I saw you in my dreams this morning. I had woken up at 7:30
to make sure Sara made it off to work on time, but by 8:20 she had momentum of her own and I was losing a battle with the incredible gravity my own bed has after a weekend away. I closed my eyes to gather my thoughts. When next they opened, I found myself in seen-and-done-it-all Columbia walking through campus on a warm,
cloudy day. You called out to me from a across the mall. You looked the part, too, dressed down in sweat pants and in glasses with your hair
pulled back. When you hugged me, you were 20 again. I slurred, “Is this
reality? I can’t tell anymore.” You promised me that it was and, because you
were you, I believed it.
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In the pretty 10:00 light, which enters our apartment through the trees and shimmers with their leaves on the living room floor, am I moved to reflect on my weekend in my college town. What more is
there to say about Columbia that hasn’t been said already? Some good
conversations, some mean gossip, some former lovers, some future ones, some
cool people, and more with egos bigger than their contributions to society. But
more than anything, my Columbia is about the limitless, undying love affair we
have with our friends. As much as I love the big parties, my favorite part usually comes at the end, after Julia has kicked out everyone who doesn't know her last name and the rest of the crowd falls away when the beer runs low. Then it’s just the few of us in the living room laying all over and around one another, bleary-eyed and
high and sensitive.
And yet, at breakfast there is a nagging sense of unbelonging that makes
my protestations a bit briefer each time Sara is ready to leave. The streets don’t quite
look the same. My social world has reorganized itself along new axes,
sometimes newcomers I’ve never heard of who view me suspiciously as I return
the favor. There is a part of me that feels like that that town is cursed with over, that
St. Louis is blessed with happening. I know how fucking stupid that sounds.
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