Mosaic

by third year Aarya Merchant

I wake to my alarm and the cold autumn air, clutching the crocheted bunny a family friend gave me when I got out of surgery ten years ago.

Begrudgingly, I get out of bed, head to the bathroom, and grab the toothpaste from my medicine cabinet—Aquafresh, not Crest or Native or any of those brands, because my cousin introduced it to me when I visited her in India six years ago.

I pull my cashmere sweater over my head and slip into my bell-bottom jeans—jeans you’d never have caught me wearing before my ex-best friend let me borrow hers for our two-year friendiversary.

I grab my fuzzy socks and pull them over my cold feet, making sure to put my right sock on before my left—never the other way around—because my mom told me six years ago that putting the left sock on first brings bad luck.

I head to the kitchen, pulling a frozen breakfast burrito from the freezer, laughing to myself as I turn the stove on and reach for the paprika—I can’t believe I used to just microwave these things until my roommate showed me how to season and cook them on the stove.

I brew my morning coffee in my pink Keurig. Why pink? Because my brothers said a pink Keurig would look ridiculous in my apartment— so I got one in freshman year, anyway.

With breakfast in hand, I head out the door. When I get into my car, I don’t go for the heater first. Instead, I turn on CarPlay and listen to the playlist a boy I once drove to another city for made for me.

I guess I never told you where I’m going.

I’m going home.

It’s strange—I haven’t been home in a while, but I’ve never felt dread about being away. I don’t feel empty being away from home, because the people who are my home live inside me. I am who I am because of the people who matter to me. Whatever I do—whether it’s the way I curl my hair, the way I put on my shoes together instead of one at a time, or the way I say “shawty” when I see my friends—someone else in my life did it first.

I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved.