Lilly

Time goes on. My friends from other parts of the U.S. complain about starting school; I grind my teeth into my second month of it. I panic over a calculus test at midnight and ace it the next morning. My college counselor tells me that 12 other people in my class are applying to one of my top choice universities, and I wonder helplessly what that means for my chances. With club soccer out of the picture, everything is about school and college applications and The Future, and sometimes I can’t believe that I once thought I could handle both school and soccer this semester. I don’t know how our athletes do it.

Time goes on. I get my MRI done; the technician on the evening shift is a gruff sort of guy who is impossibly careful with me as he settles my ankle into a foam pocket and tells me not to move, not even to wiggle my toes. He tells me that I won’t feel anything and gives me a pair of headphones to counteract the ominous clunking noises that the huge cylindrical machine makes as it scans my lower body. Half an hour later I’m wobbling out of the clinic with tingling legs—from the lengthy stillness or the changing magnetic fields?—and a vague hope that in a few days, maybe, I’ll be out of the air cast for good.

Time goes on. I’ll be seeing Purity Ring live soon, taping up my wristband and melding with the crowd. The last show I went to at this venue was flashy and wild with enough bass to make my stomach clench and everyone in attendance feel that much more alive. For the last song I joined hands with two people I didn’t know and whirled with the masses, made confident by anonymity. Will it be the same this year?

Time goes on. Maybe I only feel a little empty, but it’s a lot of the time. ♦