3. Asiago

I can’t stop thinking about you lately. Throughout some of the most trying moments of my life, the memory of you is the only thing that has kept me afloat, that kept me pushing when I wanted literally nothing more than to leave myself alone.  I still look for you at times.  And believe me, you are not always easy to find. Bright as your soul may be, sometimes you decide to hide away.  Or maybe you’re not the one deciding, because now that I think about it, I might be the one pushing you away. It’s not as if I mean to. I treasure you and your opinion over every other part of myself, but I know that it is often not a conscious decision. When I look at old pictures of you, when I hear your voice, so full of whimsy and love, and when I read fragments of the old journals you wrote in like a lifeline, I still look for you. Fortunately, I am usually able to find you, and so I linger and stare at you in fascination, unable to help myself.  Would you even recognize me now? I ...

  Dear… I can’t stop thinking about this. I can’t stop remembering everything that has happened and every word you’ve said to me, both in anger and in love. I will admit, the former is more readily available in my memory.  I remember the times we used to laugh, go out for lunch, sit in the loft, sit in my room. I also remember all the tears. I remember changing parts of myself to make you happier but you don’t remember any of that. So now I’m stuck being angry about something that you won’t even recognize to be true. I miss you more than anything. I miss having my person; the one with me from the time I stepped foot into the world and I thought, until one of us was gone. I used to think a lot about the future. You were always there, but now I don’t know if that will be true and I don’t know what to do with that.  I am angry for multiple reasons. I am angry at you for the way you speak to me. I am angry at you for the expectations you have of me. I am angry at you for seei...

I still remember the first day I set foot on campus to start my junior year.  The anticipation of knowing who was in my classes, what my teachers would be like, and seeing everyone after a long summer.  I can still remember walking and trying to find my classes, seeing my friend’s familiar faces, and us all discussing what our year would be like. From there, it transitioned into spirit week, then Homecoming, then finals, then winter break, and now 2 more weeks until it's almost over.  And before you know it, we'll be seniors.  While it's scary to know that we are about to apply to colleges and start our new lives, it's also strange to realize how quickly everything is changing, especially without us being involved.  The moments that we were counting down to be over, all the times we thought in our heads, “only 10 more minutes till the bell rings,” to staying up to study for a test are now distant memories, and summer is approaching. Junior year felt like it was ...

  What I’d like to discuss in this blog is something that many people will either wholeheartedly agree with or disagree with. I truly, truly love my parents' friends. The eccentric aunties and uncles my parents have collected over the years are people I will be forever grateful for. However, I recently discussed with one of the particular groups that I love to meet, and it was a wonderful way to end my night. A way my relationship with my parents and their friends has changed is that they view me (to an extent) as a peer rather than a child. They crack funny and sometimes dark jokes, discuss the dark underbellies of their college lives, and give me useful advice I leverage almost every day. I feel as though I can confide in them, and I get to reap the benefits of adults who have 30+ years of experience without being afraid they might get offended, as my parents would. It’s the best of both worlds.  A few weeks ago, I discussed my negative experiences with FOMO which is the fea...

The first book of How to Train Your Dragon by Cressida Cowell. As of late, I’ve found myself returning to the basics. Beloved book series from my childhood sit on a bookshelf above my bed, waiting to be reopened. I vividly remember my favorite book series from my elementary school years: How to Train Your Dragon , a twelve-book series, deceptively silly.  On a reread, I have no idea how this became marketed as a children’s book series. Yes, earlier books have lighter themes, but starting from book six-ish, and really vamping up by book eight, the series transforms from a lighthearted read to a series exploring the topic of slavery, the evils of war, genocide, generational trauma…in retrospect, not something quite suitable for a young child to read. Despite this, I still find myself in awe of how such delicate topics are handled in a mature, nuanced way while still being delicate enough for children 7-12 to read. At some point, the main character, Hiccup, is branded with a slave’s ...

Warm things, moving things; shapes, dancing, alive. Browns and greys shifting into orange, flickering, flitting, sparks like stars but the stars are out there in the cold dark and you’re in here, surrounded by safe voices and familiar smells.  There are many here with you. Some are dancing, and those too old or too tired to dance are singing. The being you came from—your mother—holds your little hands in hers and spins, despite the pain in her soles from a long day spent gathering mushrooms and fruit. Long-haired furs laid out on the floor far from the fire tickle your ankles as you spin by.  “Be careful!” one of the older ones warns and your mother apologizes for you, halting your pair orbit by pulling you closer. The older one is mixing colors on sheets of bark, swirling spit and water and clay into reds and browns, the same reds and browns the bulls and horses running above your head are made from. It has been a long time since your family—your group, your people—have been ...