Everything was packed in my car, carefully aligned and meticulously cluttered with boxes full of my life.
My mother always said that on this day she would cook my favorite breakfast: the morning concoction's scent didn't fill the air this morning. As I turn my car's ignition, she lies in bed sick.
I always imagined this day to be bittersweet-- tears from my best friends, accompanied by hugs as I watched their own cars, packed with other blossoming lives, heading down their destined paths.
In that fantasy, we were all celebrating our collective successes, not being forced apart.
Instead, I take a last look at the house, down the road on which I grew up, the empty surroundings void of people I care about.
I never imagined this day to be bitter.
In that instant, the skies began to pour.
So did my eyes.