Hard Drive Goes the Hard Way

I heard the ominous whirring. The fan gunning and wheezing to a stop. But I ignored it and pressed onward. I could feel it dying every time I turned on the computer, its arduous start-up process. And it was made all the more pitiful by the broken hinges that meant I had to prop the lid on the couch arm to use it.

For Christmas, Mom gave me a ridiculously large external hard drive for backing up my photos. I left it in the packaging under the table by the bed until the night that the whirring turned to clicking.

Oh, the click of a withering hard drive.

I panicked, willing it to turn on just one more time. Just long enough for me to plug a USB in and drag all my precious files to safety. But instead, they drowned in a sea of rhythmic clicking. Like a life preserver tossed into a tempest, Mom (who's quite tech savvy) tried to reboot from the system disk. Alas, there was no hope. And so, I sat there on the couch, with my hand on the lid of the laptop and thought of all of the photos of Dillon and Reese and Wilmywood, all of the half-started stories and poems, all of the downloaded-only music, sinking down through the cyberspace abyss.

I carried it to the mall to a rather chaotic looking little shop where a harried Asian lady attempted to start the failed piece of crap. Instead of success, she shook her head sadly and repeated, "I don't know. It's the hard drive. I don't know." And I thought to myself, Don't say it again. And two weeks later, she declared it a lost cause.

I had flashbacks of the Sad Mac and poor Carrie Bradshaw's lost files. The Barrister guided me out of the mall while I alternately tried to console myself and contemplated quickly dispatching myself in front of a moving vehicle. I sat in the car, the hunk of plastic and circuits tucked inside the Belk bag that held my newly purchased "fat" shorts (adding insult to injury), and looked out the window. I felt stupid. Hard drive failure had happened to me at work. And I knew that the laptop was on its last leg. I remarked nearly every time I started it up that I needed to back it up. Instead, I let myself down.

Now, the hard drive is sitting on the dining room table, deftly removed from its casing by my mom. There's a box in one of the chairs. There's some packaging materials I've tossed on top for when I get ready to ship it to the ridiculously high-priced data recovery center. There's probably a thin film of dust on it - it's been weeks.

So why I haven't I sent it? I don't know. It's not that I don't want those memories back - I desperately want to be able to look again at the photos I took of Dillon at the playground the day before the hard drive died and the pictures I took at the work retreat and the autumn leaves at last year's trip to Valle Crucis and mine and The Barrister's Valentine's Day and, perhaps most desperately, the pictures I took of the Grace Street apartment that can never be replicated. I want the words I never finished, and the drafts of my thesis that lead me to what I published. And yet, if I don't send it, they are still alive, somewhere in cyberspace limbo. And if I do send it, I might have to hear that they're gone forever, little bytes of life vanished as though they never happened.

Third Time's a Charm

The first time, I panic. And cry. Kim comes down from her apartment on 6th and keeps me company until the police come. I lament my lost Indigo Girls and the CD player that leaves a gaping hole in the dash front.

The second time, I am annoyed. The water meter cover through the window that destroys the console and causes like $1,500 worth of damage to the car is worse than some of the wrecks I've had. I am comforted only by the poetic justice of knowing that the perps made off with two bags of garbage from my trunk.

The third time, I wonder what the universe is trying to tell me. What is it, I wonder, that I've done to end up sitting in my car again amidst shattered glass waiting for the five-o.

On my way to the car today, I call Kim and I get her voicemail and I say, "Hey, man. I just left the office and I'm getting in the car and...oh...my car's been broken into. There's glass everywhere. I gotta call the cops. I'll call you back." This might surpass the strangeness of the time I told her I was having an allergic reaction and would have to call her back.

I stand out on the sidewalk after calling 911 to wait for the patrol unit headed my way. I call Mom. She's with Anna, who's giving out the scholarship in Ronnie's memory at the local high school. She wants to send Dad home immediately. I say no.

It's hot. My boss comes out and stands with me until the policeman arrives. He's stocky, military haircut, tattoo under his left sleeve. I run through the scenario - I've done this before - and tell him nothing's been taken. The perp didn't even get in the car; all doors were still locked.

The cop asks me, "Angry boyfriend?" I laugh, rather loudly. And then I realized he's serious. "Um, no."

"Anyone else?" I know he has to ask these questions; I mean, that's his job. But the laughableness of it.

