As the “big” day gets closer, I’m getting more and more excited to leave. My brain is buzzing with just a little of that extra energy, and I’m high on that drug called anticipation.
Today, I began to organize my t-shirts and sundresses by color and sleeve length. I assumed that this sort of strategic packing would serve me well while planning for the next three months. The question is: how does one pack dreams into two suitcases? Turns out this was nothing but a half hearted attempt because I spent the entire time in la-la-land. My closet turned into my own personal treasure trove of past adventures. I found old sneakers that I wore on that fateful day in some pseudo Italian-Spanish cafe where I invited myself (literally) to sit with 7 of the best girls I’ve ever met, eat pizza and make plans for what became the best semester of our lives. I found receipts, ticket stubs, and old shopping bags that were significant of so many wonderful and beautiful things that I’ve gone through the past few years. It wasn’t until I really ventured back into the depths of my closet where I found prom dresses from high school and an old soccer shinguard, that I really looked at my still empty suitcase and really realized what I was leaving this summer. In a few short moments, I felt home for the first time since I came back from school. Isn’t it funny that you never realize just how much that place you’re leaving is worth to you, until you’re actually leaving it? I looked at my favorite blue polka dot covered comforter and at the many picture frames and wrinkled magazine cutouts adorning my walls and found that more than any pair of high heels, I really wished I could take a suitcase of memories with me. I know that pictures frames and my mother’s Belgian waffles don’t count as necessities, but I’ll miss them the most all the same. There’s nothing more comforting than an evening cocktail, good conversation and sitting in my mother’s wicker chairs in our big, beautiful backyard. These are the memories that keep me going when the going gets rough. I’ve got a lot to look forward to and am eagerly anticipating all of it with open arms, but for now, chalk it up to nostalgia or a case of the homebody blues, but I’m going to milk this memory for all it’s worth: backyard barbecue, a little white wine and a lot of love. Homaha, I’ll miss you, but I promise I’ll be back soon.
