Yesterday, I began planting a garden and I said goodbye to a couple of good, graduated friends who are moving far away. Graduation doesn’t end our transience; we are young and rootless. The garden isn’t mine, and I won’t be here to eat the harvest.
A year ago March, all my friends in my year had firm plans for where they’d be living the following school year. February’s pretty stressful if you’re a junior, as everyone scrambles to find roommates and a house to live in. This year, hardly anyone knows where they’ll be in a month. Only one of my friends—a social worker, no longer a social work major—has landed a job for the long haul. She’s filling out forms about a retirement plan while the rest of us wonder when the health care bill takes effect so that we can at least stay on our parents’ insurance.
I’ve got a semester of school left, and after that, I’ll do more school, but saying goodbye yesterday made graduation feel real. I’m working in Ann Arbor for a month and a half this summer, then riding the rails all over the country, and I have no clue where I’ll live in the fall. It’s exciting, this possibility, and it’s a good exercise to shed our belongings and move across the world. But sometimes I’d like to gather some moss.
I’ll be happy when I’m in a place long enough to plant perennials. Some day, I look forward to fruit trees.