Breaking up Is Hard to Do

I really need to delete pictures from my phone once I’ve uploaded them to my laptop.

Because I’m terrible at that kind of thing, I keep running across photos from last semester, from the summer, from last month—from things that make me nostalgic.

I happened across an innocent picture tonight, just a photo of the breakfast I would make for myself every morning in Scotland. A few weeks in to the semester, I got settled into a very specific pattern: one sausage, one piece of toast with blackcurrant jam, one bowl of porridge with honey, banana chips, and sunflower seeds, plus currants if I was very lucky. And, of course, a rotation of some kind of coffee or black tea.

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The incriminating photo.

Though I’ve never personally gone through a break-up, I think this is what it’s like. Finding old pictures on your phone. Remembering things that you likely won’t have again, at least not in the same capacity. I can have porridge with honey anywhere, but I can’t recreate the way it stuck to the edges of the huge silver barrel in the morning, or how my tray was always slightly wet from the wash when I put my bowl on it, or how I would have to sometimes sit with it for a few minutes before the kitchen staff arrived with a new tower of mugs for coffee.

I’m still learning how to put this experience into words, and I’m finding it hard to say exactly what I want to say in just a few blog entries, so pardon my repetition, my incessant need to put it to the page. I’m sorry that I’m not over it.

This is my first break-up, after all.

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