"No," I say. "I can't think of anyone who..." Would hurt me? That sounds so Lifetime. Who would do this to me? Total victim. Very 90210. "...who would...be mad at me...like this." Okay, so that totally doesn't make sense, but it was the best I had.

I had a list of things I was going to do when I got home to help Mom around the house. Instead, I fashioned a window out of Saran Wrap and masking tape and cleaned roughly five pounds of glass shards out of my car.

If this was six months ago, I'd no doubt be rather hysterical over the attack on my car. But after a moment in which I said something really maudlin to my mom (thank God the phone cut out), I realized when I called her back that this is small. In the grand scheme of things, it's a few thousand shards of glass.

One

One year ago today, I moved.

One year ago today, something horrifying broke inside me and every pain I felt about leaving came rushing out.

One year ago today, I looked out the window on the big tree outside for the last time.

One year ago, I paced across those wide-board wooden floors and locked the door.

One year ago, the echo of my footsteps in the hallway was loud and hollow.

One year ago, I sat in my car at the stoplight at Fourth and Grace.

One year ago, I looked in my rearview at the yellow stucko and the red tin roof and the black curls of wrought iron.

One year ago, I drove away.

One year ago, I said goodbye.

One year ago, I crossed the bridge.

One year ago. And sometimes, I can't help myself from looking back.

Solicitation

Dear Institute of Higher Learning in a Coastal Location in the Northernmost Carolina:

I would say that I appreciated your call this evening, but I really didn't. I could tell it was going to be that kind of call. The kind where you've propped up some poor freshman kid in a cube with a phone list, so he can pretend to care how I'm doing and then hit me up for money to support ye olde university because I know how important that money is to kids like him.

But the truth is, I don't know what it's like for kids like him, because if someone like me now gave funds for students like me then, it sure didn't make it down to me. If I recall correctly, you didn't see fit to provide the grad labs with printer paper back in the day. And our classrooms in the language arts buildings? I don't think you've allocated any funds to them since 1970.

And while we're talking about funds, let's get one thing out in the open: you never allocated funds for me. When I was there - when I was a student like him - you didn't have a dime to spare for me. Not one red cent. You didn't really want me there; you robbed me blind because I was out-of-state. And in general, you were sort of careless and didn't take much time to form any sort of bond with me. In other words, I don't really feel the teal.

Let me clarify that I'm not totally dismissing the years we shared. But let's face it - I was a giver and you were a taker. So don't come calling me and asking me for money. Just because I have a good job now, don't think I'm going to be flipping any funds your way - especially not the $150 contribution you were asking for right off the bat.

What if I had just called you up back in the day and asked for a hundred and fifty bucks? Yep. That's right. What goes around comes around.

C U by the Sea,
Resentful in Ga.

Cutting Loose

This weekend held two anomalies: one, I cut my hair, and two, I went to the bar - twice.

The first had to do with nearing a year away from Wilmywood (next Monday) and feeling like my long hair was strangely tied to the hardships of the last twelve months: Booker dying, the panic attacks, the second thoughts, the loneliness, Ronnie's death. About two weeks ago, I decided it was time to cut it. Time to let those inches go - and let the things associated with my longer locks go as well. So yesterday, I went to Corey and told him to cut it - really cut it - and that I trusted him to do what he thought best. The result: a fabulous, fabulous new style. And a slightly refreshed outlook on life. It's amazing what exposing your neck will do for you. Photos soon...

The second - bar trips two nights in a row - had to do with Justin being in town for his MBA class reunion. He and Eva told me I'd spent too many Friday nights watching "What Not to Wear" and that it was time to find something to wear and hit the town. So I did. I spent Friday and Saturday evening in the international company of Justin's friends from grad school: a Portuguese, a German, two Indians, an Israeli, and a couple of Americans for good measure.

And last night, standing in the bar between the German and the Portuguese and trying to explain the phrase "junk in the trunk" while bouncing a little to the bar music, sipping a Cosmo and rocking my new haircut, a night out turned into a step forward - a refreshed look, physically and mentally. A few moments that seemed normal in a hopelessly abnormal time in life. A sense of confidence about where I am and where I'm going, when it was easy to laugh and easy to walk down the street on the way back to the car, and feel that good in my own skin.

