I hadn’t known the story of how Anna’s life had played out; how she had ended up working in the arts and how she had ended up becoming the Anna that I knew. I always saw her as having things figured out.
The summer before college, Sarwat moved to Texas. It was a small miracle that she was able to convince them to stay put through the end of high school. Her parents wasted no time packing up after graduation.
Six months later, with a lump in her belly, she was on her way to California. When they arrived, they were met with the sea breeze and high tax rates. While she was out working, he was inside drinking, an unorthodox contortion of the American dream.
James calculated that the farthest he wanted to go was four hours by car. Eight hours of driving roundtrip. After his parents left for their fall conferences, he could hit the road.
I remember burying the seeds every time I ate an apple. They never grew into apple trees. I remember going to the airport for fun.
I remember, on Thompson Street, the moment they called the 2020 presidential race. I remember the way my childhood home smelled when it was completely empty.
The school bus halts at my stop. My cul-de-sac still out of view, I continue forward, listening to the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet, trying to forget the day I just had.
In the 21st century, teenagers have turned to social media platforms to develop their identities and find others like themselves, often resulting in the emergence of online subcultures.
Lady Bird (2017) taught me more about my relationship with my hometown and the people in it in ninety-five minutes than I could figure out in nineteen years.