When I was little, I sealed the covers around my body, strategically shielding myself from the bone-chilling air of winter’s presence. My mother called it my cocoon. Winter was a time of teen angst to get out and sprint to the finish, a time of turmoil with the same faces, the same drama. Each year, when snow turned to that muddy slosh I got my shoes stuck in, winter held its vice around my ankles. Spring or fall, hot or cold, happy or sad, I wound another cocoon to rest my weary shell. I returned to the same institution Monday-through-Friday, turning my stomach like a carnival ride, squirming in my seat, desperate for that inevitable halt. For seventeen years, I’ve been on this mechanism that hasn’t stopped.

Six months through senior year, a month until adulthood, and four months until I part ways, I can feel the ride slowing down. Mother Earth’s winter has come upon me once again, but when I spin my silky sanctuary at night, I can feel the warmth radiating from March’s forceful change of seasons; I can feel my feet stretching the fibers of my shield. With decisions for college and goodbyes to prepare for, skin thickens, bruises heal, tears dry up, and my body will grow out of those old covers. Soon enough, I’ll emerge from my cocoon, fluttering through an ecosystem of new faces- I’ll be ready for next winter.