leap year meditation [narrative] – Post Magazine

next chapter

Written by Joe Maffa

My brother graduated from high school on June 1, 2018. Like all family good memories, photos from that day are forever preserved throughout the house. It is attached to a Shutterfly mug and clipped to the refrigerator with a brightly colored magnet that will stand the test of time. Every day when I’m at home, these photos appear before me as if to remind me of a time of unbridled joy and pride. It is the eternal legacy of the nuclear family, and one that grows further and further apart as the days pass.

When I look back on this day, I feel my heart tighten. As a high school freshman, I watched from the edge of the field as the senior class played, lazing through Elgar’s drag-and-roll of “Pomp and Circumstance” on the snare drum for an hour. As the band director glared in our direction, sweating in button-ups and khakis in the rippling heat, dozing off while listening to the graduates’ next chapter and induction speeches, the 15-year-old I remember a frank remark that only young people would exchange it. The beginning. It is a time of simplicity and naivety that has taken on summer tints in my heart, smiling not out of real joy, but for the pictures.

I recently saw a graph detailing how much time people spend with their families as they age. From that day on, the time we spent together as a family of four always had a beginning and an end. We have reunited, and will continue to reunite, but never in the same simple, continuous way that characterized my childhood.

I remember in my heart that day under these conditions. As the next chapter of our book begins, I will hug my little brother tighter, not my little brother. Laugh with your family, not for them. The tug in my heart turns into a rich feeling of love and happiness that keeps being rekindled when we are together, but it can only reach fleeting moments in my memory.

by the lake

Written by Kathy Gonzalez

When I miss my parents the most, when Rhode Island and Florida seem to grow further and further apart, my mind rewinds the clock to Halloween 2015.

It was my first time visiting Chicago and I wasn’t fully prepared for the rain. After years of “disagreeing with her mom about what a preteen should wear,” I decided to dress her up in a Pinterest-inspired combat suit with her boots and slouchy beanie, hanging around the corner of a hotel. I accepted covering up with her CVS red disposable poncho around the bend.

We spent the first day visiting most of the classic tourist spots, including the Bean, Sears Tower, and Chicago Riverwalk. All were fun in their own right, but it’s the places in between that I remember most fondly: the coffee shops, storefront awnings, and train rides where we took refuge as we moved from one attraction to the next. This is the stop.

Proud of our resilience in the face of inclement weather, our adventure culminated in an Uber ride to Navy Pier on Halloween. Call it childlike naivety or complete delusion. But as I watched the storm taper into an icy drizzle, I truly believed the pier would be fully operational. Upon arrival, we joined a group of other disappointed tourists inside the main indoor area. After an hour of wandering aimlessly, my father asked me if I wanted to walk around the pier. I thought this was one of his sarcastic ways to make light of the situation, and I went along with it and said, “Yes.” What I didn’t expect was for him to take my hand and pull me outside. At that moment, time stopped. We ran around the pier, kicking and splashing in puddles as the rain stung like icy needles on our skin. The horizon was obscured by fog, but we stood there alone, holding hands and looking numbly at the lake.

I realized that most of the memories I cherish become more special as time passes. It’s as if we need to marinate them and reinterpret them with the insights that only come with age. But that moment on the pier was the only moment in my life where I thought, “I’m going to look back on this forever.” Maybe it’s because we only broke the rules once, or maybe it’s because my mom always reminded us that we could get hypothermia, but that’s because I’ve never It was the most grateful feeling I have ever felt. life. I recall those memories every day, ensuring that no detail fades with time, and that I continue to hold my parents close to my heart no matter the distance.

Remains positive, test result is negative <3

Written by Tabitha Lin

In May 2020, I met my friends for the first time in two months. We were planning every meeting, desperately trying to find an excuse to leave the house. I got dressed the night before, carefully packed my bag like an elementary school student, and daydreamed about the next day’s big field trip.

An orange halter top, ripped jeans, a blanket to sit on, and of course a mask.

We were sitting 10 feet apart in the park, but the excitement of being so close (close enough) made me giddy to the point of delirium. As I lay in the grass with my eyes closed, the sun making holes in my jeans, and the sounds of my friends rustling around me, it was as if nothing had changed. Despite being away for months, the sun was here, the birds were here, the daffodils were blooming, and it felt like summer was about to blow over. Like clockwork, the humidity of the Washington DC summer set in and the air was so heavy I could almost taste it, but for once I didn’t care. I was reminded of how much I have to be grateful.

It took over a year after that encounter for my life to begin to fully recover again, but that day I felt lighter for the first time in a long time.

Lana Del Sulay

Written by Elijah Puente

My legs hurt. I was tired of returning every night to a house that wasn’t mine and trying to cleanse myself of the musk from the person crammed next to me on the train. I was ready for it to be over. But the biggest highlight was right around the corner. This is Lana Del Rey.

Last summer, I attended Lollapalooza (or “Lanapalooza” as I like to call it). There were many of my favorite artists in the lineup, but I was especially looking forward to Lana’s performance on Sunday night. I had seen her once when I was a teenager with her father, the original Lana Stan. At the time, I didn’t listen to her music that much, but when I became more familiar with her music I was excited to experience her show (she’s currently available on Spotify. (My top artist)

After three consecutive days of concerts, Sunday finally arrived. I saved my lacy green petite women’s top for this day. My Instagram caption was “Summer sadness that Lanapalooza is over.” After a hilarious performance of “A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie,” I rushed to his one of her two main stages to win over the swarming fans. I was quickly disappointed that my pace was slower than I expected. But because of my height, I always had visibility. The stage was covered with lace fabric and flower vines.

The lights began to shine and the crowd screamed. The bridge to the chorus of “A&W” disappeared into thin air. When Lana came on stage, I thought her eardrums were going to burst from the high-pitched sounds around her. She was sitting gracefully on a wooden swing suspended from vines wrapped around a rope. Her entire performance was fantastic. I lost my voice by the end.

I wish I could experience it again, but it will never be the same as that day. Maybe next time I’ll use my carefully crafted Instagram captions for the first time.

burrito bowl

Written by Clara Davidson-Schmich

Sundays have a bad reputation. The end of the weekend and the start of the school or work week is a day to reflect on the mistakes you made, the time you wasted, and the things you left undone that weekend. It’s easy to see why “Sunday Terror” exists.

As the weekend wore on, I stumbled into Andrews on Sunday morning, waited an obscenely long time for my burrito bowl, and stared out into a long afternoon that would almost certainly be spent at The Hay. I can’t help but feel a sense of deja vu. It could have been any Sunday from the past three years, but this is exactly where I would be, reliving the same day that seems like the past few semesters, if not years, of living.

It’s a habit that formed by chance, or perhaps on purpose due to the limited options offered at Brown Dining on weekends, but it’s one I stubbornly continue to stick with. . Whether it’s because of laziness or habit, I never manage to get there early enough to catch the line and never learn how to get a granola bowl instead.

But despite the lines, the struggle to find a table, and the mushrooms and green beans instead of peppers and onions, there’s a reason I go there every weekend. there is. There is something comforting about immutability and stability. I’ve had bad days where I wish it were over, and bad weeks where I can’t see the other side, but I’ve never had a bad burrito bowl at Andrews.