for summer, for (the) fall

It was the turning point, we should have known that. Those final evenings downtown, under the white lights outside our coffee shop, why didn't we feel the sand slipping through the glass? Why didn't we hear the song the cicadas sang, the one of a life briefly lived, briefly lost?

They were prophetic, those ugly prehistoric bugs. The last time I saw them, I was too little to know--and just as soon I was gone to the north, their buzzsaw only a memory. And just so, they heralded another shift in seasons this year, roaring and churning, rising and falling in the devilish heat. This time too I was leaving the south, this time too I was leaving some part of my innocence behind.

Is there any irony in the fact I hate them? Hate the very thing that signaled my departure from home both times? I wish I knew.



My best friends. We all sat there those humid heavy nights, laughing and talking and joking. We breezed through high school together, even if we were only close the final year or two. We waited impatiently and counted down the days until we left for our new "homes," the next step of academia and the gateway to adulthood.

And one by one, we left. Some of us checked out long before our cars had left the driveway. Others claimed reluctance. But we all went. Even those who stayed behind--they're gone now, aren't they? The ones you sat in Algebra with, the ones you clowned around with at lunch. We all left.

And so on the day I stepped onto the plane, I too left. I left behind my family, my town, my sweet tea and beautiful park and church and city. I was excited. I haven't been disappointed. Instead I've been surprised by what I miss. I've been surprised by how much I miss the place I thought I hated, and how much I look forward to going home again. I've been surprised by how reluctant I am to let my faint accent disappear, how much I miss Sonic after a football game or open mic and the Blue Ridge Mountains on the way to visit Chattanooga.


I spent so long waiting for the north again that I forgot what made it so special in the first place: my innocence, my old house, my small town--but most importantly, my family and friends. I'm here again. So many of them are not.



I'll go home to Franklin someday sooner than I know, I'm sure--the days here slip by faster than I can name them, and it's true I love my school and the people I'm around. But I got what I wanted only to discover that perhaps I was missing the biggest parts of all, and that has been the single most important thing college has taught me so far.