Later, at the outskirts of town, I
pulled to the shoulder, shaking and sobbing against the steering
wheel. I finally acknowledged that my urgency came not from joy but
anxiety and the pathetic fear that no one would remember me. Once my
tears dried I debated running away, but instead went forward through
the sheer mists of memory overlaying the landscape in front of me.
At the front desk I stumbled through
the first greetings, relieved slightly by awkward hugs. I searched
for beloved faces, and the warmth of embraces offered first through
Facebook, and then in person. Yet, as always, I felt as if no one
knew what to do with me – including myself.
And so it was for three days. I've
never been good at small talk, and what is a reunion but chit-chat? I
did find some old friends, and we explored our new selves together.
I basked in their company. I spent a great deal of time with other
people's children, enjoying being an auntie. I caught up with people
I probably should have befriended twenty years ago. But the only time
it was easy was a night meander through the grounds, chasing ghosts
with someone who once owned my heart. We walked, and remembered, and
I surreptitiously searched for the source of my loneliness, as if I
could turn off a tap from twenty years before and retroactively find
happiness.
During the day I practiced polite
smiles and inept escapes when the silences grew strained. I was
baffled by pronouncements of great friendship from a man I had barely
known, and unnaturally hurt by the woman who refused to speak to me
despite two decades of distance. I hid at night in my room, staring at the ceiling and listening through the window to drunken declarations of love and undying friendship, and longing
to belong. And still I searched, but by then I didn't know what I was
seeking.
I caught it on my last night, for just
a moment. We danced, as we'd done so long ago, in a darkened room to
music that had beaten its way into my bones and heart. I swayed
alone, forgetting propriety and how to protect myself and for a
brief, fleeting time I felt the limitless possibilities of being 16
and surrounded by brilliance and excitement and joy – a sense that
just by being there I was changing the world for the better.
I left the next morning after a few
brief goodbyes, relieved that I had faced my fears. I still love the
school and cherish my two years there. My memories are deep and
strong and vivid. Yet I have a lingering feeling that I failed
somehow to truly live my time there, and that failure has followed me
since. I drove home more slowly, mourning what could have been.
