I return to you, as I am. As I used to.
I return to you changed. Charged. Guilty of leaving you.
I return to you like a guest now. When I used to call you shelter. House. Home.
I turn into you wearing sneakers you've never felt on my feet to sound your hallways.
My fingers find the switches next to your living room door. It remembers even the small slider that can dim your orange, golden lights. It remembers how to deftly remove my own coat and rest it on one of your assorted chairs. Mismatched and always in unhelpful places for a proper house meeting. But placed perfectly for friends to be knee-to-knee.
My eyes know where to look. Out your window. To Paradise Pond. I remember that one evening freshman year, the sky was ablaze like a phoenix. I chased the colors out your window, standing in front of you jacketless, mouth agape. Eyes wide and heart on fire. I felt myself whispering, "There's no view prettier than this. I wish... I wish that..." my eyes never once closing. Not until the sky's fire dimmed. I think you knew what was happening to me, watching me with... I'd imagined you'd have blue eyes. You're the only house on campus painted such a lovely color.
I look at the singular small bookshelf on your right. I remember there were more games back in my day, when I'd ask my friends to borrow some from our neighbor Haven House. Red Flags. Cards Against Humanity. Code Name. I hosted parties and board game nights in your living room, Wesley. I hosted Friday movie nights, cuddling against all my friends on your couch. I was just someone seeking the next moment to tell a joke, to make someone laugh. I still do that, but I perfected this skill under your roof, Wesley.
I turn my head to your stairs. A beautiful little thing, carpeted from the first to the second floor. Basic ass from the second to third floor. I have had questions about your stairs' consistency. But I don't care. Anyone walking down your stairs is a thunder that rumbles through the house, perhaps because you only house 17 people, you like announcing any arrivals or departures. "Every person should be thunder in this little space." I can imagine you grinning and telling me so.
It was on your stairs that I heard a familiar thunder. A friend that I would still call today, once every 2 weeks. "Where are you headed?" I'd ask. "What are you up to?" she'd ask. Either one of us leaning into your wooden stair rails, a cube top, gazing down at the other. Gazing up at the other. "When are we calling?" 3 years later.
I think you knew what was happening to me as I slowly headed up the stairs,
to the third floor where I lived. I had a view of your parking lot. Where, I never foresaw this since heck, you're located at a traditional all-women's college, but where men I liked or loved would pick me up and drop me off and kiss me good night for the next three years. A room where I hung my Marvel A-Force poster and random shit I have no recollection of. Ah, a string of beautifully folded cranes that Nina made for my 19th birthday.
On that third floor, I'd leave little notes on my neighbor's door and pretend to the same neighbor that I don't know who's been doing that. Innocent. She knew I wasn't, I know, but it was fun to be what I wasn't. She was my second friend on campus. She loved horseshoe crabs, and one day, in an attempt to get over my fear of horseshoe crabs, I told her a thing I regret so much, "You may remove that horseshoe corpse off your wall. I wanna see how it looks from below its shell, heh."
Miriam agreed. I don't know why upskirting/up-shelling a horseshow crab would help me get over my fear of them but that shit was horrifying. All their little legs. The DETAIL. I freaked out and ran away to the opposite end of the hallway. She started walking towards me with it.
"GET THAT CREEPY SCARY THING AWAY FROM ME. IM CALLING MY MOM."
We laughed so hard. I died that night, holding onto your walls. All your walls. Screaming at Miriam to back off bitch.
On a more calm note, leaving your front door, I'd pause at the top of the steps, breathing in cold air and breathing out to see my own breaths. Taking in this beautiful view of Paradise Pond and the edge of the white curves of the Botanic Garden. I would know that I was in the exact place I was supposed to be, before walking to Seelye Hall like a good little student.
You knew I was falling in love with you, as my silhouette shrunk.
You knew you were a big reason of why I loved Smith so much. You knew how beautiful you were to me. You knew how excited I'd get whenever I saw your blue color from as far away as the bottom of the hill. You knew how much I loved spending my academic FOCUS hours in your living room, how much I laughed and laughed and laughed. I laughed because I was loved.
And I was loving.
You knew I was in love with you.
But then I spent a year away from you in Houston, TX because of Covid. I spent one semester in Singapore's parks and beaches, addicting myself to HECKING AWESOME cold beancurd. I spent a summer housed by a stranger turned someone I love in DC, but was someone who loved me first. The lonely young professional DC life. I lived on my own. I lived with people I grew to love. I lived with people until I knew how to make them laugh. I developed a knack for wearing the most colorful outfits and loving my thighs even when they were at their thickest, tiger marks appearing almost everywhere.
I learned how unafraid I am of confrontation, always ready to defend my right or defend others. My body placing itself between a verbally aggressive person and a stranger who told him to go away on the dance floor. My mind finding the words to tell fencing club to find another space to do their training and when gaming club is done, we'd give them the room. It's not our fault our two clubs were double-booked. We were there first. I wasn't even a board member.
I knew to call men who had a fishy way about them, whether it be the way they looked at me or the way they spoke to me, "Mister."
"Mister Adam. Hello."
"Oh no, I'm not that old! Call me Adam."
"I was raised that way, Mister Adam. To respect strangers." Mr. Adam would whisper to Ms. Jennifer who invited me there, "Why would she call me Mister? I'm really not that old."
She'd respond baffled, "You're more than double her age aren't you?" Later in the car, Ms. Jennifer would keep echoing how proud she was of me. That I knew so quickly how to physically separate myself from men who were interested in me at the sailing club meet with my words. With respect.
I knew how to play the love game. My friends come to me for relationship advice. "If he really liked you, you'd know. There's no guessing. He'd let you know every day if he could. You'd know it like breathing, like air."
"But what if he doesn't text all day? But only once?"
I'd answer, "If Barack Obama can text Michelle that he's on his way, between flights? Any man can really do it, if he really wanted to."
"Wow, I'mma use that. I'mma use that."
God. Barack is my Achilles heel. My freshman year self was still into Tom Hiddleston. So yes, even my taste in men has changed.
I return to you changed.
So today, your used-to-be freshman, now senior, remembers you. Returns to you.
I turn to you like a temperature dial. I turn to warmer times of my younger, foolish, funfest past whenever I feel the slightest cold.
I turn to you whenever I want to feel small again. Protected again. Young and laughing and more careless than I was careful.
I returned to you today, realizing how far I've come. How far I went when I left you. Too much to share. You'd care to listen to all of it.
I am guilty for leaving you. I am guilty and I won't be so silly as to not remember you.
Remember you, I always will.
Thank you, my favorite little blue house.
A Song I replayed for the hour I wrote this
