Closure

 

It was all I could think about for weeks. It manifested my mind and spread through me like a virus – the homesickness was starting to plague my soul.

It’s no secret that I missed my undergrad years. I missed having an influence on the student body. I missed having a community that knew me inside and out. I missed the little nooks and crooks that only I knew about, the mischievousness I associated with different areas of the city. Compared to the unfamiliarity of the New York City, to its dirtiness and chaos, Ann Arbor was a sanctuary, a place I could call home. So even though so much of it would remind me of the times I were hurt, I couldn’t wait to get there.

Throughout my visit, there were many times when I had to tell myself to not cry. And there were many times when I did cry anyway. I worried about what people thought of my lackadaisical attitude towards “How’s New York?!” I certainly didn’t want to worry them; they’ve supported me so much throughout my time in Ann Arbor and beyond – I couldn’t let them down now. I’m supposed to be having the time of my life. Little girl with big dreams, that’s who I am supposed to be.

So instead, I answered their questions with questions. How are you? How is everything? Are you excited about graduating?

A lot had changed. It’s only been a year, but there was so much that I’ve missed. Relationships that started and ended. Futures that’s been carved, changed, and created. A lot was lost. Some weren’t there for me anymore, though I can’t blame them because I wasn’t there for them either. A lot remained the same though. Through my feigned excitement, through my red teary eyes, they could see. They could see that I needed them, and they welcomed me. No questions asked.

There were some people that I made sure to visit because they were my anchors in Ann Arbor. At times like this when my morale is so low, I was searching for an oasis, for a place to seek help. One of them was my mentor, whose words help me shift my mindset. What he told me was quite simple: I’m carrying around a part of him. Just like watercolor paint, my colors have absorbed his, and his mine, and the two had conjoined to create a new shade. And I think its true; I’ve become a little bit of everyone who has been gracious enough to let me into their lives. I didn’t create myself. Rather, I’m grown because of the people in my life. And to not show the world that I am a product of their influence on me would be a disgrace to their kindness, love, and selflessness.

 

Over the weekend, I realized that people care about me a lot more than I think, and that they appreciated my existence a lot more than I expected. And that meant the world for me. It’s exactly what I needed to keep myself going.

When I asked my friends how they feel, they said that they’re a bit nervous, but they’re ready. They’re ready to graduate, ready to go experience whatever the world has prepared for them. I stared at them in awe –  how are they so fearless? Then I remembered I was like them too. I was eager to present myself to the universe, to walk into the tiger’s cage. I’m not sure where that part of me had disappeared to, but knowing that the flame used to be there gave me hope.

I’m excited for my friends to graduate. Whatever their plan is – or whether their plans exist or not – everything will work out eventually. It will be different, and I hope it’s not too difficult for them. They might experience college withdrawal, just as I have. But I know they’ll get through it, because we’ve all bled their colors unto others. They’ll be carrying a part of me, and I will always have them within me. I hope they keep me in their thoughts, because I know they will shine bright and become the beacon light that we need in this dark world. I’m excited to see what color they become in a year, in five years, in ten. I’m also now more excited to see what color I will be after my time here in New York. With each color we become, we’ll be able to create a beautiful painting of this world.

Thank you for holding space for me in your palette, friends.