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This is Water
Last night, I told four people about this place. With a vodka shot singing beneath my skin, I addressed the room. My fingers gripped each other tightly as I spoke, twisting in a ball of nervousness. But I didn’t need to be nervous. Their eyes…
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Pockets of Silence
On a Sunday morning several weeks ago, my friend and I sat on a bench together. We hadn’t planned to idle here; although, does anyone set out with the intention of sitting on a bench? Perhaps, the seat’s appeal is its spontaneous invitation. This particular…
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A Different Kind of Powerful
The human body does not enjoy cold water. I’ve seen enough bodies––writhing in the cold, as if to escape the grip of an invisible monster––to know this. People “can’t wait” to get in, and then, they can’t wait to get out. It’s the spectacle of…
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My First Election
The 2020 election has come and gone, leaving much in its wake. The Tuesday-Saturday stretch of last week felt like a river, one that pulled my body through currents and eddies. I didn’t want a river, of course. I wanted a waterfall––something visceral and fast,…
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Lists of Things to Lose
During the quarantined months of March, April, and May, I made many lists. They were lists of things I missed: daily experiences I had taken for granted at Colby, and swore to never do so again. The items were simple, things like: dancing in a…
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Proof of Fullness
I am home now. And my mind works through memories from this semester like it’s churning them into butter. Around and around – forcing them into something solid, something which won’t drip through my fingers. My camera role is filled with records of many in-between,…
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Where You’ve Found Me
Today is January 1, and I feel behind on the New Year Project. The assignment is two-fold: 1) share something you learned last year; 2) share something you hope for this year. The turning of a new year makes the world turn inside out. Everyone…
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The First Twenty-Four Things
Over the past mini-semester of January (at Colby, we call this “JanPlan”), I took a fiction writing course. In this course, I read collections from George Saunders, Raymond Carver, and Carmen Maria Machado, analyzing the style and substance of their stories. Class discussions were followed by writing assignments; I…
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Fort Retreat
My best friend and I were having a drink in his room last night, when said he had a surprise for me. I smiled and asked to see it. He pointed under his bed. His bed is really two beds, pushed parallel to the wall.…
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A Note on Spring
I don’t have time to write about spring, so I’ll keep this short. But someone had to say it: Spring at Colby is a mockery. The cold of winter is still coiled in my tailbone. I need to go outside and thaw. And yet, here…
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Quiet Histories 