Recently, my dreams have been filled with memories of being 17, of being free and beholden to no one. I blast Weeknd from my car speakers, remembering Friday afternoons in June 2002 — driving to University Park to meet my friends where we’ll have a water fight and lay in each others laps and make daisy chains and scheme about how to get beer for later that night.
My seniors are graduating and their right of passage unearths all of this. It’s glorious and sad. A nostalgia that swoops in overhead, twirling my loose hairs up in a playful gust, and then they settle back down again.