It has been four months. Four months of sunsets over Canada, four months of falling asleep to the sound of fog horns in nights that seemed more grey than black. Four months of lion-gold valleys and dusty woods, of garlic parsley walnut bread and more books than any mentally stable person should ever attempt to read.
For me, one of the hardest parts of leaving has always been the inevitable caging of experiences behind the bars of a single adjective. "It was great," I'll say, if anyone asks. One syllable. A single syllable to stand for everything from the sound of pebbles dragged backward by the tide to the smell of strawberries warming in the late afternoon sun. And the thing is, oftentimes that one syllable seems like the only logical thing to say. No casual asker wants to hear about the time you and a friend drove home from a hike with a dog in the backseat and a bag of dog poop on your windshield because there was no garbage can at the trail head, or how a woman asked if you were valedictorian simply because you knew how to spell "congratulations." Pinning that monosyllabic "great" to the walls of the atmosphere will keep it there forever--will condense all your stories into a tidy, manageable segment. It's the truth, after all; it was great, and great is what people want to hear. But it certainly doesn't seem fair to shrink-wrap four months of your life to a bit of idle conversation before the topic turns.
Consider this post my response to the question, "How was the island?" I know I can't very well use this platform as a replacement for a verbal answer, but at least I'll feel better knowing that in my small corner of cyberspace I have posted the full truth.
Olivia, I've been thinking about you so much in the past few weeks. I love how I can come here, read a post about your trip and understand you. I just really like this post. That's all.
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