A Jaunt Down Memory Lane

I was going through my documents folder on my computer this afternoon when I realized it was a little messy. As I started to tidy it up, I opened a few folders I haven't looked through in years, the ones containing all my papers from high school and my first few years of college. I started opening them and reading them, and boy, what a hoot! I have a pathological need to take myself hyperseriously, and it shows. But anyway. I opened and read one particular essay I wrote for my favorite English professor of all time, the amazing Dr. Bradshaw, during my very first semester of college. I don't remember exactly the assignment; something about narrating a small, seemingly insignificant moment. I wrote mine about the moment it really, truly hit me that I was graduating from high school. Now, seven years later, having just barely graduated from college (but having yet to have that same moment of realization about graduating from college), I thought that it was a timely piece of writing to pull out and dust off.

* * * * *

Photo from the Fuller Partners' website, here.

It was a trip I'd taken a thousand times before.

The car windows were rolled all the way down, and my arm was draped over the side of the door, weaving in and out of the stream of air that rushed past. Sweaty hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail, whipped back and forth with every gust, leaving stinging trails across my cheeks. Outside, the sun shone fiercely in its slow, daily trek to the west. The azure sky burned a brilliant blue. A few wispy clouds hung determinedly to the horizon, but the vault of heaven remained clear of any friendly clouds that might wander across the path of the sun and cloak its blazing wrath. Denied their rightful place high above our heads, they had settled for sending their moisture to saturate the still air down below, smothering us in what felt like a hot, wet blanket.

The radio blared yet another song about a guy and a girl falling in love, or maybe falling out of love; it was hard to be sure. Beside me in the front seat, my sister sat looking out at the familiar trees and houses flashing past her open window. She pulled absently at the clammy tee-shirt that clung to her. “How do you think practice went?” she asked over the sound of the radio and the rushing air.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied, shrugging. “I think we made some improvements, definitely. T-man seemed happy with what we got done.” I, too, pulled at the tee-shirt clinging to my sticky, sweaty skin. A bead of moisture escaped my hairline and rolled down my cheek; another traced a leisurely line down my neck. “Considering that it’s about fifty million degrees outside, he should be happy we didn’t all collapse and die of heat exhaustion.”

She nodded. “I think things are finally coming together. There are still a lot of rough edges, but I think we’ll do well on Saturday.”

I glanced at her briefly before turning my eyes back to the road. “Yeah, me too.” 

* * *

We traveled down the same road, the two of us, this time going in the other direction. Not much had changed, if anything at all. The placement of the cars in the driveways, maybe.

This time, the windows remained up, so as not to muss meticulously arranged hair, or displace carefully chosen clothes. Instead, the air conditioner quietly blew chilled air across our faces and ruffled the filmy fabrics of our best black pants. I curled my feet in my high heeled shoes; the cool air was making my bare toes cold.

My sister flipped down the passenger-side visor, peered intently at the mirror attached to the back of it. She looked down quickly and rummaged through the contents of the bag perched precariously on the seat next to her. “Where is it, where is it…stupid mascara,” she muttered.

I glanced over, amused. A little foundation and eyeshadow was all that was involved in my toilette. “You were supposed to do all that before we left.”

She waved a hand at me absently, and continued digging. “Yeah, but I didn’t get to put my…ah hah! I found it!” She held it up triumphantly. “I didn’t have time to put any mascara on before we left, I had to eat.” Her mouth open and eyes wide in concentration, she carefully brushed the black goop onto her eyelashes. She finished and thrust the wand back into its tube. “I wish we could wear lipstick,” she complained. “Makeup just doesn’t look right when you can’t do your mouth.”

“Come on,” I said. “You know that’s not practical. You can’t wear lipstick because if you did, your horn would slide all over the place and you couldn’t play. And it’d get all in your horn and would be the devil to clean.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But still, it would be nice to wear it just once.”

* * *

The same trees and houses and cars I had seen countless times slid silently past the window of the car. In four years, nothing significant had changed.

I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat in the back of the car, tugging at my skirt, trying to pull it down over my knees. The scratchy wool resisted my efforts, stubbornly riding up again. Skirts, I thought darkly, are not my thing. I sighed and shook my head a little, blowing a few loose strands of hair out of my eyes. Despite the care I’d taken to pin it back, my hair was just as stubborn as my skirt in the matter of staying where I wanted it.

A hand involuntarily rose to scrub at my eyes, but stopped just short of actually touching them. Nuh uh, I thought sternly at myself. No touching. Don’t smear mascara and eyeshadow all over your face.

Mom and Dad chatted amiably in the front seat, occasionally directing a comment to the backseat and my sister or me. I was reaching for my chapstick when it hit me.

“I’m not wearing any lipstick,” I said blankly. “I’m not wearing lip gloss, either.”

Mom looked back at me, confused. “So?”

“So,” I said, “so…I can wear lipstick. I don’t have to play tonight. I’m not in the band anymore, so it doesn’t matter. I’m not wearing any lipstick,” I repeated dazedly.

My sister stared at me, then said slowly, “You’re right. You’re not in band anymore. You’re graduating…”

You’re not in band anymore.

The words echoed silently through my head. I’m not in high school anymore, I thought, sitting back numbly. I’m graduating.