Back to Provo

The drive back to Provo was a long one. Seven hours, plus. Luckily, with high speeds and good music, I managed to make the best of an otherwise monotonous time. I listed to the soundtrack of my years there: Rascal Flatts, like Matt and Troy; Billy Joel, like Bryan; musicals, like my roommates; and, of course, the mixed CD April made for the very purpose of travelling along I-80 as I was. I sang along with my whole soul.

GPS told me to turn south before reaching Salt Lake, and I wasn't about to object to the scenic route. I left the interstate near Park City, where Kevin and I honeymooned. I drove through Heber and into Provo Canyon.

Then the memories hit.

I used to go to Heber for shakes. I drove past Deer Creek Reservoir where we watched the meteor shower, while Ted played guitar. I passed the turnoffs for South Fork Park, Stewart Falls, and Bridal Veil Falls, places I had gone time after time with people I loved to hike or stargaze. Memory after memory after memory poured over me.

About this time, the song "For Good" began to play from my car's speakers. If you don't know the lyrics, look them up. The song is about best friends saying goodbye to each other for what they think will be the last time and reflecting on how their friendship has shaped them. The song always gets to me, but this time I sobbed, gasping for air as I sang with despair and loss.

These memories from college, these fun adventures and late night bonding, the singing, the cuddling, the loving and laughing--these shaped me more than almost any other events in my life. And I realized that Kevin wasn't part of any of them. And those who had been were no longer salient characters in my life. I began to wonder how I had ended up in the life I live, and how I had ended up married to Kevin,  whose ghost didn't haunt me from those places and times. How did I turn away from the joy and intimacy and fullness of those years? It felt wrong, like a betrayal.

I continued onward, passing the intramural fields where the Akulas played in yellow, with Ted pitching; the Riviera, where we danced in the courtyard and sang on the balcony; and BYU campus with the oh-so familiar mountains in the background. The memories felt clearer to me than my own life, like I had surfaced from a dream, and the last fifteen years weren't real. 

I thought revisiting would bring with it nostalgia for the past--and it did--but it also brought a hefty amount of regret and mourning. I didn't just miss those days, remembering them with fondness. I longed for them back, with a fierceness and desperation that surprised me. I found myself thinking that I would give anything to be back there, with those nights and years and choices still ahead of me. And nothing could ever make that possible.

When I finally got to Ted's office on campus, my eyes were swollen from crying, and I felt raw inside. 

I think that drive to Provo will haunt me for the rest of my life.