“My Big Star Boy” by Megan Serna
On March first, 2021, I told myself I was going to wake up early.
I was going to possibly shower, maybe put on makeup to look presentable for my online meeting.
On March first, 2021, I was home, not the home I chose for myself, but my family home.
On March first, 2021, I identified as a twenty-year-old college student seeking solace within the confines of my childhood home. Because swimming in a pool of independence was not enough to satisfy my needs. Because playing adult had become too much; I wished to return to simpler times. I had been trying to reacclimate to life at school, but somehow, I found myself back where I had been the past thirteen years.
On March first, 2021, I was leaving to return to school, so I let myself soak in my comfy, queen size bed, my princess fan which always managed to keep me cool, and my comforter. I let myself drown in its depth, hidden from the world, safe within its grip.
At the time, I wished for nothing more than to be frozen there forever. Now, I want to go back, to remedy a mistake.
If given the chance on March first, 2021, I would drag myself out of bed, by my hair if I needed too. I would place her on the corner of the couch and tell her to bask it in, to appreciate it; I would reprimand her, telling her to be more careful with her time, careful to not let it slip through her fingertips.
On March first, 2021, I had set alarms starting from eight thirty, with the realistic expectation of starting my shower around nine am. It was not until the clock struck ten that I found the motivation to start my day. I now only had an hour left to assemble myself.
On March first, 2021, I showered, dressed in a light blue almost purple shirt from American eagle and paired it with navy leggings, from the same store. The V-neck was almost too deep, almost made me uncomfortable, as if I was showing too much of myself. I walked downstairs feeling cute and comfortable, flirting with the idea of stepping outside my comfort zone. I brought my laptop and air pods downstairs with me, maybe even a notebook with my colorful pens. The thought of breakfast did not enter my head, until after I had set up my online conference. I decided on nachos for my morning meal, in search of the nostalgia from my middle school snack menu. I sprinkled kraft Mexican blend shredded cheese over a foundation of Tostitos whole wheat scoops. I finished composing my entrée right as Spike decided it was time to go for a walk. I witnessed him jumping off the corner of the couch and heading straight for the door, his infamous signal. I internally and vocally groaned, so irritated he needed to go right as I was about to start eating. I only had fifteen minutes before my meeting.
On March first, 2021, it was slightly rainy and muggy outside.
I pulled out my phone to complain to my friends about the inconvenience but stopped just as quickly, never sending the message. I knew he could not help it; I shouldn’t have been frustrated about it.
On March first, 2021, the memory of kissing Spikey good morning evades me, almost as if it never happened, almost as if I forgot to in the rush of preparing for my meeting.
On March first, 2021, I walked Spike for the last time, had my last morning with him. There was nothing different or special about this. He slept peacefully on the same corner spot he’d been for the last thirteen years.
On March first, 2021, I had my final chances to stand in the kitchen and turn my back to find the same brown and white spotted bully I’d grown up with.
On March first, 2021, I drove home to my college town.
On March Third, 2021, I woke up at six in the morning. I’d been going to bed around one am or later, normally I woke up around noon. It was a Wednesday; I had no classes.
I started to turn around to reposition myself more comfortably so I could fall back asleep; I felt a yearning to reach for my phone and check my messages.
It was to my dismay; my gut had been correct. I had an important message waiting for me. It was from my dad, to my brother and I, the only two children who live far away. He asked us if we wished to come home to say goodbye, claiming Spike had stopped eating and drinking, appearing as if he’d given up on life itself.
He was thirteen. English bulldogs, on average, are only supposed to live eight to ten years. But Spike, he stuck around for an additional three, twenty-one spare years for his time.
I’ve got so much to tell you and not enough time to do it in.
[…]
Baby [boy], you’re a big star
You’re a big star [now]
[I] Wanna take your picture
‘til I die
‘til I die
‘til I die
Megan Serna is an undergraduate writer at UNC Wilmington. She started writing as a little girl who daydreamed about fictionalizing her reality. Creative nonfiction is her favorite genre to compose. If she is not writing, completing assignments, or working, she is ocean-gazing at Wrightsville beach. This is her debut publication.
