The summer before I left for college took on this eerie quality. The whole time it felt like there was a crust of ice beneath my feet, and I was skimming across it, waiting to plunge through it when I finally stepped wrongly. But until I did, the world was alive and glorious, the sense of finality only daring to slink in the shadows.
It took me a long time to put a name to the feeling, but when I did, I wished I hadn't. Nostalgia. I remember hearing somewhere that it was just another word for grief, for those thousands of had-beens and never-agains.
And after I named it, I could see it. (Funny how those things go.)
When Madison and Chase and Belén and Tai and I went to Val's for shakes and fries, always eating them in the parking lot on the hood of someone's car. When we'd go down to the river and drink cheap wine, dancing beneath the spotlight of the full moon. When we drove to The Quarries, windows rolled down, arms resting on the car door and clothes sticking to our backs from the heat. When we'd jump from the high ledge (all thirty feet of open air filled with our shrieks and flailing limbs), and plunge into the cool summer waters.
All of those moments (Madison helping me adjust my bikini top while treading water because the water ripped it down, Logan having bonfires every Friday night and everyone crashing in his basement or backyard on the trampoline after a few secreted beers) were overlaid with this grief.
And that thin layer of ice holding, ever so precariously, keeping me from tumbling into the depths below.
Of all the ways I don't want to die, drowning in nostalgia tops the list.
In some ways, it feels stronger than grief. Or maybe they're so intertwined that I can't tell where one begins and the other ends. Or is it the other way around?
I guess it doesn't matter though; I can't avoid either forever. So let's indulge ourselves, shall we? In nostalgia, in grief as sweet and bitter as dark chocolate. Let's.
There was a difference in the air after that night. It's not something I can describe well, but I'm sure you've experienced it. It's not the shifting seasons, the fall leaves gathering on the ground, or the campus collectively huddling indoors as winter crawls closer. Nothing like that.
It's your breath hitching in your throat and heart-rate jumping up a few notches. The world seeming dazzlingly bright and soft and new. It's an inward shift: ever so slight, ever so significant.
It blooms in your chest and you follow it, a sunflower to the light. You chase that feeling.
Always, it leads to Clair's side— the source, your sun.
"Ugh, I have to do homework." Clair lays her forehead on her textbook, slumping as low in her chair as she can. It cannot feel pleasant.
"Or..." you flip on her TV, as enticing and potent as anything-that-is-not-homework.
"Really? I'm studying the complexities of the universe and you offer me the junk food of knowledge?"
"That is exactly what I'm doing. And and and—" you shake a can of Pringles "—Real junk food."
"Oooh, M. the Rebel. I like it." Clair tosses her notebook away and yanks a blanket down from her loft. "Shove over."
You roll onto your stomach, head on your elbow, legs kicked up and crossed behind you. You feel comically like a little kid watching cartoons. All you'd need to do is drop your jaw and let your eyes bug out a little. Clair twists, contorting herself to match your pose.
"Son of a...!"
Laughing, you clap your hands to your mouth. She's wrapped herself in a cocoon, a burrito of Clair.
"It's not funny!" She spins the other direction, uncoiling herself.
You can't help it. The laughter bubbles from behind your lips, filling up the tiny room. Clair cocks an eyebrow and lunges after you, blanket raised. The world goes dark, and moves rather quickly.
And there you are, in a Clair and M. burrito.
"Take that." Her freckles jump, erratic.
You match her smile, before wrenching your arms free. "You win."
"Always." The minx shoots you a wink, and you return it.
Had-beens and never-agains might be worth it for that moment. Let the ice crack and take me. Some things are worth the pain.
YOU ARE READING
Minnesota Goodbyes
Teen FictionM., a college sophomore, is haunted by the events of a year ago that ended another girl's life. In an attempt to clear her conscience, she writes her confession down in a battered notebook addressed to a stranger. This search for redemption is far m...
