change

like the sky

I once had to describe myself, as a food, in three words, to a group of people I didn’t know very well. I said, “pomegranate, split open.” I was picturing the deep red juice running down, the tender white flesh, the smooth tight skin. It almost felt too vulnerable, but I couldn’t think of anything else, so I said it anyway.

When I walked out of our house today, there was a dusting of white powder on the ground. It made me think of that distinct smell of the changing seasons in New England. Summer to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to spring, spring to summer. I think of going back to school. I think of finishing my fall semester finals and driving home in the snow. I think of finishing classes, of graduation. I think about moving on.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about my last senior fall, four years ago. Back then, thoughts of the future scared me. When they hit, I would sit in my car long after I had pulled into the driveway from cross country practice, thinking and listening to Joni Mitchell, until my mom came out of the house to get me. Nowadays, I’d like to think I’m a little more mature. I write in a journal. I have a big girl job where I draw blood and write medical records. I say “when I studied abroad in Ireland” probably fifteen times a day. But in so many ways, I am the same. In so many ways, I haven’t changed at all.

Every time I walk down Brom, I think of the changing leaves above me. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and walk quicker. I think about the first time I walked down this street, the people that became family here, the person I became here. I think about the last time I will walk down this street.

Change is good. I love the smell of orange leaves, and of fresh snow. I get right out of the car when I get home. I put a stethoscope around my neck and anticipate the future. But if I had to, if I think about it really hard, I would still describe myself as pomegranate split open.