Coming back from winter break used to be a relief.’ ‘Back to school!,’ I would say.’ I was a rebel escaping from the confines of my domestic prison. No longer would I be chastised for waking up at two in the afternoon or for playing too much Call of Duty. In the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., I was free, ‘free at last.’ However, this being my last winter break, nostalgia quickly set in.’ It was my last three weeks of no obligations as a young man. No longer would I be able to lounge around on my couch looping Sportscenter or indulging in reality television as I battled through my finals hangover. I went skiing, I saw the two friends I have managed to maintain and I did a bit of light reading.’ My mother made my favorite meals: ribs cooked in apple juice, slow-cooked chili and lasagna. I drove around my little New England town and admired what I’d left for the past three and a half years: the small snow-covered ranches, the slowness of the traffic, the sprawling high school and the old frozen-over quarry that looms over the windy roads, like little images in a Bob Ross painting.

I moved to Lincoln, R.I. when I was 11. I had moved from Ohio and I was not happy to be in New England. It was not where my friends were and I wanted nothing to do with it. But not making friends was simply not possible for me. My hatred of being alone drove me to make friends and together we made plenty of memories in that little town. We used to tackle the brown leaf bags that my neighbors had left out the day before. Their hard work was demolished by my youthful inconsideration. I remember standing at the top of the 50-foot-high cliff above the old quarry staring into its abyss on a warm summer day as my friends goaded me to jump and I did. I leapt through the air and splashed into the cool water, baptizing myself in front of them. Together we had our times and laughed our laughs. My life in Lincoln was simple, easy and comforting.

But three and a half years ago I left for college in Boston. I had no friends and knew no one. The bustling streets were a far cry from the sleepy town I grew up in.’ But, seemingly before I knew it, I had joined a fraternity, I had fallen in that fake kind of love that attracts you to someone for two weeks, I had puked, I had cried and I had been lectured by a Nobel laureate. Around me a community formed; while it may not have been a community dedicated to scholastic achievement or moral fortitude, I knew my new friends had my back and I had theirs.

Now, I’m faced with the prospect of graduation. Where did the time go? Did it get sucked down like cans of Bud Light or was it savored like a cold drink from Eastern Standard? I’m not sure. I’m still immature enough to slide sideways on ice when I see it, to cut off cars when I walk and attempt a 30-second keg stand. Does the world expect me to be more adult-like? Do I want to be more adult-like? What is adult-like? In three months my fellow seniors and I will flow in a red horde to our next station in life, an inevitable step toward our own demise, a leap into the abyss of change. We will be congratulated by our very happy parents ‘-‘- who, if they have any money left, may even buy us a gift ‘-‘- and we will be happy too. Well, maybe you won’t, but I will.

Life is about changes, adventures and new memories. Of course I’ll miss living with my friends, dismissing my obligations in the face of fun and the home-cooked meals of winter break.’ But Shakespeare said, ‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be,’ and I know what I am: a middle-class product of suburban America, Boston University-educated and a wannabe journalist who is now looking for something new to do.