I was sitting on a wooden bench, my fingers numb from the frigid air and greasy from the dripping hot meat. The harsh lights beat down on the tables, wiping out any stars you might have glimpsed in the black depths. Eight people, plus me, sat around the table, wiping their own grease on the paper tablecloth. We laughed with our mouths full, chattered over each other, and picked fun. We were only twelve, after all.

Vivid blue seeps down towards the trees, fading slightly before meeting their leafy, upturned heads. The pond extends, glassy and dark, before me. Ducks with shimmering green feathers disrupt the waters. They ruffle their feathers, adding soft sounds to the crisp air.

After countless sunsets over beaches that were never the same, after nights spent tracing shifting maps in unchanging stars, after the dewy grass under the hickory trees in our old backyard, after a field in Austria, after a beach along the Mediterranean, after an eager and tear-filled plane ride that stretched in endless trails into darkness, after fearful expectations and homesickness,