I got up earlier this morning to go to the bathroom, and was greeted by the familiar sound of the garbage truck. Looking up at the sleepy pink-blue sky, I was reminded of 8-count Crayola magic markers and those yellow wooden pencils that needed to be manually sharpened. I saw myself walking to the bus stop with my mother, doggedly reciting my multiplication table: "four times three is twelve. Four times four is sixteen." (And, as dogged as I was, I soon was able to do my math homework with ease--a first and only for me. Mother knows best.)
Today is the first day of school at both LSU and Longwood, and I am not among the crowds of rushed college students running to my first class, dragging on my left shoulder an overstuffed messenger bag. Instead, I sit here in my pajamas writing this blog entry. Yet, despite all the nostalgia of the morning, despite the reverie, something feels strangely calm and right about this situation.