As the school year crawls even closer, you start counting your lasts of everything for the summer. Like, your last night in bed. Last time pooping in your bathroom without having to worry about the inevitable embarrassment afterward. Last time seeing your best friend of four years for a long, long time.
My last weekend is here, and my lasts are piling up. I don’t particularly like the idea of last moments— it’s like there’s a whole new life after this weekend, while this one is put on pause. There’s something fragmented about that, like one life has to end because another is beginning, as if this is only a time to reminisce and not look forward. It doesn’t seem to be an entirely honest way of examining these next few days.
So, instead, as the weekend progresses, I’ll keep these moments in mind when they’re needed:
Next time I sleep, I’ll be in bed in San Diego. Next time I see my best friend, we’ll have one more semester at college to cross off. Next time I see my oldest sister, she’ll most likely be engaged. Next time I get to use my own bathroom will be relieving as fuck.
There isn’t a guarantee in the world that will promise me any of these things. Even so, I know that on Monday, when I turn to say one last goodbye to my house where from then until December I’ll only be considered a weekend visitor, I’ll be thinking:
Until next time.
It’s called Insom-nom-nom-nia.
at least it’s not Hufflepuff …