Wide Awake and Dreaming

Wide Awake
The last few nights, the moment my head hits the pillow, my brain wakes up. I can suddenly feel the contour of the pillow in minute detail under my head. Eyes open against the darkness, I imagine my pupils dilating to great black discs pressing away the hazy brown to a slim, neat circle. I blink. Feel my lashes against my cheek. Blink harder. Contemplate the length of my eyelashes. Be still. Try not to look at the clock. Think about warmth and quiet and drifting instead of cold rigid silence above the seismic hum of my mind.

Dreaming
Reoccuring now, this dream that I am in my apartment on Grace Street. Sometimes, it is the apartment at Abbott's Run. There is confusion. Am I supposed to be there? I walk through the room. These things are mine - this chair, this clay pot, this painting on the wall. But everything is not here. Some of my things are missing. Where are they? And then I remember that I don't live here...but I still feel...like I could...or I do. I'm not sure whether to pack or unpack. Stay or go. As the confusion reaches a fever pitch, I seem to recognize that I am dreaming and slowly lift toward wakefulness...eyes open, pupils bleeding across the brown.

Somebody Fed the Mogwai After Midnight

So maybe it wasn't after midnight. Maybe it was around 4 o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and the culprits were a giant Coke Icee and an entire bag of Reese's Pieces. But whatever the case, The Panic made a resurgence right in the middle of McDreamy's fairytale adventure in Enchanted. Right there in the Mayfaire Cinema, the acid poured into my stomach, the heat rose up into my face, and there was a vague ringing that was probably caused by the incessant beat of my pulse against my eardrum.

And I may have pushed it to the side, shoved it to the back, tried to forget about it as I chased K.Lo through the living room as she squealed to be tickled and listened to her charming performance of the ABCs (often sans T, U and V, but who needs those letters anyway?) and held the Sesame Street book while she reverently pointed out Elmo and Grover and The Count (who she will tell you says, "ah ah ah"). But all that time, they were loose in my brain - cutting the wires and crossing them, revving the engine and leaking the chemicals into my system. I persevered - held tiny baby N. Lo who is very darling -chatted, had dinner.

And then there was later...there was the gagging. But as promised, the gloves came off. I battled back for all I was worth. Through Saturday night and Sunday brunch - and I pushed through and had a great time. And I gave it the old one-two in the car...Sunday evening...I was winning. Until Monday morning. And then, I gave in and let it all go. I sat on the cold bathroom floor with my back against the tub, sweating slightly, and somewhere in the distance, I think I heard someone count me out.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love You, Tomorrow

Truth be told, I've had this photo sitting in my blog pics folder for over a year. I found it when searching for a Wilmywood photo, but at the time, the season was all wrong. I've held on to it, thinking I'd have an opportunity to use it. And now I do it.

This is how I remember Wilmywood. This stretch of the riverfront park where they put lights in the trees. And in the fall, when the leaves changes, those lights make the park look almost surreal. I love the hexagonal pavers there, and the thick black chains strung between the pylons. And I love the Cape Fear with its fierce murky current moving swiftly along the edge. That's where I'm going tomorrow.

I've been calling it my Cheers Weekend - saying that I need to go where everybody knows my name. I need to fall softly back into that place where I have my bearings. I need to see STGD, Sus, and Miranda and the rest of the folks at the Old Job and Pen and Baby N.Lo. And the river and the city and, yes, Grace Street, too. You're only a day away.

The Tipping Point

Several people asked me over the weekend how long I had been back in Georgia. The first time, I looked to the left, calculating in some empty space above my head. "Almost seven months," I said. And then I said it again and again. Oh, wow, I thought, almost seven months.

After a few times, it occurred to me that this is a tipping point. No matter what, this year will be one in which I spent the majority of the year in Georgia. It can no longer be a North Carolina year. As though some proverbial scoring has been tallied, I realized that I'm mostly Georgian now and less of a Carolinian. And I'm not sure how I feel about this shift in the balance of things...this dive toward more of one and less of the other. It's an odd feeling, particularly because this time last year, I was announcing The Big Move to my family. And that alternately feels like yesterday and years ago. It was a tipping point then, to move forward with something I had been thinking about, and, now, it is that uncertain feeling of the slightest movement working in concert with gravity to pull me in another direction.

Missed Opportunities

Because of my poor timing, I have missed the opportunity to be Federline's next baby mama. He's in Wilmywood right now filming episodes of One Tree Hill. Supposedly, he's playing a "cocky rock star." Anyone else who thinks K-Fed's appearance on the show will seal its demise?

