Weather of today careens me back to the brink of the private school year…
Me, rolling out of my single bed, tossing aside a floral duvet, scavenging through a pile on the swivel chair of shared nubby wool sweaters, and flying out the door, far past seven.
Me, running through the hills of the rolling campus in my roommate’s Birkenstocks, to hell with proper dress code, the buckles painted with sparkling blue nail polish, scrambling up the steps to the dining hall and under the lowering metal grate indicating service for breakfast was now closed.
Me, insisting I didn’t want pancakes, just hot water for the satchel of lemon tea I brought from my room, and every morning, me, plunking the bag into the sugared liquid, swirling it in my Nalgene and burning my tongue, late for class and mismatched, but complete…
Now me, wandering the streets, single for the day, the Birks replaced with flip flops, staring into the clouds and breathing in, over and over, just a little too much, because I am still here, and more than that, really alive, and I am sipping lemon tea and burning my tongue, but no one is expecting me now since I have nowhere, not one place that I know, to go.
In fall, every day is a Sunday, low and long and too beautiful to last…
Me, rolling out of my single bed, tossing aside a floral duvet, scavenging through a pile on the swivel chair of shared nubby wool sweaters, and flying out the door, far past seven.
Me, running through the hills of the rolling campus in my roommate’s Birkenstocks, to hell with proper dress code, the buckles painted with sparkling blue nail polish, scrambling up the steps to the dining hall and under the lowering metal grate indicating service for breakfast was now closed.
Me, insisting I didn’t want pancakes, just hot water for the satchel of lemon tea I brought from my room, and every morning, me, plunking the bag into the sugared liquid, swirling it in my Nalgene and burning my tongue, late for class and mismatched, but complete…
Now me, wandering the streets, single for the day, the Birks replaced with flip flops, staring into the clouds and breathing in, over and over, just a little too much, because I am still here, and more than that, really alive, and I am sipping lemon tea and burning my tongue, but no one is expecting me now since I have nowhere, not one place that I know, to go.
In fall, every day is a Sunday, low and long and too beautiful to last…
2 comments:
Fall has always brought me the oddest of shifts and turns-- I blame it on the shading trees. But, soon comes winter, AND, finally spring again. Rebirth. Rejoice.
Oops, mean't shedding trees.
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