Over the summer, my sister got into a car accident. She was totally fine and, once the initial relief regarding her safety washed over me, my mind began to drift to the condition of our 2013 Hyundai Elantra. While my sister made it through the accident virtually unscathed, Alana the Elantra unfortunately did not. 

Alana was the car that saw me through high school and part of my college career. This loss, pardon the pun, hit me like a truck. 

This silver Elantra with the broken backup camera was the car that drove me to and from countless marching band rehearsals and cross country practices in high school. The amount of post-practice Dunkin Donuts trips that this car took with my good friend Mary is immeasurable. Alana was also a frequent visitor of the Swensons on Cedar Rd when she was under my care in University Heights. 

There were memories associated with almost every square inch of that car. My mom’s CD case was located in the center console but remained untouched because Taylor Swift’s “Red” was always spinning in the disk reader. The trunk housed Halloween decorations for Trunk-or-Treat while I sat in the back, handing out candy to elementary school students while dressed as Rosie the Riveter. 

In an instant, those seemingly insignificant details that laid in the body of Alana were gone, destroyed by a severe fender bender. Now I will continue to remember these little moments despite never being able to put my foot on her gas pedal again. However, it was nice to be reminded of every time I touched her leather interior and breathed in her Bath and Body Works air freshener. 

This loss got me thinking about how physical spaces can be a reminder of moments that might have not been prioritized in our long term memory but remain, floating around in the recesses of our minds waiting to be recalled again. For me, this concept can be both a blessing and a curse. 

For example, when I go home, I enjoy venturing to Oberlin, OH; a place that has held meaning to me since I was a kid. I remember being four years old, sitting in Tappan Square watching live music, actively avoiding Peppy the clown while eating pizza and pretzels with my parents and sister. 

Flash forward 14 years, on that same grass I was taking prom pictures and picnicking with friends after graduating from high school. Years before that, before I was even a comprehensible thought, my parents were taking their wedding photos in this same space; I love how I can think about that moment every time I walk through this picturesque town square. How amazing is it that this space is the setting for so many unique, individual moments in not only my life but a myriad of others. 

I’ve had the pleasure of strolling down the beautifully mundane W College Street at every transformative moment in this journey we call life. I can say I have shared the sidewalk with childhood friends and JCU pals alike and what I find utterly fascinating is that, despite the stores and restaurants being the same, I am a drastically different version of myself every time I pass through the thresholds of these businesses. But sometimes, when I venture back to these places with my only companion being my shadow, I can’t stop myself from thinking about the faces I no longer see, reminiscing about a routine that went extinct many years ago.

This feeling has begun to infringe upon a few locations on the campus of John Carroll and surrounding areas in University Heights. How is it possible to already feel nostalgic about a place that I will continue to call home for the next year and a half?

After pondering this swelling feeling on my morning bike ride, I had an epiphany: I’m just scared of forgetting the casual banal moments that seem like life’s filler, constantly waiting for the plot to thicken. It’s the people that I’ve journeyed with that make these places special. They wouldn’t have any meaning if it wasn’t for the fact that we’ve shared these locations together. 

A perfect example of this fear of forgetting occurred over the summer while I was working on keys in the renovated Pacelli Hall, my freshman year home. As I entered the spaces that were the root of so many amazing memories, I was transported back in time. Despite the physical space being drastically different, almost to the point of being unrecognizable, I was able to see those moments as clear as day play out in my mind. Being inside that space reminded me of the people that I shared it with. That’s what gives it meaning. 

So, how do I go on now that I am living with this awareness of fleeting moments in impermanent spaces? Well, one idea would be to get over things and stop being so dramatic about literally everything. Or, I can recognize that it is acceptable to feel a little twinge of sentimentality when I walk by the places that have meaning to me because I shared them with important people in the past, present and future. 

Now, when I walk through Tappan Square or JCU, I can be present in the moment while remembering the good times that preceded it. And the same goes for Alana, wherever she is now, those memories will not only live inside her but me as well.