Since I have moved away and will be unable to attend, I'll have to count on the ladies I left behind in Wilmywood to bask in his greatness. Pen? Mel? I wonder that he's able to take the gig since he's working so hard in L.A. to prove himself worthy of sole custody of the Federspawn. Of course, Britney's making it easy for him to look good, since the most recent reports I read said that she's fled the country. Oh, K-Fed.

That's Impressive

Bug: head full of hair, running, stair-climbing, desperately cute pronunciation of the word "Elmo"

Pene-lo: patience with teething Bug, heartburn from N. Lo., heatwave, licking dog, house guest

Storm: great streams of forked lightning criss-crossing the sky, buckets of water pouring down

Becoming Jane: James McAvoy in breeches and Hessians

Becoming Jane Ashley: copious tears (and snot, I am sorry to report)

Bowling alley: hotter than the 7th circle of hell, no A/C

Bowling prowess: unbelievable skill followed by spectacular decline

Bowling alley food: angry resurgence of acid indigestion

South Carolina temperature: 106 degrees, heat index unknown

John Mayer: 12 hours on repeat - Continuum, Heavier Things, Room for Squares, Inside Wants Out

Mel: tan from Dominican Republic, free movie passes, insanely ambitious teaching schedule

Office: reconfigured

Boss: surprised by sudden reappearance of Ashley

Sweet & Savory: Cinnamon raisin French toast (J. Lo.'s generosity in picking up my tab)

Military Cutoff: construction nightmare

Old friends: still wonderful

Leaving: Part Six - Love Letter to a Ghost Town

Dearest Wilmywood:
I fought you for so many years, unable to see the ways that you were slowly, inextricably becoming a part of me. Your landscape was my landscape - your streets mapped out in my brain, your buildings in my mind's eye, your river and ocean made my boundaries. I know your steepled skyline, your cobbled streets, your ancient trees and your columned houses. And while I was fighting to let go, I found so much to hold on to that now you haunt me.

And flashing over the bridge, I saw the familiar riverfront and I met my ghosts. There was the ghost of my life past, an eerie shadow of all that belonged to me that no longer does. An apartment I no longer have a key for in a house that still seems like mine. And the office that I sat in has two desks and someone who started the day after I left. Three have joined the company and another is leaving, such that in just a few months time, the cracks have shifted and filled and the place that I was is gone.

On your streets, I saw strangers and tourists and realized that I am a stranger to you now. This is the ghost of my present life, a subtle shift in things that reminds me that change has come. New buildings, construction along familiar streets, a sudden moment driving when I couldn't remember where to go. I've left and you've gone on. You're a different city, and I am a different person, and we simply can't be what we once were.

All of this made all too real by a phone call on the way to see you in which I accepted a new start. And here we meet the ghost of my future life, the hollow-eyed face of the unknown. Even as I was there with you, I was thinking about it - this life in another place that I'm headed towards. This ghost is the most frightening, for it tells me that, to go with it, I must let go of more of what I'm holding.

And, Wilmywood, I must tell you, I don't want to let go. I want to hold on to you and Grace Street and the river and the places that I know. I want to make friends with the ghost of the past, change the ghost of the present and turn my back on the ghost of the future. But we both know I can't do that. We both know it was time for me to go.

But it doesn't mean that I don't miss you. That I don't know now that I loved you. That I didn't cry when I drove away from you, on the street I know so well, past the buildings that marked my existence. And even as I leave, it's all printed in my mind. I'm going now, taking hold of that future, but we'll always have what we shared. And, if we're honest, I think we both know, you'll still be a part of me.

Love,
Ashley

Going Coastal

As I write this, I'm downing a yogurt for breakfast and thinking about the last few things I need to throw in my bag. That's right - this little nomad is hitting the road once more. I'm squeezing in one last summer trip to Wilmywood, in part to surprise my boss at her surprise birthday party this evening. I was looking for an old beach postcard to post with this, but instead, I found this undated archival picture of the back of the house I used to live in on Grace Street. I'll definitely be driving by there just to give the house my love.

Also, I wanted to say to all of you who have been following my progress with the j-o-b, I received an Official Offer yesterday. I think I'm planning to accept it, but I've got six hours in the car to be sure. (And to listen to Continuum on repeat. Ah, John Mayer.) Soon, this freeloader may be back on the payroll. More on that upon my return.

