Memories that Guide me Home

When I first began searching for an apartment, I had two non-negotiable requests: a room with a sunny window, and a location that was both familiar and new. I wanted to wake up to the sun and spend my days far enough that I felt a new chapter was beginning, but close enough that I knew the old one had not yet ended.

Each morning, I wake up to the peaking of sunlight through my windows. I keep my blinds cracked, more on the days I fall asleep late, and the sun helps my morning begin slowly. Peacefully. Gently.

I arise from my bed, fold the covers up and fluff the pillows, and walk to the window next to my desk. Though some would not consider my 650 square foot apartment a pinpoint on the map that makes up my walk to school, I do. My little home holds the memories I now hold dearest— it is here that I pinned posters on the walls with my mother while my father napped on my still wrapped mattress, here that I learned to cook and find joy in cleaning, here that I began feeling more like an adult and less like a kid lost in a new city. Here, Boston became my home in newer, calmer ways. This stop represents who I am now, but it is only the first on the road back to who I used to be.

After my strategically planned morning routine, I pad down four sets of narrow North End stairs and set on my way to campus.

I pass Bovas bakery, and inevitably awe at the tourists waiting for their cannolis no matter the hour— some said I would hate the never ending stream of newcomers in the neighborhood, but I love it. This stop on my journey is a reminder that I was a tourist once, too, (still feel like it sometimes) and opens my eyes to the beauty of always being surrounded by newness, by eagerness, by wonderment.

As I continue my journey, I pass my favorite sushi to order takeout with my friends, the restaurant where I had one of my first official dates with my boyfriend, the walk-in pizza shop that sustained my parents and I during move in weekend. I eventually find myself exiting the north end, but my mind still lingers on the memories I made on its cobblestone streets.

I travel past a strip of bars (real bars—not the freshman in college, easy to enter kinds) and reminisce on drunken nights spent here with my friends. I often marvel at the peace and stillness they carry in the daytime, and empathize with their need to shut their windows, lock their doors and have a few hours alone to recuperate. The more weekends that pass, it seems, the more alike we become.

As I travel past Faneuil hall, I inevitably feel a twinge of sadness as I remember visiting with my three younger siblings before moving 4,000 miles away from them to Emerson. They’re older now, and haven’t been able to visit since, but when they do I will take them to see the pogo stick performers and dancers and we will belly laugh just like we did three years ago, as if no time had passed.

I cross the street, zipping through crosswalks and counting down the memorized seconds before the light goes red, and approach the vast steps leading to government center.

To me, these stairs mark a halfway point between who I am now and I who I once was. From the top, i look down at a girl who is older, wiser, a little more sure of where she's headed. From the bottom, I look up a girl who is taking each step a little more cautiously, but puts one foot in front of the other nonetheless.

As I take the train from government center, i try to visualize all the places I whizz by in the short 10 minute ride. I try to pinpoint specific memories as I go, but never succeed in catching them all in my mind before the train doors fly open and my stop is called. This ride represents the blur that were my early years in Boston: seemingly fleeting and easily blended into one big blob of chaos and excitement. Nevertheless, though, I reach my destination.

Some days, this destination is a place of work, of school, of never-ending obligation and tireless commitments. Other days, it is a place of meeting, of reuniting, of laughing and talking and spending time with new faces and old. On some, it is a place of mundane routines, or of iced hazelnut Tatte latte pick me ups, or if treading down Boylston avoiding sleet at all costs.

Most days, however, this destination is a place of pure and uncontainable gratitude. As I approach little building, I don’t just remember the excitement of moving into Emerson and beginning my journey in Boston, I feel it. If even for a split second, I become the version of myself who saw the city with childlike eyes and an uncontrollable desire to belong and call it a home.

The pinpoint marks a stop that is both an ending and a beginning— Emerson is the place I made my way, and the place I come to be reminded of the roads I’ve traveled yet. The streets renew me, remind me, and inspire me on the days I need it most.

As I leave Emerson and travel back home to the north end, I reminisce on a chapter not yet ended and grow excited for one that has barely just begun. As I do, I find peace knowing that I am bringing with me a commitment to mark as many pinpoints on my memory map as I possibly can.

Even more, I find comfort in knowing I have a sunny window to wake up to and a million memories to keep me company as I make the journey again tomorrow.