I was sitting here in the Detroit Ft. Wayne airport waiting for some way to start this archive. First impressions aren’t everything, but they might as well be.
The Gods didn’t strike me with anything. The inside of my brain felt like a forest the day after it rains — even if there was a spark all the wood around was wet. I knew this all too well: frozen by stillness hunched over a blank page. A man then walked past, knocking over my coffee with his carry-on. I didn’t even look at him in the eye as he turned around to stand over me as I picked up the pulsating coffee gurgling onto the argyle carpet. Only then did I set to my computer with haste. I wish I would’ve thanked that man.
When I look back at college, I see it in flashes, naturally. A flash of me discovering the fellowship the end of my sophomore year. A flash to writing the personal statements on my mother’s couch. A flash from the interview in front of the board members. Receiving the acceptance email. Here I am.
This is the memory warp of the “Roger M. Jones Fellowship” in my brain. If I am to access the “Edmond” warp, it will start with the sleepover we had in seventh-grade. Then going out to homecoming together, trekking the smokey mountains for 11 days, and so on, and so on.
These flashes are what I’ve held onto, what my brain thinks are the family photo album or the box of money under the mattress to grab from episodes in my life. Today, though, I’m trying to focus on the tomorrows in between: A yeast-less conversation waiting for a bus with Edmond in the middle of January, or holding hands with my mom at the beach in Holland. I’m annoyed that I had to make up these last two scenarios.
And yet in anticipation for my time in London, I was wishing away all of the tomorrows between from when I got accepted, to sitting at an airport waiting for my flight with half of a coffee.
During the last dinner I had with my mom last night, she told me in excitement over her plate of brown rice and fried cauliflower, “And tomorrow you’ll be having kids!”
How many ways are there to measure a tomorrow? And are these flashes of my life the dawns of “life” tomorrows? If this is my yard stick, then my year in London is one of these self-defined “days” in my life. I have made a day in my life with this opportunity. Maybe this is what a life is, living standard celestial days and tomorrows until an event, or a year, maybe even a decade of something, somewhere or someone is big enough to make a “day” in your life.
And so now I am thinking of tomorrow outside of planetary contexts, outside of a rotation of the earth. I am also thinking about what I can do to make more “days” in my life.
And I also thinking about how tomorrow I will be on a plane back to the states, with whatever it is I learned out here.