Lilly

I go home with a horrific sunburn and my possessions crammed gracelessly in the back of my mother’s compact car. It’s a long drive, but the wind turbines and cornfields greet me as we approach, and that’s comforting. Especially because home feels a little more foreign every time I go back. Not because I feel unwelcome, or because I feel I no longer belong. Not at all.

But there’s a part of me that stays on campus. A part that reminds me how excited I am for my new classes—a course load met with looks of alarm by my peers—and new campus jobs, tutoring and grading in the physics department. A part that grinds its teeth over not getting to go see my favorite soccer team at a few more home games over the summer. A part of me that realizes I’ve said goodbye, now, already, to some people I’ve been able to call my friends. Graduation seems so much more final, all of a sudden.

I smear aloe vera over my cheekbones and lie in a bed that’s mine but feels a little unfamiliar, and realize that for the first time in almost five months I can sleep in tomorrow. No obligations, no work, no studying for exams until I leave for my internship at the end of the month. It is a freedom I am no longer accustomed to. I don’t remember if I like it or not. I guess I will find out. ♦