Soft light
I'm sitting on a dark blue towel laid across rocks at the edge of Cascadilla Gorge, tucked away on a little rock ledge. The sun is overhead, filtered through clouds and branches with clusters of small, light green leaves. The waterfall beside me whooshes in my ears and drowns out the voices of passersby above me. When there is breeze, a light mist flecks my skin. The smell of wet rocks, like the sea, fills my nose. The air is calm and fragrant, vibrating with life. A stronger breeze comes and chills me – my skin and bones contract. The rocks at my back cradle me in a bumpy embrace. Home. A couple of hours ago, I finished my final tasks of the school year. It doesn't feel like the cathartic release it sometimes does, but I am done nonetheless. It's difficult to reflect on a semester and a year that feel so blurry, but I'll try. Time has been weird this year – weirder than ever. And the scientist in me cannot figure out why. Where do my memories go? What does