Ring went the bell that interrupted
our first conversation in the coffee shop
too short and overdue and underbaked
ideas shared over apple chai tea
while who we were floated near the surface
of the shallow shadows under the live oak trees
Can we go back to Montrose to try again for the sake of second chances, maybe?

Quiet is the sound of the feeling I get
when I remember how you could draw undeniably
gazing eyes you had never seen
before they met you on that mid-fall midday
between the place to go after the place now gone
and then the future headed in front of me
Would it be wise to get in the car wishing for a kiss or replaying how you pushed the chair in for me?

Chimes overhead, faded melody behind,
singing a song heard that night from the patio breeze
Stars, twinkling, stars leading one step away from there,
one step closer to here with me
Did I miss something planted in the words talking between the palm trees?

Would it be fun wondering how that sound
surrounded two hearts in love before we
were we, connected through silent singing
made to move the crowd into separate seas?

Things to Leave at Home
That You Won’t Need at College

They won’t take much time, money, or heartache (well, maybe just a little),
but they’ll make your campus transition much easier. Scissors might be helpful.

By Sarah Campbell

I bet many of my students’ parents will have read Ron Leiber and Tara Sigel Bernard’s NYT article about how to go beyond the essential supply list to prepare for academic life. The advice would help any family feel better prepared for such a big life change.

Maybe you are a student, and you are thinking that you need a list addressed to you. I couldn’t help but think of you all because I will teach 84 freshmen this fall semester who are going to need to shift away from the “collecting things to pack” notion and move toward a “leave it behind” mindset before summer’s end. Has anyone told you that?

Setting yourself up for disappointment comes from making promises that never will happen. What if these “great expectations” could be avoided? Before you drive-fly-bike-walk here to the university, consider this list of items to cut. Look at it like a pre-college challenge. This is not a test, no points are awarded or deducted, it will not affect your overall GPA, and best of all, no one but you will ever know. If last year’s wisdom is right, you’ll win. If my intel is wrong, well, at least you’ll win the art of traveling light.

Go ahead, just leave it behind. Trust me.

1. Plan your archive.
   Start by going through the special trinkets, souvenirs, mementos, or artifacts collected from happy times. Fill up a decorated box, stuff your favorite bag, or stack them on a bookcase. Display them proudly or keep them tucked away, knowing there is a place for them. You won’t need them where you are going. They won’t even fit in. Let them rest in the nest while you fly high.
2. Push forward against the pull backward.
   Invite your family to create a room that is no longer just yours. This room needs to be open for guests or used as an office or available for any creative function under the sun. But it doesn’t need to be yours anymore. And you are not coming back. You will visit home, but it is not your home anymore. It is your family’s home. Your future is your home, now. You are building your own home one new experience at a time. You have a new room waiting for you. Go on. Move in.
3. Give to future you.
   Email your professors. No, not when you need their help three days before the final exam. Now. Yes, now. This summer. Just a hello. Make a connection. Eventually, these mentors will write you letters of recommendation, share internship opportunities, and support your research. Maybe one day, you will want to hire them! Did you ever think of it that way? You are a recruiter now. You are sizing up your faculty to see who you might want to approach when you are running your own company. Connect now and keep the conversation going.
4. Avoid dust.
   You don’t need to pack so much stuff. Your car is loaded too heavy for the speed you want to go. Downsize now or deal with a lot of dust later. Stephen King in his book On Writing recommends cutting at least 10% when you revise your work. Start there. For every 10 items you are cramming into the suitcase, toss one out.
5. Think agility over anchors.
   You have to break up with them. If you are still reading, it is because I did not tell you the truth until I was sure you could handle it. You made it this far, so you are ready to understand that the current relationship you are in will never survive college. And think about it, do you really want the great love of your life to be characterized with the same description we used for those who made it through a war? Don’t survive it. Let it go. Build a life of beauty, not survival.
6. Make peace.
   Tell them you are sorry. Once you go, you will never get to say it and mean it and feel it like you can now. Receiving the redemption of forgiveness does have an expiration date. Don’t miss it before you head out of town (for good). Be courageous now. Go to them, apologize to them, forgive them, and forgive yourself. Done? Okay. Now, you are ready to start packing your bags. You leave well packed, but with no baggage. Crucial.
7. Step up.
   You are on all these group chats and threads, right? Offer support to someone at some point between now and when you get to campus. When you give, you realize that you are not weak, but very, very strong. You will need to remember this truth early and often your first semester. You are strong, and you can give to others. When you do, it is your soul overflowing its gesture of goodness to the world. That act of kindness recharges you beyond any energy drink ever could.And, by the way, if you are scared about making new friends, joining a sorority or fraternity, or picking a major, just jump in. See what happens. It will probably be good. And grab someone willing to do it, too. Do it with them.
8. I give in here. Keep just one thing.
   You get one picture—or locket—or sweatshirt—or wrench—or playlist. One thing. Pick it, keep it, and use it to keep you moving forward in college. The minute it drags you down like an anchor, seriously, send it somewhere that needs to remain unmoved. That’s not for you. You’ve got to stay in motion.

Writing instructors pay close attention to what their first-year students do and don’t say from August to December each year. After the first day, when freshmen share what they are trying so hard to cling to, I dread the pain that is coming. Hearts break and mend and break again, often within one week’s time. The signs are surprisingly easy to see. They will eventually have to give up all that came before or watch as it gives up on them. New page. New chapter. New reflection in the mirror. I want to say something, but it is too late to tell them to let go once they are with me in our classroom. At that point, the only voice they can hear is their own, and they don’t yet know who they really are. It’s a “Two roads diverged” kind of moment.

