Molly Carroll

My heart is aching. An ache so deep there lies a burning weight in my chest that brings static to my brain, a lump to my throat, the sting of tears to my nose, and burning to my eyes. The sensation associated with teetering on the edge of emotional release takes over, followed by a moment of silence during which I forget to breathe, or my body chooses not to. I freeze until the weight of the ache becomes too large that only tears can help carry it.

I ache for familiarity. For comfort. I dissociate from the semi-new, adult life I am currently living and crave to live in a time that only brings me nostalgia now. I close my eyes.

I’m sitting in one of the many lawn chairs circled around the buggy backyard of my senior year college home that is only illuminated by the three-headed standing lamp we dragged from our living room, sipping a beer and waiting for all of our friends to come over for the last time. A slight buzz hitting my head while dipping my toes in the lukewarm water of our plastic baby pool, I’m queuing songs on the speaker and watching three of my five roommates start a bonfire while the other two pick up supplies for s’mores. Once everyone arrives, we all reminisce on four years of college and wade in our shared sadness of leaving a place we’ve learned to call home while skipping songs we know would bring us to tears.

I’m a sophomore in high school sitting in Patrick Burns’ basement wrapped in a blanket on a bean bag chair discussing with the rest of the room which horror movie we would torture ourselves with that night. Mrs. Burns brings down her homemade ice cream sandwiches and brownies while we turn on the projector and settle in. The hot tub and pool will leave me smelling of chlorine the entire movie but I don’t care because my parents said I could stay out until 12:30 to finish the whole film. I put our biggest stressors aside, the looming chemistry test and possibility of waking up my parents when I sneak in 5 minutes past curfew, and snuggle up between the people I’d consider my best guy friends for years to come.

I’m 17, walking in the back door of the restaurant and into the kitchen, already slipping on the floor and trying to save my coffee from spilling as I wave hello to the chefs stocking their shelves for the day. Tying my apron on, I set the tables of my section to the tune of “Mama Knows” by Sister Sparrow, the opening song my manager selects every morning. The bartender hands me a dirty chai he picked me up on his way in, since he’s been begging me to try it. Knowing I am about to be over-caffeinated, I sip on a water and get ready to greet the entirety of my small town for the Saturday lunch rush. By four o’clock, I ask the chef to make my favorite burger and fries while I wait for my younger brother to join me for the dinner shift as a busboy, after which we will promptly hit the dairy queen drive thru for our usual: two chocolate oreo blizzards.

It’s September and the crisp air is already starting to feel like Fall. I can almost smell the pumpkin spice as I step outside the locker room doors of our high school, heading down to the track with two of my best friends. We’re early, as usual, despite debating on how many layers to wear for twenty minutes. I finish off my bag of goldfish with Katherine and Emily while we discuss our predictions of the afternoon workout. Today will likely be a hill workout in Forest Park or maybe Coach Diane will surprise us with our favorite 3-miler, Woodsley-Ardsley. We set out on our run with the big topic of discussion being how excited we are for our Amherst Invitational that weekend. Not for the race, but because we get to stop at Atkins Farm on the way home and pick up our favorite apple cider donuts and homemade chocolate milk, which is always a fight to the death with the boys’ team for the limited stock they have.

It’s Sunday night football on a fall evening in high school. My mom is cooking her award-winning chili, which makes the house smell warm, cozy, and delicious. My brothers and I sit at the kitchen table fighting for space while we hurry to finish our homework before we eat. Mom says it’s okay for us to have dinner in the living room since the football game is on, so we shlep our bowls of chili, slices of cornbread, and ample amounts of napkins to the couch. We all squeeze in as the Patriots kick off, waking my dad up from “resting his eyes” which is almost always accompanied by snores that echo through the whole house. I feel at home and taken care of.

I’m in Florence, Italy. It’s one of the last nights of our trip touring this beautiful country. We’re walking over a small pedestrian bridge illuminated by a combination of dim street lamps, small restaurants and moonlight back to the Duomo, stuffed to the brim after a three course dinner. A small portion of us are discussing our favorite parts of the week, namely our performance during Mass at St. Mark’s Basilica, one of the most breathtaking, peaceful buildings I have ever stepped foot in. We notice the rest of our high school singing group, nearly thirty students that I consider family, coming to a halt at the top of the bridge surrounded by tourists and Italian locals alike. A small band on the street is playing “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” by U2. We stop to dance, sing, and cry under the stars, knowing this trip will only live on as a memory of one of the last times we will all perform together before myself and the rest of the seniors graduate.

December 23rd, Hannah Johns’ birthday. Our friend group of seven families trickle into the Johns’ household for our annual pizza party to celebrate. After the initial greetings, Hannah, Carter, Mia, and myself peel off as our older brothers and younger brothers disperse appropriately. We exchange our carefully selected Christmas and birthday gifts with each other and discuss what we suspect our biggest gifts from our parents will be as if sharing the juiciest gossip we’ve heard all year. After one too many slices of pizza and ample amounts of ice cream cake, our parents kiss each of us goodnight as the rest of our families head home. Our slumber party, an everlasting tradition, kicks off with the richest hot chocolate we can muster and wraps up with a showing of the Polar Express before we drag our exhausted bodies up to bed, excited to wake up on Christmas Eve together. We wake to the smell of pancakes being whipped up by none other than Dirk Johns himself, which we guzzle down before heading home. The afternoon of December 24th, after putting on my overly formal Christmas Eve outfit, the Johns family and mine bundle up to walk across the street from my house to our church. After the service, we consume about half of the appetizers our moms prepared to bring to the infamous Cuda bash before we even get the chance to leave the house. Our quick walk to the Cuda’s house is followed by a night of amazing company with people that helped raise me, delicious wine, and Christmas carols, which we’re all probably a bit too old for nowadays. When the wine gives us enough warmth to handle the walk home in the snow, we kiss everyone goodbye and bring my favorite night of the year to a close.

I open my eyes. Life is different now, and I am still learning to settle into this new “familiarity” that I am creating all on my own, with brand new people and places. Even at age twenty-three, I ache to be taken care of. To still be young, with few responsibilities and very little worries.

So for now, when I need to, I play the playlist we used to listen to at our bonfires in college, eat the breakfast my mom still has every morning, buy my brother’s favorite ice cream from Dairy Queen, FaceTime the guys I grew up with, attempt to recreate the Carroll family chili recipe, rewatch scary movies I only associate with friends from home, plan my Christmas Eve outfit months in advance, go for runs that mimic an after school cross country practice, and watch football games I don’t actually care about.