Recently I've been digging into my memory of college, a gravesite I haven't touched in a decade plus.

It was an all-women's college. Navigating the social world of it turned out sour, like a bad sourdough starter.

I don't remember much of it. But recently they've been coming back at 2AM, memories I thought I'd obliterated.

It is a kind of oblivion.

I've decided that girl wasn't me. But what if she's still trapped inside of me, screaming?

I've gotten into outer space recently. Black hole videos, specifically.

There's this thing with black holes called the event horizon. No light escapes it. We can't even see it. If something passes through it, we see it in space, suspended forever in our vision - but it already disappeared, an illusion. It is time bending.

One day, the universe will no longer be able to sustain itself. It will die out, like dreams, and just as unexplainable.

I don't even think my memories of college would make it into space dust.

The girl inside of me, the college version, has already passed through the event horizon. But when is she gone, can that moment please come?

Once a human being passes through the event horizon, they become particles. Every atom of their physical being separates. They are stretched thin, in a long line of their atoms, one after the other in one long string of them.

I like to think of the college version of myself passing through the black hole, after hovering over it. Disappearing but still visible to outside observers, billions of years later. She becomes only an illusion.

The second you pass the event horizon, you die. No one could survive it.

My memory of college is a black hole. Once I start thinking about it, ruminating on it, my memories instantly die, and become atoms that no longer make up a whole.

My memories disappear into something physicists can't even fathom.

If we only become atoms, the concept of us having "souls" and "memories" wasn't even real to begin with.

It has become my escape mechanism, to think of this.

I forgive myself in each atom, over and over again, like they are one long string of rosary beads. But I can't pray, not technically, because I'm no longer a person, I'm a concept, just like praying is a concept. God doesn't exist here, and no one is left to judge me.

I love that.

All that matters, in the end, is that I can be broken apart enough to finally not have to contain myself all at once.

In the end, my memories of college are atoms that disintegrate instantly somewhere inside our universe. Or maybe they have already disintegrated. There's no knowing.

My college memories are suspended forever in the space time continuum, gone even as they seem to exist - but they don't. They're already dead.

I think I can live with that. Maybe I already know that.

And that is what finally helps me fall back asleep at 2AM.

I sat in on the interview. The people we were interviewing were all girls, no guys. It was for a receptionist position at a famous hospital in Boston.

I was moving up in the ranks because my previous coworker, let's call her Ava, was leaving. I got to take her superior seat in the receptionist area.

The last girl we interviewed was definitely not my favorite candidate.

My manager hired her.

She loved to talk. I mean, this girl was on fire with stories. She'd come from a lower position on the floor above us in the hospital. If I were to be unkind, I'd say she "yapped."

She talked about her love interest(s), her family, Iran. Her family had eleven daughters and one son. Her parents had escaped Iran for a better life in America.

That should have been enough to impress me. Instead, for about a month straight, she would update me on her sister.

Her sister was deeply in love. She was pregnant. She was holding out hope for the father of her unborn child, desperately wanting him to love her back. It was unrequited love and my coworker, if talking can be measured in meters, was on her tenth kilometer.

Then came the final update: my coworker told me that she had finally convinced her sister to get an abortion.

She told her sister, "He doesn't love you. He never will - don't trap him."

My coworker was five years younger than me - and I mean, I was young then, too. I think I actually turned my head all the way around to look at her as she recounted the abortion itself.

She said, "I have never seen so much blood in my life." She had held her sister's hand through the entire abortion. Her sister had screamed in pain, and she held on tighter.

Then she took a bite of her apple, shrugged, and answered one of our never ending phone calls.

I think she must have been about twenty at the time. Her sister was older than her. She had held her older sister's hand and told her it was the best thing she could do for herself. Don't trap him. Having his kid isn't going to make him love you.

If anything, he'll resent you.

My coworker turned back around to look at me. She applied her shiny pink lip gloss that made her long brown hair look like a halo.

"Anyway, I told her to let go of the guy. I mean, he clearly wasn't interested."

I might mention here that we worked in the pediatrics unit. Later that day, I was taking a phone call from a patient's parent/grandparent/guardian, and she walked up behind me. She cracked a joke she knew would make me sputter with laughter. She leaned in and whispered it so only I could hear.

I laughed so hard I couldn't speak. I hung up on the parent/grandparent/guardian. So unprofessional.

I turned back around to face her. We were both trying to stifle giggles, to the point that it sounded like we were choking.

"I'm so glad we hired you," I said.

"Are you kidding?" she said. "This job is just to get me to the next one."

