Being There

School started. The mind that dislodged itself from its hard corner, grew loose and multifaceted as sand carrying seashells, became a lump of dry clay today. I sat under the unbearable blood of fluorescent lights, listened to deadlines and page lengths, smiled at the people who I neglected to remember despise my presence and finally washed myself away towards home. Migraine punching my right eye. Neck in a vice. Three hundred dollars worth of books by my side in a dirty blue book bag.

Two semesters left and I'm outta this joint and heading northeast for a state nestled in New England. Or perhaps I'll venture west, living in the shadows of old cowboys and purple mountains. It doesn't matter where I go, just so long as I go.

And then we drove to Sue's, a sweet old woman who's husband passed away three years ago, to pick up some clamps my dad purchased for a couple hundred bucks. As we carried them from the basement and out into the snow, I imagined the old man's hands easing two by fours through a whirring blade. I imagined the nails and hammers and wood glue. I imagined him building things, putting loose ends together. Sue's house smells like cinnamon cookies. When I walk inside, I feel as if I'm wrapped in a blanket.

"I think of you all the time," Sue said as we embraced. We spoke in the kitchen, decided to take a trip to Flo's in the near future for 10 cent coffee and blueberry pancakes.

"I'm glad I went," I said, plodding down the steps in my black, rubber boots after saying our goodbyes.

"That's what living's all about," Dad said, turning around in the snow, face drawn into a slight, sorrowful smile, eyes deep and covered in light shining from the bulb on the front porch. "It's about being there."