Lauren Suval

When we’re in a situation that doesn’t lend itself to the closure we desire — when it becomes unattainable — we have no choice but to find it within ourselves.

If I ever pass Nickerson Beach, I recall those summers at my friend’s beach club. The beach club was a summer home for us, encompassing repetition day in and day out. Basking in what could only be described as innocence.

Brooklyn has so much to offer. But. I do have to pause slightly. Just slightly. Because while it’s kind of cool just how ‘hip’ Brooklyn has become, it’s not the Brooklyn I’m too familiar with.

Teenage girls were scattered on the white rug in sleeping bags. Whispering. Story-telling when the lights went out.

The last four words — four words that Amy had in mind at the show’s conception — are poetic, solidifying the connection between Rory and Lorelai; echoing the sentiment that Rory will follow in her mother’s footsteps; assuring us that one can always go home, wherever or whoever home may be.

He said we should come back again as my head rested on his shoulder, and the train moved along the track, back to Long Island. Further and further away from our wintry weekend in the West Village.

Summer has me daydreaming about my childhood; lightening bugs that glow and sparklers that excite and amusement parks that feature crazy rides and log flumes and firecracker popsicles that drip down my mouth in the messiest of fashions.

Blame it on the lies that killed us. Blame it on the truth that ran us down.

Moving away from what was home for four years is jarring. A dynamic experience ends, because life says it’s time to move on. To graduate. Onto the ‘real world’ — emerging adulthood.

I remember the personal conversations. Our parallel lives. Those who were responsible for the empty spaces in our hearts.

How are you? And what do I say? I’m good. I’m fine. And while that may be the case, in that specific moment, there’s so much more behind my lips.

I tend to romanticize beginnings. Beginnings are magic. They’re comprised of sentimentality and purpose and perfect timing.

I stare at my reflection; at a girl who, sometimes, doubts her potential. I’m sure I know the song.

Maybe if I appear bright, the sky will follow suit. All I want to do is look like April.

He had an artist’s temperament, she said. A creative mind.

Teenage girls were scattered on the carpet in sleeping bags. Whispering. Story-telling when the lights went out. Breakfast in the morning featured Cinnabons and sleepy eyes. Crust in the corners. Naps when we got home.

Every morning, I’d stand at the bus stop with books in hand and a black tote bag that weighed heavy on my shoulders. Sometimes,there would be a driver who stared at me blankly, merely waiting for me to pay the fare and find a seat.

Life must go on and new memories can be cultivated. Change is okay. Change is healthy.