Before I left for college, my cousin told me that the next time I came home, I would feel weird, because everything would still be the same, but I would be different. That my blue comforter, my messy desk with years of Seventeen Magazines and Cosmopolitans strewn around it, my little black Bunny, my mother’s warm and inviting arms, the loud commanding voice of my best friend would be the same, and it was I who was changing. There is something Ptolemaic about this understanding of the movement of life: that all these bodies and lives would remain stagnant compared to my growth, that the way I would come to measure the world would be through my own steps, rather than seeing it in concordance with those around me. This seemed wrong, almost self-involved, but, I mean, who was I to disagree with her four years at University of Maryland?
So I believed my cousin. This might have had something to do with the fact that she had long hair and a boyfriend who was cute and seemed nice, but there was also something else about it. I wanted to to know that everything would be frozen the way I left it. I wanted to know that my little sister would never start flirting with boys and my dogs would always be able to amble up the stairs with the dexterity of an eleven year old boy forever. I wanted to be able to come home and adapt myself to the world that I knew I fit into, since I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to fit into the crevice that was waiting for me to come slip myself into it at St. John’s.