I posted this on my Tumblr last night, but I wanted to put it here because I know not all my readers are on Tumblr. Enjoy!

Everything I Know

I stare at my suitcases, open on the bed. They feel like hands expecting to be filled, greedy for payment or treasure. But I don't know where to start. How do I decide what to take when I have to leave behind everything I know?

I pick up my phone and send a text to the only person I know who knows what it's like to do this. To pick up without a plan or safety net and plunge into a strange sea of people and places that look and smell and talk differently than they do here. They probably don't sing about their feelings at MIT.

I don't know what to pack, I say.

You text back almost immediately. Pack the special things first. The things you couldn't bear to put in storage.

That little bit of guidance bolsters my courage. I can find the special things. I smile to myself as I imagine you with your hands on your knees as you frowned at your closet full of shoes. How did you ever decide which shoes were special enough for Louisville and which had to stay?

I look around my room. For the first time it occurs to me that the framed flowers on the wall and the bedspread will never grow. When I return, they will be exactly as I left them. And while that's comforting, it is also disconcerting. Things aren't meant to stay the same.

I would have been disappointed if nothing about you had changed after you went to New York. If you hadn't grown, if your steps hadn't been more sure and your face blemished by the harsh city air, I would have doubted it was worth it. But I've seen the sun streaks in your hair and in your heart and I know, as much as I know anything else, that you did the right thing.

It's harder to know if I'm doing the right thing now. My face is too close to the mirror to be able to see anything but a distorted, foggy closeup. Maybe the people at MIT won't be impressed by everything I know. Maybe I'm just a small town girl who fell into college by accident.

Standing in my room, drawers open to reveal tidy stacks of sweaters and scarves and hats, closet wide with its evenly spaced hangers and paired shoes, everything seems tense. It's like the set before a race. My belongings are crouched, waiting to see what will make it into the suitcases, and what will stay behind, the seeds that will be baked so they do not grow. I close my eyes and try to think of what is most special to me.

I open my eyes again and they fall on the row of framed pictures along top of my dresser. I walk over, and see the familiar snapshots, the faces that have watched me dress and undress every morning and every night, unchanged no matter how fast or heavy my heart beats from day to day. Even the frames themselves, with their light film of dust, are comforting.

With a clean sweep I've seen you do to shelves and racks when you're angry, I scoop the pictures off my dresser and into my arms. The top one is me in my first cheer outfit. I look happy and uninhibited, hair curled and tied into pigtails with bows. I remember how fresh and important that uniform made me feel. The only thing better than wearing it was seeing you in yours as you darted over to me in the gym, anxious to be close to the only other person you knew on the sixth grade team.

It's funny how I always picture that. You're not even in the photograph, and yet you are.

The rest of the pictures are the same story. I see the messy attempts at braids from our first sleepover, the flush of your cheeks after our first day as Cheerios, hear your giggle after our first Glee club performance, the taste of your kiss on our first official date. I didn't realize you were soaked into every single one. As I hold the frames in my arm, I realize I need to wrap them all carefully so they don't shift and crack during the flight. If anything happened to them, I would be devastated.

I open a drawer below, which seems to take a breath of relief that it will be the next to be sorted into groups of taking and leaving. I find my favorite scarves and begin wrapping each picture frame, taking care to cover the edges so they don't chip or break. As I wrap them, I get more anxious. How will I ever get through the rest of the room if one small section takes this long?

By the time I've wrapped all the picture frames in scarves, the first suitcase is half full and I'm pressing my hand to my forehead, heart racing, hands and feet icy with anxiety. I can't do this. If I can't even figure out what to put in my suitcase, how will I survive college? How will I know which textbooks I need for class or what pencil to write my tests in or which color scrunchie on the doorknob means I really, really don't want to walk into my room right now?

I look around and everything in the room seems somehow essential, as though if I don't take it, I'll fail. Logically, I know none of it will help me pass classes or meet new friends or figure out what that cool-looking button on my calculator does. In the end, my things know nothing. They will not help me in a place where I'm expected to know a lot. But I still need to pack and I don't have a clue where to start. And now I've only got a suitcase and a half of space left.

I pick up my phone again, on the verge of tears.

I can't do this, I type.

You don't respond for a long time.

