Room 324
September has rolled itself here, now calling for a sweater in the mornings and at night. It unfolds in the red tips of leaves still holding out their green. I picture the first day back at Amherst, in western Massachusetts.
By now, 8:45 AM, my hand holding a hot latte and a morning walk would be the ideal routine. I imagine the rush—hundreds of feet moving along that same red-brick road in a hurry for class. The new incomers, as I know, with Google Maps open and eyes cast downward. They can’t help but stand out from everyone else. They can try to fit in, but people know. Oh, a freshman indeed.
I hold onto my freshman memories like a scrapbook inside my head, where every September they resurface to remind me, you’re getting old. Twenty-two compared to eighteen: only four years apart, but a lifetime of experience between them.
The first memory to appear is my roommate’s legs pointed toward the dorm ceiling. I was on FaceTime with my then-boyfriend when, from my peripheral vision, I caught a body midair, suddenly parallel to the ground, and then—thud!
Next to her fallen body was her ottoman, tipped sideways with the cover open and everything inside spilled out. My conversation on the phone died in our laughter, hers and mine. We laughed until we were holding in our pee, legs crossed tightly. Beyond that, I remember the room vividly, as if I’m still there.
Butterfield was the freshman dorm we lived in, perched on the very top of the hill. That hill—no, mountain—was not a joke. Calf muscles were guaranteed from it. But when finally at the top, we lived three floors up and to the left of the staircase. Her bed was the first one seen when you opened our door. Her fairy lights glittered, draping in harmony with the green plastic vines. Covering the corner of her wall were small printed pictures, all color-schemed in pink, beige, and mint green. Then there was my side: nothing. A gray blanket and pillow.
It took two months of convincing before I decorated my side. I started by hanging prints of my photography work, then swapped in a new white blanket. Then came stuffed animals, a pink pillow, fairy lights, and a polka-dotted throw at the end of my bed. It wasn’t sad anymore. We had our beds arranged in the shape of an L. The room was big, big enough to do cartwheels or for me to mope on the floor when needed. The prison lights (overhead lights) were replaced with warm desk lamps and twinkling fairy lights. It was a mutual rule to never use the overhead lights, a punishing glare.
On a few nights I’d return to a dark room and her bed empty. This was no surprise if I knew she’d left for the weekend, but communication sometimes fell short. Not finding her on top of the bed with her feet crossed over each other sent me into worry. The first thing I’d check would be her shoes. We always respected each other’s stuff, but these were the few times I’d peek into her closet. Two or three pairs missing—not including her everyday Air Forces—meant she’d gone home for the weekend. One night, all her shoes were still there. Good god! She got hit by a car or kidnapped were my frantic thoughts. I texted and called, praying for a response. Finally, a few hours later: “I went home last minute this weekend,” then a sigh of relief.
Other nights we were pop stars. Stuffed animals lined up in rows as our audience for a world tour. We’d dance across the room, sing until our throats gave out, then hush ourselves enough to eavesdrop on our neighbors across the hall—in the room that was for us, as we were.
Distant, yet still within reach. Graduation once felt impossible, but in just a few blinks, I’ve landed here: September 2nd, 2025, at 9:00 AM. The cicadas are already singing this Tuesday morning. They buzz in the woods as peace to my ears. I wonder outside my porch: what bodies now fill that room, and what makes it theirs? That square space that once felt like ours, only ours.
