August.

Suddenly it’s May and the weight of four years’ stress is slightly lifted off of your shoulders. You say your surreal goodbyes and prepare as well as you can for the big wide world ahead of you. You clean that tiny apartment you’ll soon say goodbye to, filled with thousands of hours of laughs and tears and four other souls who became as close as sisters. Who saw you at your best and your worst and countless amounts of the in-between. You’ll be pinned and pushed out into the dim glow of the education world, questioning everything you ever thought or knew about where you were headed professionally. Your peers are colleagues now, and they are getting acceptance letters. You’re preparing to walk down the aisle in two weeks; and you’re learning that your path in life does not have to mirror those around you.

At commencement, your professor that you most admire tells you and your beaming parents one thing that sticks with you among the blurred list of names,
she tells you;

Just don't stop writing, okay? Promise me. 

It’s two weeks later and between the whirlwind of packing and driving and panic attacks and tears, someone is fussing with your hair and your cheeks. You’re as happy as a clam and won’t remember a blessed thing two months down the road. Except the way he ran his thumbs around the tops of your palms while you said your vows. Or those five deep breaths you took before the doors opened, before the tears came and your vision blurred. Or how your dad cried and told you how he “lost his breath” when he saw you in your dress. You’ll remember those things.

And you’ll be extraordinarily grateful that you have pictures and video to help relive it.
The memories come back through those and you are thankful. 

Nine days later and the storm rages on. Thunder and lightning rattle the tiny plane and you clutch his hand until your nails mark his skin. You hear him suck in a breath and you mutter, “sorry” as he shifts in his seat and places a steady hand on your knee; what seems like an eternity later and you are safely on the ground. Your exhale of relief is echoed by everyone on that plane and there is a never-ending stream of ‘thanks yous’ and ‘good jobs’ with terribly relieved and wavering smiles to the pilot as you all file out. A then-stranger to you, and friend to your ten-day-old husband picks you up from the airport close to midnight. You load all five of your heavy suitcases, full of your wardrobe and then some, into her car and sit quietly in the backseat. Conversation is slow and easy as she makes me way into the dreary downpour, avoiding the flooding on the sides of the highway by practically driving in the middle of the two lanes.

You walk into not-your apartment and collapse into bed with your husband.
And after four and a half exhausting and emotionally-trying years, you are nearly home. 

Four days later, and ask insignificant as it seems, your body notices that hour time difference. Everything is new and it suddenly hits you at all hours of the night for the next few days. A few seemingly dark ones and everything is uncertain. "Please be patient with me," you tell him. He knowingly and lovingly kisses your forehead and you settle into some kind of a restless sleep. Getting used to a new space is hard. Your car or the rest of your things aren’t in the same state as you yet. Your mind flashes to every single backroad you know by heart at home. But then you realize abruptly that that's not home anymore.

You soon move into a home that’s now dubbed over and over again as

“ours" 

not just yours, 

not just his. 

And every possessive phrase sounds like a melody on your lips; come home, what do we need for the house? our kitchen, do we need more of this, our pantry is still looking low, our couch, our family. A five week old tiny kitten tempts you the next day, and from her first look at you you’re both sold. So you welcome her home with you, extending your family. You’re confined to the bathroom floor for the evening as she adjusts to her new surroundings and curls up into you both. You're soaking in her love and spoiling her rotten as she falls asleep in your arms, on your legs, in your laps. A week later, your animal hearts expand for another member of your family. No one is surprised. This one sleeps the entire ride home from Texas and you couldn’t possibly think your heart could grow any further.

Before you know it, you’re waiting for him to get home from work. It’s long after midnight and officially the new month of August. He tiptoes up the stairs, not to wake sleeping animal babies carrying the snack you left for him with a kiss and a "thank you, love."

You’ve been married for two months now.