Girl friends

Virginia is beautiful in the spring, especially during sunset. I take the view of the Shenandoah Valley for granted—the way the sun appears heaven-like in the fruit punch-colored sky. This is probably because I can’t imagine life where I don’t continuously return to them each August, but I’m aware of the fact that there will be a day very soon where I associate these mountains with my early twenties instead of my life. They’ll become like the relatives I see once a year but never more: a constant to fondly return to. Despite the time, despite the drastic changes, they will only silently be acknowledged and nothing more. The sunsets always cast a lilac hue onto the world: the grass, the sidewalks, the bluestone, the bars bustling with half-drunk half-adults.

Another year of college has passed me by, and I feel sickeningly sentimental and strange. Maybe there was truth to the one sentiment adults kept echoing at my grad party, back when I was eighteen and wearing a flowing vibrant dress with flowers—despite the fact that I hate bright colors—but I thought maybe there was some symbolism there of a new chapter or some other cliché. I was full of anxious-excitement and rosé, listening to my parent’s friends mumble that the years go by fast. I’d laugh like it was the first time I had heard it and promise to enjoy every moment.