It Was a Sign
The following is a short essay I wrote for a class I took this spring, Persuasion and Rhetoric.
The shadow of the Prudential Center fades as our car merges onto I-93. Each license plate scattered along the highway belongs to a different state. An electronic sign sits on the shoulder. In neon orange, it reads, SERIOUS CORONAVIRUS THREAT IN BOSTON. PRACTICE SOCIAL DISTANCING AND STAY HOME. The rest of the cars would pass it, like mine, their back seats packed full of everything from clothes to jars of peanut butter — remnants of an order that no longer existed.
After my mom’s Honda passes the sign, I look back at the avalanche of my belongings in the hatchback of the car. My yoga mat sits on top, it reminds me of my morning yoga classes on Boylston Street. My Leon Bridges poster is squished against the door handle. It used to hang above my desk, but now it’s been crumpled and torn amidst the chaos of moving out.
I open my phone and look at my calendar’s blue and purple boxes. The perfectly color-coded schedule taunts me. I hover over the 10:30 block, where my Research Methods class is listed. I click “delete recurring event,” and hover over the button “delete this and following events”. I press it. One by one, each class meets the same fate. Mondays are no longer packed with three back to back classes from 10:30 A.M. - 5:00 P.M., and Thursday nights don’t hold the excitement of club meetings. The future is painfully empty.
A notification appears above my blank calendar. It’s an email from the university’s Global Experience Office regarding a refund for my summer dialogue to Cuba. A pang of longing hits as I am reminded that May will no longer be spent baking under the Caribbean sun and exploring the local culture. Instead, the future will be fleece sweatshirts and inevitable rain in one of the whitest states in America.
With every lane change and passing rest stop, the distance between me and my life in Boston widens.
I think back to the sign that I passed at the beginning of my journey home. Its warning rings through my ears. Accompanying it is the realization that I can no longer have dance parties with my roommates at 1 AM. I can no longer stress about my dwindling printing dollars. I can no longer admire the way the afternoon sun filters into my dorm room. I can no longer make countless trips to Trader Joe’s with my best friend. All of the things which were so normal to me just days ago now cease to exist.
When my mom and I pull into our driveway, I am struck by how different it feels to see the old rocking chairs on the front porch and hear my dogs barking through the front door.
There’s an eerie feeling of familiarity, but so much has changed. After unpacking the car, I sit down on my bedroom floor. The bags scattered around my room loom over me. They hold my old college life and weighted grief. I take a deep breath and acknowledge the bravery it takes to let a new life happen to you.
from my previous blog posted on 01.12.20