Yes you can, Britt. You've always believed in me when I needed you to. Believe in yourself for once 3

My tears jump off my cheeks down onto my shirt.

I'm not ready.

Yes you are.

I stare at the words, not believing them. They feel hollow, even though you are never hollow with me. How can you be so sure of me when I feel I am retreating further and further towards the flowers that will never grow?

My phone lies silent on the bed for a minute before it quivers steadily, your face lighting up the screen.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I slide the call open and say Hi. It sounds muddled and wet.

"Hey," you say, your voice low and giving, in a tone that tells me you know I'm crying.

"You're gonna be okay, Britt. Better than okay. Just… one foot in front of the other."

"I don't know what shoes to bring," I say, my throat pinching closed and making me squeak. I sniffle so my tears don't soak into my phone and make it sticky against my cheek.

"Britt…" you croon. Then there's silence, and I hear beeping and voices in the background.

"Where are you?" I ask. I wonder if I'm really asking about your location. I don't think I am.

"I'm at the airport, about to board. But if you need me, I can come back…" Your voice lifts with your offering. You've always been the most generous person I know, and my stomach and chest squeezes at your offer.

I picture you turning around in the terminal, rolling back through security towards me with your head up, arms lifted toward me when you arrive on my doorstep. There's nothing I want more than for you to sit on my bed and help me sort through everything. But I can't ask you to miss your flight. You were so afraid to fly for so long, I never want to ground you just because I'm unsteady on my feet.

"No," I mumble, hoping I sound convincing. "I'm just feeling…" I take a breath, trying to hold my head up high like you. "Overwhelmed, I guess. I never thought I'd be here. Going to college…" I trail off again, staving off another wave of tears. I can't tell if I'm sad or scared or proud. Whatever the feeling is, it's pushing up through my chest into my throat, making it hard to talk.

"It's okay to feel overwhelmed," you coo, and I picture you ducking into a corner of the terminal, putting a finger to your free ear and hunching over to keep our conversation private and warm. "I know how hard it is to leave behind everything you know."

I swallow, wishing you could break off a tiny piece of your bravery and share it with me. I don't want too much. Just enough to help me pack.

"Shoot," you mutter, anxiety creeping into your voice. "They're calling my row. Britt, are you sure you're okay?"

I look down into the suitcase and see the picture of the two of us at Prom last year. I see the joy on our faces as we rocked forward on that mechanical dinosaur. You look so beautiful and alive. Your dress is gorgeous and the decorations around us are fabulous. But what catches my eye every time I look at it is the expression on your face. The more I look, the more the dresses and props and decorations fade away.

"Yeah," I say, swallowing. "I'm okay."

You check twice more before saying a reluctant goodbye, promising to text me as soon as your flight lands. I take a deep breath, trying to inhale your courage, and say goodbye.

I look back down at the picture, feeling my chest loosen at the smile on your face.

And it strikes me, like a flower blooming in a sudden morning ray of light, that the things I bring with me don't matter. It's just stuff. What matters most, as you told me, is that I take the things that are most special to me.

I fill my suitcases with a calm that I haven't felt in a long time. When I'm done, each is filled perfectly, like a cup of sugar leveled with a knife. I close the zippers and stand each one by the door. I swallow and smile as I click the suitcase handles up.

"All packed, Britt?" my dad calls from downstairs.

I call back to him that I am, and I hear his feet pound up the stairs in a steady crescendo. He gives me a brisk smile as he rolls them out of the room and takes them down to load into the station wagon.

I look around the room and see the stagnant flowers and the pictures I've placed back where they belong on the dresser, save for one. I'll leave my room the way it was. I don't need to take it with me to remind me of who I am.

I feel braver than I have in a long time as I take a deep breath. I look around once more. Then, pressing my hand to my back pocket to make sure I have my phone, I step into the hallway and close the door.

You told me to pack the special things first, so I did. You are the person who reminds me of everything I know. Some days, the only thing I know for certain is you. You will always be a phone call or a train ride or a heartbeat away. That can't be fit into a suitcase. The only place that can fit is in my heart.

I stand at the top of the stairs for a moment, looking down the flight I have bounded and trudged up and down thousands of times. I press my hand to my back pocket to check that I have my phone again. It's there, solid as ever.

Taking a breath and moving one foot in front of the other, I discover that taking the first step isn't difficult at all.