So, how will you choose? Take it or leave it? The key lesson before backing out of the driveway for the last time is that you will never go in reverse again. The direction is forward. The idea that you can hold tight to all-that-was is a myth. That’s not how this works, and believing in the myth will hurt. A lot. It will hit you so hard, so fast, and so deeply later in college when the world of comfort is not there to help you as it is this summer at home. Now is the time to hurt less with more support. Now. Do it now. Right now. Time to move on, to say goodbye.

Take a note away, Mama,
And does the song stop singing?

No, of course, not…
Unless the note was the key to end all keys, and then, well,…

Then, yes, of course, yes.
The note in its absence would render the song unsingable.

Put a note in right here,
And does the song stop singing, now?

No, of course not…
Unless the new note was a sound too big for their own britches

Then, yes, of course, yes.
The note with its presence would, like a tsunami, drown the town and all its inhabitants.

Change a note from one to another,
And does the song stop singing?

No, of course not…
Unless the change was the accidental death of one to be surprised by another

Then, yes, of course, yes.
The note, with its opportunistic slide into the vacancy of the ordained,
would cheapen integrity, like a paring knife cutting away more than just the peel,
until the song, too, dies a death mourned by all who sang, believed, and blossomed.

Blend two notes together,
And does the song stop singing?

No, of course not…
Unless the chord of two brings way for a third, and then, well…

Then, yes, of course, yes.
When you arrived, everyone held their breath, the songs stopped singing,
like the moment when instruments wait, wait, wait—
silence before the conductor’s baton, up from its peak, crashes down to the first beat—
not a sound could enter while we all took it in,
the fullness of your sweet music, the sound of freedom.

You are here.

And from the moment you arrived until forever’s forever has come and gone by,
nothing can stop the songs from singing your sweet music, the sound of freedom.

When my grandmother was my age, 49, the year was 1972. I was not yet born, but my older brother Michael was.

My grandmother knew then that my dad had found and married my mom, someone who could love and be loved in return. She witnessed how happy a home they could make for their child, and eventually, my grandmother would witness the same happy home for my younger brother Drew and me, too.

It was not easy, but my grandmother had survived living through The Great Depression, sharecropping in Oklahoma, serving telegrams to soldiers in the Second World War, getting over heartbreak, and giving birth. She found love and security after her divorce. She enjoyed a modern family and genuinely shared her whole heart with all of us.

At 49 years old, my grandmother worked, was a wife, raised her youngest son, had grandchildren, and lived by the verse “love thy neighbor”. She always showed up for us kids, dear friends, and her 4-H family.

Without knowing it, at least she couldn’t have known, she wrote the playbook for me in case I would have the courage to listen to her wisdom and follow it. Who my grandmother was at 49 looks uncannily familiar to me. It is the map of her life that anchors me to hope for my own true happiness.

I will never be prepared for her to rest, though I realize she must eventually need–and of course, already deserves–a break.

So, it’s okay. All good, G-ma.

You are gone, now, but I can still hear your voice encouraging me.

You have been with me these 49 years.

And you always will be.

You have guided me this far.

Your voice guides me still.

I know how to move forward from here.

The way you have gone, I will now go.
The way you have lived, I will now live.
All people will be my people, and your God’s unfailing mercy will be my mercy.
May the Lord punish me ever so severely if anything
but death separates me from giving your lovingkindness to the world.

~Adapted from Ruth 1:16 & 17

Goodnight, Grandma

Goodnight, Grandma
and the Brownwood lagoon,
Goodnight Tanglewood and the California moon,

Goodnight Tiger, Goodnight 4-H,
Goodnight Cowboys and Thanksgiving plates,

Goodnight mint bushes, Goodnight birds,
Goodnight office with completed crosswords,

Goodnight Texas, and Oregon, too,
Goodnight Lone Star, my Red, White, and Blue,

Goodnight hymns and Nat King Cole,
Goodnight peanut brittle and beans eaten cold,

Goodnight phone calls at 1 AM,
Are you still up? Sure, Honey–you?

Goodnight bluebonnets, butterflies, and bees,
Goodnight hot tea, less sugar than me,

Goodnight to rescues from life’s big scares,
Goodnight, dear Grandma, now, you take care.

Goodnight Snow Goose, Goodnight spoons,
Goodnight, sweet Grandma, I’ll see you soon.

Today would be better because I’ll suffer less,
cry less seeing the date on the calendar once every four years
like a less frequent blood moon
or a high tide that catches the sea cucumber off guard
leaving him exposed to science teachers who mean well
who go to the shore with their students
for a historic poke and prod of a hardly-ever-to-be-seen event
or a string of beads that pops
all over the floor after class when a pile of books in hand catches the thread
and down, down, down they go
like a whirlpool stirred up with floodwaters no one thought would spill
over well-built levies that were tested to withhold
even more pressure than what nature forced
on unsuspecting residents beside themselves, beside the fast current
taking away their lives and livelihoods before their very eyes,
but it really is less like that because,
other than the even years divisible by 400,
every four years that day will come
with calculated predictability and immeasurable unpredictability,
so maybe instead of sadly mourning each year a little less
the stored grief floods, the fragile security then exposes
all the raw uncertainty left throbbing, gasping, and reaching
in the naked beach where the waters recede
further and further away into the depths beyond the beyond.

Inauguration Day, the White House now
Is filled with smiles along the steps
And stands amidst the sky ablaze
With sparkling brilliance, smoking haze

Now, of the years before and then
A moment not to come again
And see from where the girls will rise
It takes just one to start a trend

And since to look ahead in time
Infinite dreams are born tonight
About the world, our hopes unite
To see the promise of our nation’s light.

Inspired by…

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.^[25]

—by A.E. Housman from A Shropshire Lad: “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now”