The shuttle bounces over a curb and

We sway with the motion

A sea of people

Bathed in afternoon light

Filtered only by the slight tint of the windows

Shuttled back to our dorms or our cars or wherever it is we’re going.

 

Sweating slightly in the 4pm heat,

I reminisce on the air-conditioned classrooms I spent my day in.

I close my eyes just for a moment,

Imagining I’m in the lecture hall,

Over-cooled to compensate for the hot Georgia September.

They taught us in elementary school that September was part of fall.

I can see the orange and yellow construction paper leaves,

But it was always hot outside.

Once again, my mind is pulled to the classroom,

Always too cold.

I can hear the air blowing from the vents.

 

No, it’s the rumbling of the shuttle, I think.

I open my eyes as the bus lurches over a speed bump.

My stomach growls lightly, almost like it’s trying to add to the cacophony.

 

Shoot.

I forgot to defrost the chicken.

It is in this moment that I know:

This is adulthood.

 

In the past,

When my phone would light up with the contact ID

“Mom”

A jolt in my stomach, not unlike the movement of the shuttle,

As I remember she told me to take the chicken out of the freezer.

I would run to the kitchen

And throw open the freezer door, ignoring the ice that cascaded to the floor.

Ripping the target from its abode,

I would throw it onto the counter before racing back to answer my cell.

“Did you defrost the chicken like I asked?”

“Yes! Of course!”

 

There's no point lying anymore.