Freeze-Frame

Several days ago, I picked up a bottle of shampoo and realized that in December when I return to Dillsburg from England, the exact same bottle will be sitting on my tub. Mundane observances like this are amplified lately. I'm excited about the trip to England--it's the culmination of my most ardent dreams and interests--but I'm also nervous about radically altering my daily routine. In 25 days, my mother will cancel my car insurance. She will subscribe to basic cable, forfeiting both my company and the comfort of HBO. She will (I guess) spend her time teaching a class at Messiah, going to work, occasionally meeting with church friends. During the day, the house will stand empty. The dog will sleep on top of mom's bed and sigh. The cats will be annoyed that they can't come inside during the day. My bedroom will be vacant. The whir of the air conditioner will cease and my bed will be a rumpled, unmade mess, just as I left it. Farmers' Fair in Dillsburg will come and go, as will Thanksgiving. The bottle of shampoo will remain in my bathroom, its liquid contents unused.

Meanwhile, I will live some other life on some other continent (God willing--and if airplanes don't crash). It could be an amazing life, built through new relationships on old, familiar soil. It could be an annoying life, filled with a tired tourist/student's longings for home. Such a new and different experience is unimaginable, constructed only from the stories of others and literary characters. As I await this trip, I am frequently told by wise people that traveling "will change [my] life. I don't know if this is true, or how I will know that my life has changed. I claw at familiarity and hope for the best. I felt this way before adolescence, too, when I assumed that I would morph overnight into some beastly creature with hairy armpits and a smart mouth. I've learned after experiencing some really unpleasant situations that change can be gradual and quiet, often more harmonious than expected.

I continue to wait for departure.