The End of the Beginning

 "I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is."
Vladimir Nabokov

So the final pen has dropped in triumph or in pure exhaustion. Boxes have been tossed and taped and manhandled into overpriced storage lockers, and the content of suitcases has been squished into oblivion. I stood alone in my empty dorm room, humming ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’ as I contemplated the bumpy paint and my first year of college. I traced the walls as if they would give in like sand, as if my heart beat would impress upon my one-year home one last mark of my existence.

When I regarded the city one last time, it blinked innocently, unaware of any fast-approaching separation. On the plane ride back to Colorado, I surveyed surrounding faces for any sign of insurmountable feelings. I wondered when my own rip tides of emotion would pull me under. In the plane’s last few seconds on the ground, I imagined my feet once more walking me through campus, tickled by the sacred college grass. I remembered the ache of San Francisco hills attempted in heels, and sprints for the bus managed in dresses. I recalled the purposeful steps made to my friends’ doors, in late night slippers or early afternoon flip-flops.

I returned to Colorado with lighter hair and hippie dresses and a college sweatshirt. I think of my days on the beach with hats blown away by the wind, tangoing through golden wisps of fog. I feel the maxi dresses hardened by the water and textured by the sand from strolling. My sweater still smells slightly of campfire smoke and granola. My purse is a scrapbook of ticket stubs and business cards and collector coins. I trace each one and remember the disco light of dancing halls, the echo of opera, the chill of dusk on Alcatraz, the buzzing orange of a Giants game.


I feel the experiences that at one time surrounded me settle into 2D form, filling my picture frames and Microsoft word documents. What was my constant reality suddenly feels like a hazy, distant past.  But it does anything but fade into obscurity. With distance, in miles and in minutes, every memory becomes more valuable. Every stranger is deemed a friend, every conversation a philosophy. Such is the nature of memory. Every line of music triggers a heartstring, every cable car ride is comprised of bright colors and bright faces, every taste is of elegance.

My rip tide is gentle. My descent downwards from my castle, my university on a hill, is softer than the waves of the ocean, smoother than the steep San Francisco streets. I leave shrouded in the glow of experiences that can now never be taken from me, kept in permanent custody in my heart. This is merely the end of the beginning—soon my return will recolor the memories I will try so hard to preserve until then. When the second chapter comes I will be reminded once more why I started reading.