together making plans for the future, for getting out.
That summer had been particularly brutal with heat, making it nearly impossible to enjoy. Night offered some relief, but it also brought mosquitoes. The smoke from our cigarettes kept them at bay.
Late nights are one of the few times I feel I can be completely honest. There's something different between the hours of midnight and five a.m. that just make it OK to say things I wouldn't usually say; offer insights I wouldn't usually offer.
This was one of those subconscious nights.
"I don't feel like I have a home anymore," I tell Katie, who raises her eyes in a quizzical look, her way of saying to continue.
"I don't belong here anymore, but I don't belong permanently in Oswego and I don't know where I'm going to belong next year. I'm just...temporary."
"You're lucky you got out," says Katie, who has been plotting her escape since high school.
But the problem, as I've found with getting out, is that metaphorical sense of "roots" begins to disappear and a feeling of "everything-is-temporary" begins to replace it.
What does it mean to have roots? I always thought it meant a place I could always go back to, no matter what point I am at in my life. But the further I get away from the place I grew up, the more it feels like an abstraction: something I'm supposed to have but not quite sure if I have it.
So I've decided I'm ripping my metaphorical roots from whatever ground they're currently planted in and taking them with me. Every place I've been and fallen a bit in love with is not staying where it is anymore. It's coming with me.
Mine Hill: my favorite oak tree I used to sit in for hours reading, aging aluminum slide in my backyard, dirty bike paths behind the elementary school. Coming with me.
The Shore: the feel of the sand after the beachcombers are done raking it, "watch the tram car please" announcements, rickety roller coast on Pier One in Wildwood. Coming with me.
Dover: empanadas by theater, annoying air conditioners in the high school, five hour marching band bus rides. Coming with me.
Addison, Vermont: dairy cows that wake me up at 5 a.m., basement bar, miniature donkey farm. Coming with me.
DC: Mr. Smith's the piano bar, Frances Scott Key monument on M street, Shake Shack. Coming with me.
Ecuador: rides in the back of a pick-up truck, winding roads of Quito, my host mother's amazing cooking. Coming with me.
Oswego: 24-hour Tim Horton's, the river walk, the cubbies outside the library (the perfect place to curl into with a book). Coming with me.
Roots. Metaphorical, but not temporary anymore. Every place I've ever been, will always be with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment