There’s something sweet in the air. It usually hits me at night on the walk back from North Campus, right between Wriston and Keeney. Each time, I’m left disoriented, unable to keep walking. It’s a green, sharp, scent–one of freshly mowed grass, sweat, clear sky, crisp morning air. It’s youthful—gentle, like an infant summer, like possibility and simplicity. 

It smells like lining up in fifth grade to do a ring toss, yellow and purple and blue ribbons in hand. Like lining up in sixth grade to get on the bus to the trampoline park, brown paper bag lunch tucked in a sequined backpack. 

I can’t stop smelling it. 

It’s strange. I’m 18, at my dream college, and still, every time I smell it, all I can do is tilt my head back, look at the night sky, and breathe it in until my knees work again. 

The top notes are warm sun. Not like here, now, but like soft sun, childhood sun. It dims down into anticipation, like jumping out of bed in the morning because school is fun today, and the week has been crawling toward Friday and today is finally the day. Really, you can feel it in the air, prickling at your skin—today is finally the day when school will be trampolines and scooters, warm picnics, and feeding ducks. 

The heart notes are the rainbow Reeboks you rush to put on, tripping over your little feet. It smells like the siren song of the ice cream truck, of the bubbles you are given to blow, of the shrieks throughout the playground as you chase your friends with the comically long wand. This is what a day is—the glee of winning a Field Day ribbon, of making wood-chip art with your friends, of sinking into your carpet at home, of falling asleep with grass in your hair. 

Come, take my hand, run with me down this hill. Let’s climb that tree, fly down the neon slide, trace dragons into the dirt. And when it gets dark, let’s go home for dinner, where grandpa has our favorite foods simmering on the stovetop.

Tomorrow, we will do it all over again. Whatever it is, we will put on our neon jerseys, race each other through the freshly mowed field, fall off our bikes, and think of nothing except today. 

This will last forever. It is the only day we know. This will last forever because the sky will never turn dark, the golden meadow will be there always, and the air will never stop smelling like fifth grade.

And then in 10 years, when those fields are sawdust and the bikes are rust, take my hand again. We’ll run down the streets of Montréal, New York, Shanghai, San Francisco. We’ll bar-hop the entire night, pretend to be older than we are, flirt with strangers, catch snowflakes on our tongues. And when it gets dark, let’s go home and cuddle under the covers, nestled safe and warm in the city, the cold lashing against the walls of our home. There’s a raspberry loaf baking in the oven, rising despite the missing ingredients and cut corners. We’re sleeping in tomorrow, getting ready for another long day of laughing, of eating, of stumbling between skyscrapers and each other.

This will last forever because it is the only day we know. This will last forever because the city will never turn off its lights, our Airbnb will be ours always, and the air will always carry cigarette smoke and raspberry. 

“Guys, this is too nice. I’m gonna be devastated when we leave here.”

In The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green, he writes about how Kurt Vonnegut said in an interview that his home is “Indianapolis when I was nine years old. And there’s no way I can get there again.” I stopped to take a breath after this chapter, the same way I have to stop between Wriston and Keeney, Montréal, and Shanghai. How many more homes will I find, fall in love with, lose, and repeat? 

We left, and it was devastating. Over and over. It was beautiful, and we left, and it was devastating. 

I kind of hate falling in love. I kind of think it’s the only thing we can do. 

Home was eight years old on a freshly-mowed field in a polyester jersey, mid-May sun warming our backs. 

Home was 18 years old in a brand-new city, leather jackets keeping us safe from the mid-March chill. 

If I can never go back, so be it. 

I’ll go again. Breathe it all in, cigarette smoke and fifth grade and everything else in between searing my lungs. 

Come, take my hand. We’ll run away, we’ll grow up, we’ll fall in love. Over and over, until the sky turns dark and the raspberry loaf is burning in the oven and we are so full of homes and lost homes and new homes that everywhere is beautiful, everywhere is kind, everywhere is warm. 

Until our clothes reek of possibility, until our teeth are stained with raspberries and maple syrup, until everyone is dogpiled on the bed, home.

“Guys, this is too nice. I’m gonna be devastated when we leave here.”

“Right? I wish it could just be like this forever.”

“Wait, guys, I think the loaf is burning?”