On the way back from the scenic graveyard, we walk the paths covered in fallen yellow leaves or pine needles through the campus, home. Groups of touring prospective students meander by, their tour guides in sweaters and nice shoes. They walk these paths, only to be met with the screams of crazed college students, begging mercy from their dorm rooms. The laughter of nearby (and probably high) students is audible, and the tour guards look exasperated.
They are trying to change their school’s reputation, and the students here are not happy about it. From the ravine that has become known for its tree covered spots, to the steps near the school’s most scenic pond, to the passageways in the halls of the school itself, the students are discussing, fiercely, the position that they have found themselves in.
It is something of a wondrous sight, seeing students roused about something.
I came back here and the minute I hit the ground, I felt it. I felt it come in waves, hitting me harder than I thought it would. It felt like something was weighing me down, and I feel it now. For a second there, in Oregon, snuggled in warm and comfortable, I could breathe.
Maybe that’s all love is about, someone else to help you breathe.
He helps me breathe.
But now I’m crying. And I can’t stop. I’m emotional. There’s someone else sleeping in my bedroom, in the space I’ve come to call my own.
I’ve had twenty four hours to revive myself, and instead of feeling refreshed, I feel worse. My eyes are heavy, having released into the world so much pain last night, they themselves are feeling it now.
My decision, brewing for so long somewhere between my heart and my brain, is tentatively made. We were lounging, in the little space between the wall and the curtain that is the twin bed, and he touched his finger to my breastbone. I had been going through the list of pros and cons again, and again, more than he ever wanted to hear. “What does your heart say?” he asked me. “That’s the answer.”
So I have the answer, and I’m keeping it for now, because the minute it passes my lips, the madness begins all over again. It’s painfully obvious, of course, and I am contented knowing that my days are numbered here. I tried. I failed, but I’m leaving remotely dignified.
The creature sleeping on the other side of the partition constructed out of cheap desks and chair is the thing that thrust my decision forward for me. I was waiting, waiting for something to show me what I wanted, and now that I’ve been from breathing uninhibited to wondering if I should sleep on the couch, I know. She’s not mean, just a little more than I can handle right now. She took over the room while I was gone, literally, leaving me with probably thirty percent of the space. And the bathroom too. All orange and strange. There are flowers in a vase sitting on the back of my toilet now, and a little can of spray air freshener, and this one kills me, but a little trashcan shaped like a pig. If that doesn’t clue you in, let me tell you that she took down one of my posters, and that she talks very loudly.
I know, you’re thinking, Katie, give her time, things will be fine.
But I have a feeling. And I go with that. I never disliked Melissa and Gena, and even though we’ve had our fair share of incidents and moments when things got out of hand, I never felt the way I feel now.
Also, I have no window.
Sunday morning, I was flying around Danny’s room trying to pack all of my things and somehow compress them into the little suitcase I had brought. (I went four days with nothing but a carry-on that wasn’t even all the way full!) He sat perched on his bed, tears sliding out of his silent eyes, scribbling something in his notebook. I checked the clock. Three minutes until we had to leave. I grabbed my stuff, my computer and phone chargers, and put them last places. Cell phone, iPod, Colorado driver’s license, check.
I looked at him, impatient. He ripped it out. He pulled off all the loose ends. And then he folded it up and put it in my pocket. “Read it on the plane. You’ll love it.” I laughed. Later, when we were standing outside the airport, as has become our custom, he told me to read it, that he couldn’t wait. And I unfolded it and opened it, and there it was, the first love letter he’s ever written me.
I started crying. It’s adorable when boys pour their hearts out. And when I looked back at him (he was reading it over my shoulder), he was crying too. It was beautiful.
I showed him my movie (that you have all seen and loved, I’m sure). I was so excited to show it to him, because it’s something that I did, and that I was proud of. I put more work into that thing than I have into anything else all year. And we watched it and cried together (but in a good way).
It’s weird, having someone that I depend on and don’t fight with ever and enjoy so much. It’s like having Katie, but in man form.
I’m applying to DU, CSU and other places. I’m not sure yet. If you have any good suggestions, let me know. Maybe Boulder?
Speaking of Boulder:
“It’s honestly up in the air,” he said. (That’s the end of the article I read in the Denver Post about Denver’s newest marijuana law. Funny how sometimes figures of speech just work out)
hahahaha……never mind, Mom will get why it’s funny.
I’m trying to convince Mom that she could use marijuana as a way to reduce pain after her surgery. But she does not agree. (I suspect she—and most of my readers and close family—-all voted in opposition of the law.) I think we should all make her some pot brownies. Just a thought, since we probably won’t get in trouble even if we get caught. Haha, joking. I have no hope of ever persuading anyone that pot won’t kill you. (Even though it won’t. Trust me, I know people who know people who smoke pot.)
He loves me.
Sometimes, that’s enough.