The last time I was home was in the summer of 2013. I remember watching wispy clouds drift away behind the familiar outline of the dining hall – an architectural wonder in the middle of an empty field – as my black converse sneakers scuffed the soft, pliable quad grass beneath me. The verdant quad rippled under a light westerly breeze carrying the vaguely familiar scent of Ben & Jerry’s “Americone Dream” ice cream. No matter how many students walked these paths, spilling their triple shot mocha espressos as they rushed to class, the quad always retained its distinct smell. While some described it as the smell of dust after rain, others insisted that it was the smell of a lone fungus from the orange mold invasion of ’06, and still others insisted that it was more reminiscent of the smell of burning ramen ineptly cooked without water. The smell evoked different memories in each person, but we all agreed that it smelled like home. As I gazed at the glass-tiled dining hall and the halo of clouds embellishing its gently sloping roofs, I tried to capture each line and curve of the scene in my memory. I was fully present in that moment, more aware of my surroundings than I had ever been, because I was desperately trying to cling onto the indescribable joy of being home again. But I knew that too soon, I would be saying goodbye to new friends and new teachers, and we would become strangers to each other again, replacing shared laughter with silence. But as I stood in the quad, gazing at the same dining hall that had astounded me the first time I saw it, I felt assured. Though friends might fade out of my life, I would always have the reminders of our shared happiness, like the dining hall and the quad. As the breeze flattened the flexible grass around my feet, I sighed contentedly, filled with a renewed sense of acceptance and peace with the world. I smiled. If nothing else, I always had Ben & Jerry’s “Americone Dream” ice cream.