for memories sake

I'm a very sentimental person. (I have a theory that because I was carefully named after my Aunt Kelly, I was born for nothing less then obsessive sentimentalism. It's in my name.) I collect bits of memories, clinging to mementos and treating them as invisible strings tied to the fingers of my memory. In my car scattered across my dashboard you'll see a sun-faded homemade minion valentine nestled in the nook near my RPM thingy-mc-bop, a reminder of the first valentine I received from a friend (Hi Kitty!) and one that reminds me how in that moment I felt valued as a friend. Wedged near my gas gauge you'll see a ticket stub, the ferry information smudged and all but legible, a small reminder of a trip to Bainbridge I took with Erik, a reminder of a summer full of trips across Washington state before I moved away for five months. In my room you'll see the same scene, a blanket that legend has it, belonged to my namesake, a piece of washi tape I folded into a bookmark after a Skype conversation with my sister sits in my bible, notes and drawings I collected all last year, often picked from the trash at the preschool because I found them much too precious to part with, are taped on my mirror or carefully stored in my drawers. Small reminders littered throughout my life, valuable to only me, annoying to about everyone else, but anchors to moments in time that I never want to forget.

When I left Washington I never had wistful moments or frantic attempts to soak in memories. I didn't longingly stare out windows and what not whilst romantically reminding myself to "Remember this moment", because I knew I was coming back. Once the excitement of arriving in Australia wore off and I began settling into a routine, I sort of stopped paying attention to little moments. This week as I look at my calendar, the next four weeks seem incredibly drawn out but desperately short. I begin calculating in the annoying way that I do and notice I only have two more Friday's left with my roommates, only three more abrupt Monday's where 5:45 am seems impossible and the week ahead insanely bleak and exhausting (lolz DRAMATIC), two more weeks of learning intense and fast paced lectures and briefs and then a week of all nighters for portfolio night.

Then I'm done. I graduate, spend ten days adventuring and I'm gone. So I begin to panic, because one thing I NEVER expected was this acute ache for Australia, a longing to never leave; this season, these friendships, this experience, these days. I didn't think I would miss it as much as I already do, I expected to love it but also be ready to leave. I never expected that these little moments I've come to associate with this beautiful chapter would begin to tug at my heartstrings reminding me that: This is almost done. This huge, brave, exciting thing you did and dreamt about for 9 months is coming to a close.

That's when my sentimental side kicks in, quieting my emotional tendency to grieve (apparently a month in advance) and begins stitching together memories and moments, tying strings to the fingers of my memories, little reminders and stories I can carry with me when Australia is over.

I hope I never forget the smell of the jasmine blooming on the trellis by the dog park or my friend Hayley that I've befriended on the 5:03 bus home from Wynard Station.

I hope I can recall the distinct excitement I get EVERY TIME the bus crests the hill into Bondi or Coogee or Maroubra and I see the vast, sparkling water.

I hope that I'll never adore a neighborhood as much as I adore Surry Hills, with it's distinct niches and brightly colored doors and friendly stoops. How I marvel at how so many buildings that share the same features can vary from porch to porch, each telling it's own story and carrying it's own mysteries.

I never want to forget the laughter Megan can elicit, her "too far jar" tendencies and bright, caring heart, how she tells the same story a million times and how I miss her a stupid amount when she isn't home.

I want to remember the first time I walked into Circular Quay and saw the Opera House for the first time, only to turn and see the Harbor Bridge, how they stood there, solid reminders that I really and truly had made it to the Promised Land.

Or the first time I stood outside the door of Shillington, simply staring, with tears in my eyes, too afraid to go inside, taking a picture and sending it to my parents. That salty, sweet feeling of excitement and nerves, anticipation and expectation brewing in my heart and coursing into the rest of my body.

The fear of being lonely and isolated silenced by the natural way Emma befriended me, taking me shopping the second day I was here, collecting groceries with me and helping me unpack, unfazed by the underwear I slipped on my head and the gibberish I was surely speaking as I talked through jet lag. How in that moment I knew that I was going to be okay and how she confirms that everyday in her little Emma ways. How I'll always read things and hear them in her distinct Emma tone, branding things as "her Emma way" because it's the only way I can describe her: Bright, unique, caring and personal.

I hope I'll never taste a ramen as satisfying as that which I shared with my friends from school at Condor during lunch break, all the laughs we shared, serious conversations about design and personalities and religion and our lives leading up to college.

I hope I always remember the first time I walked into our flat. How I cautiously walked about, soaking it all in, hesitantly easing myself into the comfort of what was soon to become "home." How I sat in my new room, my bed not yet settled in and called back home, holding back tears as I heard the voices of my mom and dad and Erik, knowing that I really was gone and really doing this on my own.

I hope I never forget the laughter and solace I found in my room with Trisha as we fought off sleep, discussing Jesus and life and journeys and adventure. How she is one of the most thoughtful, giving and caring people I've ever met, making sure everyone feels valued or known.

I hope to never forget the sunsets or the clouds, the dances in the rain on the roof, or how I learned to gas-pedal and channel my inner Beyonce with my friends in the living room.

I want to always remember the rain, sudden and furious, causing me annoying headaches, but an incredible joy at the same time.

The way the building opposite us shines a bright, clean white against the sharp, blue sky, triggering a memory in me that I can't quite place but makes me feel insanely happy.

The subtle way Rachel can insert witty zingers without batting an eyelash, her contagious love for clouds and all things romantic, the way her voice gets LOUD when she's talking about something really, really exciting. How when I come home from school and she says: "Kelly! I've missed you! How was your day?" I know she means it, or her curiosity and interest in what I'm learning and making, her encouragement refreshing and appreciated.

How I learned to be critical of my work and the value of cutting everything out until I've SCAMPER-d and Chanel-d it down to the bare necessities. The way an idea or concept or image is brand new when you leave it alone for a long period of time, giving it time to fade, allowing yourself to come back fresh and sharp.

I hope to never forget Tiffany's voice drifting through the house as she raps, only to walk into her bedroom and see her dancing. How she taught me to gas-pedal and do the bird dance, her fierce love for Beyonce and obscure bands who scream loud, intense, angry lyrics. How she cared for me from the very start, but not just me, but for those around her.

I hope to always vividly remember the memories we collectively made together. Huddled on our couches watching movies, eating dinners and laughing all night, somehow managing to end up in Tiff and Megan's room at night to talk, adding more quotes to "Megan's Wall of Wut". Our beach trips, Cole's trips, church trips, everything done together, always a memory.

I reflect on the past 3 months and I see a lot of things but what stands out the most is this apartment on Lachlan Street where I found a family when I was missing mine. Here, in the midst of a busy city, I found a haven for friendship and sisterhood and within that bond a lifetime full of feeling like I was incapable of making friends was silenced. I see an answer to prayer, the one where I would always whisper: "And please bring me friends and community." How He provided and delivered in ways that I could've never orchestrated more perfectly.

These tiny little things, moments and emotions, are carefully wedged and tucked into the crevices of my heart and mind, a valiant effort to protect and cherish this time for as long as I can. Once I return home to my room back in Washington and I am reunited with my careful little memories littered about my room and car, a little paper trail leading back to me, I'll dust them off and carefully place this chapter beside them. And in those moments when I'm hurting for a place that was only temporarily a home, missing this time and these memories, I'll pull out those stories and seconds that I've so carefully stored, remembering my most favorite chapter. The sweetest one yet.