by Grant McLaughlin
I still remember the day I got the email I wasn’t going home after spring break. My home wasn’t my parents house and all my stuff wasn’t in boxes or packed into anything. I was 556 miles from the family I hand picked from classes and parties, I got too drunk to stand at. I still had leftovers in the fridge and dishes in the sink, my ex-girlfriends Clothes in my bedroom because we didn’t for one second believe they were going to kick us off campus. Not over a virus that no one fully understood yet, it was the beginning of a deathlike silence that would take my apartment like it had taken New York. My parents didn’t believe me until I showed them the email. An hour to pack up everything I owned in my Northgate Apartment and get out before anyone knew I ever lived there. An hour to throw my shit into boxes and trash bags and high tale it back to Dallas before COVID-19 caught up to me. I didn’t even say goodbye to anyone, I couldn’t do that, It felt like I was abandoning them.