If you're in NC, get ready. Here I come.

A Matter of Life & Rest

Dear Martha,
A few years ago, I bought the Puffball Bed Pillow from your Martha Stewart Everday collection at the illustrious KMart. It may have been that time I was with Kim and Hoang-Anh and I dropped and smashed the Earl Gray candle from your line. Sorry about that. Anyway, that pillow is my absolute favorite and it's starting to get ratty.

Trips to three different KMarts have proven fruitless in finding a replacement. As have KMart's online store and customer service department. What gives, Martha? Somewhere between the broken candle and the ankle bracelet, you stopped making my pillow? I find that unacceptable. Insider trading I can handle, but I really, really need a new Puffball Pillow.

If you could crack the whip (without, of course, disturbing your immaculate hairstyle), and produce a Puffball Pillow for me, it would be a good thing. And I know that I really should be submitting my request in ink made from crushed cranberries and written on handmade stationery scented with lavender from my garden, but without the pillow, it's hard to get enough sleep to have the energy for those things. So this will have to do.

Thanks,
Ash

Leaving: Part Four - Going Back

The Return Trip: Observations & Experiences

* It is an entirely different trip when driving east first and west second. Either way, it is still a long, long drive.

* Coldstone Creamery's cake batter ice cream is sinfully good.

* Downtown Wilmywood is still there - I saw it, walked its streets, smelled its river.

* There is nothing like the dark theater, Coke Icees, and a good friend on either side to pass a rainy Saturday.

* I do not wish to see the movie Joshua, as the preview nearly made me cry with fear.

* Waitress is so wonderful and funny and heartbreaking that I can't stop thinking about it.

* I did not look at my office, as I know it is no longer mine. I did help myself to a complimentary Diet Coke and Skittles from the conference room table.

* The emergence of K. Lo.'s personality is extraordinarily entertaining, between the use of the Red Robin crayon box as a cell phone and her constant parade of dance moves. Bonus moment was hearing her say "yum" when fed potato soup.

* STGD's porch is a good thing with its ferns and flower boxes and the creak of the porch swing and a beer in hand and Lenny looking for lizards and the breeze and the rain. And us laughing. Always laughing.

* Weirdly, it has not rained here or there since I left. Last night, it poured both places.

* Uninterrupted girl time to discuss hair (cuts, color, and styling tips), fashion, boys, and life in general is very important to the soul.

* Mel's cat Oliver has something urgent to say. I only wish I knew what it was.

* It is a bittersweet reminder how good it is to have friends to share a meal, a movie, a magazine, a moment.

* My Southern accent is baaaack.

* Grace Street is occupied now but mine in my heart.

* Still some ghosts lurking in Wilmywood.

* Thanks to Mel, Penelope, STGD, and The Boss for kind and insightful life advice. (And to Mel for letting me crash...)

* Nothing could stop the tears as the riverfront disappeared in the sideview mirror crossing the bridge out of town.

10,000 Hits!

WOOHOO!!!

Now that my blog has reached epic proportions, I will be leaving it behind for a few days while in Wilmywood. See you Sunday.

Champagne Wishes & Chocolate Cake Dreams

A group of very dear friends were kind enough to gather Saturday night for a last supper of sorts at the illustrious Circa 1922 in downtown Wilmywood. Thanks to Justin, Dave, Tom, Mel, Penelope, J.Lo. and The Bug for coming out to toast my departure. It isn't every day that someone orders champagne in your honor. (Many thanks to J. for his generosity.) In spite of (because of?) the jaunty piano player with his Disney medley and off-kilter "Your Song," the atmosphere was lovely, the food delicious, the company extraordinary and the dessert, well, just look at the picture. You are all people of the highest order and friends of the rarest kind.

The Chocolate Cake (as listed on the menu)

It's hard to be sad when the Bug's around.

Ash's Obsessions du Jour

Tagged by Pen - here we go.

1. Noticing. Everything. Contemplating the light through the windows in the apartment in the late afternoon. Considering Kudzu's regular patterns of movement from room to room and neat jumps onto the windowsills. Ways of getting from one place to the other in town, recognizing the acute knowledge of each curve and straight and landmark - I know this road. Wondering (but trying not to overly much) if this will be the last time I do this or that in Wilmywood before I move. Noticing. Everything.

