Settle down, it'll all be clear. Don't pay no mind to the demons that fill you with fear.

When I graduated high school, it was made perfectly clear to me that upon moving to college, I would no longer have a bedroom at my parents' house. And, I mean, can't complain. I'm the only child in the Kearns Klan (We're one of those families that makes our name a perfect alliteration to emphasize our closeness. Aren't we adorable?) to have had her own bedroom, her own bathroom, her own iPod, an iPod in general, her own car, and for the latter part of her childhood, her parents all to herself. Spoiled, wasn't she? Anyway. I drove home last night in a raging fit because that Logan, well, it just had spent me. You know what I mean, spent? It had me. I left around midnight, got pulled over in the canyon where it was just me, the cop, and woods as dark as they come (One of my more terrifying experiences. Let's not have that happen again, license plate bulb). And, boy, coming up the stairs to see my mama still awake, sitting up in bed watching a Cary Grant film, waiting to tuck me in safe, was all I needed to regain my sanity.

My bedroom is the grandkids' bedroom now. There are stuffed animals on the bed and a tiny office sits in the corner of the room. I once had a plush, pink comforter and sheets with orange hibiscuses on them. Those tween-screaming sheets are now stowed away in a linen closet I don't imagine they will ever emerge from. Nevertheless, when I come home and sleep in that bed, I feel home. My parents are down the hall, the old out-of-tune upright that taught me melody down the stairs, and there's always Costco-sized Nutella in the pantry. It's home, and I'd give anything to be closer to it.

Post-graduation is one year from last semester. I've been thinking a lot about where I'll go from there. I won't be married, with child, or an experienced writer. I'm not going to bank on having the love of a boy who begs me to stay, nor will there be employers throwing money at my feet, so the possibilities are endless. Suggestions welcome.

P.S. Today, I found John & Nance's wedding pictures, photos of my dad flying planes in the Air Force, and some thirty year old snapshots Dad took of Mom at Versailles because "Look at her, Courty. She's just so pretty, I had to." My parents are literally the coolest.