I keep meaning to write an update here. Mostly for my own records. But also as a small way of speaking the personal things I usually keep close, only to me.
I am “working from home” in the National Portrait Gallery atrium, a light-filled open space with small circular tables and fake wooden chairs and a glass ceiling. A group of women sit near me at two tables pushed together covered with watercolors and paper and writing utensils. In my four hours beside them, they have not stopped chatting and chuckling in the loveliest way. I think they are a creative group. I like being in their company as I type out course descriptions and emails for my work.
It’s Friday, and this weekend is the first I have made no plans. I’m insecure about this. Fearful that this open weekend is indicative of my every weekend in D.C. to come. But I know this isn’t true.
My sophomore year I listened to the cheesy tragic love theme of Titanic, “My Heart Will Go On,” more times than I will admit. It came back to mind the other day, and I’m reflecting on this line:
You are safe in my heart.
Davidson begins again this coming week. My friends and church and RUF, the library desk and the trails and the two big secluded armchairs outside the Union gym. Even the health center. I won’t study at Sloan on Sunday afternoons anymore or camp out in the coziness of Old Summit upstairs.
Of course I’ll find my D.C. equivalents of these things in time. New study spots and favorite runs and companions. But that’s the thing. They’ll be equivalents. And an equivalent can’t exist without an original. And today, this weekend, in this atrium, I’m grieving the originals. I’m keeping them safe in my heart.