I get sentimental at night.
I’ve had lines from Sara Bareilles’s song “Breathe Again” threading through my mind throughout the day (“Car is parked, bags are packed/but what kind of heart doesn’t look back?”). The night before any new move (whether to a foreign country, back to college, vacation), all my childhood seems to twinge reminders into my heart about what I’m leaving. No matter how desperate I’ve been to get away from my parents, my tiny town, the monotony of a summer job routine, the night before, everything settles into a kind of dusky already-missing. I think it’s partly due to the fact that during these moments, I see how quietly proud my parents are of me, which just wrecks me every time.
But it’s been a lovely last week home. At the beginning of the week, twelve or thirteen of us from high school all got together at a friend’s house, out in the country. There is something about driving down empty, winding gray roads lined with trees & fields & the sun beginning to set behind you that makes me feel like everything is right in the world. The fullness & contentedness of the moment is precious to me. Everyone brought a dish to pass & beer & it was the perfect night to cram onto the deck & barbecue & drink & make cracks at each other from high school. We’re like family now. We feasted (grilled clams, shrimp, jalapeno poppers, steak, pork chops, potato, pasta, fruit, & green salads, & more!) & caught up & met significant others & gossiped about what our classmates were up to these days. Bullfrogs croaked their own conversations in the mirror-round pond a few feet away & when we made a bonfire, the smoke backdropped against the mountains & close-set trees. We set off fireworks with first a 66% success rate, then a 50% success rate, & then we stopped trying altogether. I drove home with a friend around 11, sleepy & sober, with smiles lanterning my entire inside.
Second summer bonfire of the season!
This morning, I got up at 6:45 am to go on a super early morning hike (a last adventure!) with a dear friend. She had called the previous night, asking if 8:00 am (& then 7:30) was too early. I’m realizing I like the early morning more & more, so I said that was fine (my 6:45 am self did not immediately agree with last night self’s assessment of that). At any rate, once I’m up, I’m up, so I ran over to her house & then we took about a 5 mile round trip hike up to Star Field, which I’d actually never been to. We took Oscar, her large, joyous Labradoodle, who set to chasing chipmunks & other various wildlife once Anna let him off the leash. The hike is mostly straight uphill on your way to Star Field, up a rather vertical road & then through the woods. 
Oscar in question.
Naturally, as we worked our way up the hill, we panted out (okay, it was mostly me huffing) feminist discourse, book suggestions, gender/race discussions, & the usual things we usually talk about when we get together. Also lighter things, like laughing at Oscar & getting enthusiastically greeted by a hulking chocolate Lab & his owner, another early morning hiker like us. The view when you clear the woods is breathtaking:
And it just gets better when you walk down the hill & face toward town:
I dropped by her house for a cup of coffee afterward, greeted her father & watched her make muffins. There’s a certain comfort to being in a familiar kitchen & her kitchen is everything that I think of when I think of Cooperstown, with an earthy organic & elegantly functional feel to it. I took the long way home, down Brooklyn Ave., to be in the middle of a road that has wildflower fields bordering both sides of it. I’ve been soaking in wildflower fields & stars lately, thinking I won’t get many of those where I’m going.
My aunt dropped by after dinner & we promised to write letters to each other & my parents said that they would write back if I wrote. I can think of nothing better than handwritten correspondence from my parents (as something to treasure both now & in the future). I finished packing & cleaning & brought everything out to the car & there was an air of finality to shutting the trunk & turning back to face our candleglow house, with my parents’ figures only dimly visible in the dining room & the two cats milling about the steps of the deck.
My friend Alexandria sent me a song today–an “I love you, safe travels” song & I think I’ll close with lines from it & a link:
And we will all be changed/Oh, oh, oh, oh— /Oh, oh, oh, oh—/Speak now don’t carry on like it’s /Always gonna be/Hold child this expectation /But don’t forget to love /We can shape but can’t control/These possibilities to grow.
I’m ready to take NYC by storm–to see how these possibilities to grow will make me grow & shift & put down roots in sidewalk pavement. A writer friend recently asked in a letter what things we would write down to make sure we don’t forget later: I am writing down this expectation & this rollercoaster thrill & all this love, brimming, brimming all around me. I will be changed.
The Wanderer 