The bridge to Olympic Hall is packed. I shuffle around awkwardly, trying to avoid the crowds, and end up behind a dad and his daughter.
The dad is pushing a move-in cart while the daughter walks ahead holding nothing. She pulls out her bruin card from the back pocket of her jeans, swipes herself in, and holds the door for her dad and me. They disappear into the elevator as I beep myself into the staircase. I hold my own door, careful to let it shut without slamming.
The road to the dorms is packed. I arrive a couple of days late, trying to avoid the crowds, and end up behind a family driving a white Toyota.
The mother is somewhat leaning into the father, holding a bag of groceries from Trader Joe’s. The two brothers—they look so much alike that they have to be brothers—both in white hoodies, hug. They embrace each other until they catch me staring, at which they awkwardly release each other, the slightly taller sibling wordlessly moving to grab his grey luggage from his dad.
The sky between school and home is packed. I fly alone, this time I’m part of the crowd, and I end up in a horrible TSA line in San Francisco.
I bump into a Taiwanese guy who goes to UCSD. His name is Mike, and I secretly think he swears too much. Nevertheless, he’s Taiwanese, he’s my age, and he’s CS, which checks most of the boxes for people I’m comfortable talking to when I’m jetlagged, lugging five books in my carry-on, and in a line that reaches the far end of SFO and wraps right back around. Eventually we get to security, and one of the officers gestures for me to line up at another station. I walk into the X-Ray machine, holding my hands up, and watch the piece of grey metal (plastic?) swing before me. Once, twice, alright you’re good to go. When I am done packing up my bags, Mike is gone.
Where did everyone go? I only closed my eyes for a second, and Mike’s gone, my best friend is married, and I still remember another dad pushing another cart for another daughter who stacked an iMac on another already-full cart. If it already feels this way when I’m 19, in that when I see someone else’s parents I think of my own, my dad driving to work listening to podcasts instead of my chattering, my mom setting down three plates for dinner instead of four, my room clean and pristine and so empty, missed calls on Friday mornings and missed birthdays in January, how will it feel when I’m 25 and trying to find a job here, or when I’m 35 and trying to settle down somewhere, or when my parents turn 70 over there and I’m just a little, just a little lonely over here because I still remember how when we used to go on walks at night we’d count to three and they’d swing me towards the moon and it felt like I was flying. And it’s when I catch myself glancing longingly at strangers who live like they’re still soaring that I know I’ll never be the girl whose dad pushed an overflowing move-in cart out of the parking lot just for her. I simply can’t.