Then she smacked her glossy pink lips together and smiled at me, and in that moment, I wished we'd been sisters.

I named my son

"Ernest Hope Hemingway"

because when I adopted him

I wandered the streets of Berkeley

finding bookstores and buying

fiction for cheap in 2020;

his previous owner

telling me she'd named him

"Hope," because he was

their family favorite, during Covid -

as if names, and made-up stories

could save us from

a world gone completely insane,

which as it turns out, they did

I would go home and feed him

watching him devour

every square inch of my apartment

while running my fingers along

the spines of books that had

existed for decades, like my copy

of The Sun Also Rises,

by Ernest Hemingway,

that I had bought in Boston,

when "hope" wasn't a word

I'd use to describe anything,

moving me to California,

where my son loves me

more innocently, more fully, than

almost any real person

besides my husband (amongst others),

despite any virus existing -

Ernest (Hope) Hemingway

makes the madness interesting

his little sister, Nora,

is our newest addition -

and like literature,

she will be the gift

that keeps on giving

despite it all, despite everything

I moved to California

so I could eat “In N Out“

in the parking lot

under palm trees that are

technically dying, and not living

but there’s something horrific

about opening up a ketchup packet

and watching it explode

all over your white dress,

the adrenaline of it, the equivalent

of a bloody mess that bleach can’t fix

what have you done,

you think, moving thousands of

miles west

for a burger that’s just average,

the outline of your past a stain

that’s still visible, the “In N Out” logo fading to grey inside your mouth, colorless

I did it all to escape autumn

all that orange and yellow,

the blood red trees a reminder

of what kills us

when we let it linger

it wasn't hard to find her

on the internet

I used her first name

followed by what she's famous for

it's been only six years

but I can still remember

her pixie cut, her coming out

to a room full of strangers

in a city I don't really remember

with a winter that found me

taking off my scarf, dismantling

myself in front of people

who I'll never know

outside of a single room, in a

city where the snow hit me

like gunfire, each snowflake

a unique bullet meant to kill

we all had our seats,

every week, it never changed

when she talked

she was so out of breath

it was like she was trying

to run from her own thoughts

group therapy is interesting

people come and go, but

I'll always remember her,

how the winter seemed to

contain her in a snow globe

frozen, lost in a storm only

she knew of

I hope she found her voice

one she could use outside of

that room, one that can hold her

and keep her safe from the cold

I write about him sometimes

how he came to group therapy

soaking wet, his button down shirt

soaked through with sweat

the Star of David

hanging from his neck

like the parental expectations

that seemed to

perpetually set him back

mid-twenties, like the rest of us

he was always late

worked some corporate job

and would tell us

that he broke down

on the highway

while driving his car

we would all nod in sympathy

and then he mentioned

the panic attack, the pure

adrenaline that kicked in

when he veered off

onto the shoulder

playing rap music so loud that

his speakers blew out

trying to distract himself

from the sheer hell of himself

I think of him now

maybe as an example

of how we can contain ourselves

so well, until the breaking

point, anxiety like

traffic that doesn't slow

panic seeping into

the very fiber of our clothes

some days are

about forgiving myself

for the people I've loved

for the person I was

like at MoMA

in San Francisco

when I left work early

and took BART to stare

at Rothko for hours,

wondering how only

two colors together

add up to art

the patchwork of it

like being who you are

a person who has loved

a person who is looking

for reasons when

there are none

flight from Denver to LAX

girl next to me

shaking so hard her hands

were in fists, sobbing so

that you had to look twice

to know she was mentally paralyzed

head bent down

whispering to someone

not there, though surrounded

by strangers, she was completely alone

her own consciousness

not able to accept the circumstances

of turbulence, of her public disintegration

I think of her now when I fly

if I should have said something

to calm her down

but then I realize

we're all dealing with our own minds

and their constant humming

stuck in a jet stream

anxiety screaming, but not publicly

a rattling, an impermanent life sentence

that consumes and lies to us

I knew a guy

who applied

to be a

police officer

six times

went through

six rounds of

training camp

to be told

he'd failed

and he wouldn't

become a cop

after all that.

I could tell you

he was five foot five

skinny, nice as sunshine

but what I remember

about him

is that he got up

five times

after failing and

kept trying.

Five times

of being at

the bottom of

his class

and still wanting more

of what lay ahead.

The only question

I had for him

was why not

make it seven

and he laughed

at that

said he knew

when he'd finally

been rejected.

I think of him

when I fail

and I don't know

what he'd make of that

but maybe

he'd like that he shed

a little light

that he'd succeeded

at least, in that.