Prom Night
It always seems to be overcast on the day of my high school's prom, but I couldn't tell while I was inside to watch the grand march. Everyone was so young and bright-eyed, wearing sparkling gowns and matching colorful suits. They walked arm-in-arm, in laughing groups of friends, by themselves with their arms thrown out with confidence. Twinkle lights were strung among hay bales and wagon wheels — no, that wasn't a theme thing. That's just my rural hometown.
A flash ago I was the one in a sparkling blue dress, walking down that footpath with my arm looped through my high school sweetheart's, wobbling in my high heels and looking up with starry eyes. The vision was the same as everyone's in that town. I could see us getting married, settling down in the house at the top of the hill, watching our own families grow up under the same trees that we did. That was the dream, anyway.
But my dreams changed. Prom nights became awards ceremonies. High school sweethearts became college friends. Lives became busier, more complicated.
The dress was black-and-white this time, and there was no grand march for the awards show we were attending. But that vision still flickers in my mind, and I wonder how much of it is real and how much of it is just me clinging to old memories, to a life that's no longer within my reach. I wonder which path is true — the one through city lights and highways and horizons I've never seen before, or the one with everything I know and familiar sunsets and warmth that never ends. I won't fool myself into thinking I can walk both.
I never did figure out where the line is between love and nostalgia. But I realize that I can't build a life on a foundation of sentimentality.
My hometown's collective dream is beautiful, but it's not for me. I believe that love is something that flutters into my own dreams, bringing butterflies to a garden that I've already planted for myself. The dream now is to nurture that garden, and maybe someday, I'll look up to see that someone has stopped to admire the flowers.
A flash ago I was the one in a sparkling blue dress, walking down that footpath with my arm looped through my high school sweetheart's, wobbling in my high heels and looking up with starry eyes. The vision was the same as everyone's in that town. I could see us getting married, settling down in the house at the top of the hill, watching our own families grow up under the same trees that we did. That was the dream, anyway.
But my dreams changed. Prom nights became awards ceremonies. High school sweethearts became college friends. Lives became busier, more complicated.
The dress was black-and-white this time, and there was no grand march for the awards show we were attending. But that vision still flickers in my mind, and I wonder how much of it is real and how much of it is just me clinging to old memories, to a life that's no longer within my reach. I wonder which path is true — the one through city lights and highways and horizons I've never seen before, or the one with everything I know and familiar sunsets and warmth that never ends. I won't fool myself into thinking I can walk both.
I never did figure out where the line is between love and nostalgia. But I realize that I can't build a life on a foundation of sentimentality.
My hometown's collective dream is beautiful, but it's not for me. I believe that love is something that flutters into my own dreams, bringing butterflies to a garden that I've already planted for myself. The dream now is to nurture that garden, and maybe someday, I'll look up to see that someone has stopped to admire the flowers.