2. Quiet solitude. Not that quiet is the way anyone would describe me - prone to nervous chatter as I am and filling silences with it. And generally talking too much and too loudly. But today is quiet, and I relish the quiet and hold the quiet.

3. Oakdale Cemetery. Having never been there until yesterday, I was unaware that it holds the esteem of being quite possibly the only place in Wilmywood that I might describe as "hilly." Any other season, it might be drab - naked wintry branches or fully-leaved summer trees. But in spring, it is blossoming and fragrant and serene.

4. Songs that I hear that have a confusing context. How sometimes The Killers' "Smile Like You Mean It" sounds like a song Kim and I would've listened to in the car on the way to the beach, even though it came out after we graduated. Or how The Fray's "How to Save a Life" feels impossibly like a song from college that I would've listened to on repeat going up Stretch Road and hummed to myself as I rattled around Frost Chapel.

5. Kudzu's relentlessness in waking me these days when he wants to be fed. His pawing the covers off me and wet nose on the eyelids. He drives me mad until I stumble into the kitchen and crack open a can. But then, after he's eaten and I've gone back to bed, he'll curl up against my spine in a tight circle and I feel loved.

6. My secret day off. I hedged about going home for Easter because I selfishly wanted a three-day weekend to myself. Other than my sister, sworn to secrecy, my family thinks today was just another day at the office.

Done & Undone

Done:
* Stoned kitty sleeping by cat-nipped scratcher near the kitchen
* Filmed various important Wilmywood locations: first office, first apartment, Morton Hall, beach
* Sushi
* Long bath
* Palm Sunday service
* Watching She's the Man (twice)
* Identifying Amanda Bynes ' next teen movie project and duly notifying Penelope
* Almost entire bag of Skittles
* Afternoon nap
* Marathon procrastination
* Agreeing to tap dance at Kim Shable's wedding

Undone:
* Dishes
* Taking the trash out
* Sending out resumes
* Unfinishable proposal I'm writing for work
* Packing
* Bank deposit
* iPod loading
* General life planning
* Learning to tap dance

Georgia on My Mind

Other arms reach out to me. Other eyes smile tenderly. Still in peaceful dreams I see, the road leads back to you....Some sweet day when the blossoms fall and all the world's a song, I'll go back to Georgia cause that's where I belong. -- Stuart Gorrell and Hoagy Carmichael, "Georgia on My Mind"

About six years ago, I sat in a dorm room and wondered what would happen after graduation. I'd applied to five grad schools, received nice and less-than-nice rejection letters from four and clung to the single hope that my place on the waiting list of the fifth would give way to an actual spot in the M.F.A. program. And two months later, it did.

I made my way to the Carolina coast and started grad school - and at barely 22, I was about as tender and green and unprepared as I could be. But after about a semester, I had managed to find a few friends and a job. I had cried a lot and felt lonely more. And I wondered if I would ever feel at ease in this town. And two years later, I did.

When I arrived, I never imagined that I would stay so long. That grad school would run its course - rife with good friends, good memories and bad workshops. That my part-time job would turn into a full-time career. That I'd start to think of the big yellow house with the red roof as home. That unexpected relationships would be unexpectedly important.

But in the past year, I've started to tire of the long way home. It's six hours at best - and I've seen a few speeding tickets trying to make it less. I long to be closer to family and to put my roots down in the Georgia red clay. I suddenly noticed how flat it is here and found myself wanting hills. Smelled the salt and wished for pine.

And so I've decided to head back to Georgia. It's long been on my mind to do it, and I finally decided that the longing wouldn't go away, no matter how hard I tried to make it. I'm still getting my plans in order, but suffice it to say, I'll be weathering my last spring in Wilmywood. It's been a difficult decision to make - to pack up and say goodbye after so many years. To leave behind friends who have been my family away from family for so long now.

I won't be going back the same person I was when I left. I depended on my family for everything then - I'd hardly ever stepped out of the nest without someone holding my hand. Now I've grown so independent they hardly know what to do with me. I'm so proud of what I've accomplished while I was here and who I've become. And I will miss Wilmywood and the house on Grace Street and the river and the downtown streets. And more than that I will miss friends and faces and morning coffee across the desk from S. and girls' nights with Pen and Mel and gatherings at the bar with my old grad school comrades and dinners at Circa with Justin. I will miss the part of my heart that I will leave here.

And then I will find out if it's true that you can't ever go home again.