I spent the night before my final first day of class reading the handful of postcards my dad sent me before we moved to North Carolina. One featured the Charlotte skyline. Another proclaimed it to be “The Tar Heel State,” complete with little footprints Dad labeled to belong to each member of my family.
“I think you will like it here. It’s pretty. Cows and horses.”
He might have slightly overestimated my enthusiasm for livestock.
But for the record, Dad, I do like it here.
This year has been an experiment in fitting as much of UNC and North Carolina into my memory as I possibly could: I half-heartedly attempted to climb nearly every mountain or glorified hill in the Triangle area. I mapped every song I could find referencing North Carolina. I took a poetry class. I went to a bug festival in the state capital. I saw as much student theater as I could cram into my schedule. I watched UNC win a national championship title. I kept succulents alive.