She wakes up at seven every morning, sliding her finger across the screen of her phone to disable the alarm clock. Sometimes she jumps right out of bed, but more often, she lies there, blinking sleep away from her eyes, trying to decide if her husband's ability to sleep in no matter what is somehow rubbing off on her.

There's almost always cold-brewed coffee in the refrigerator, and over the past three weeks of temping, she's scrambled to get ready--to hard-boil eggs for breakfasts, to whip up a lunch out of leftovers from the night before, to pack two little bags and get made up and curl her hair and decide what to wear, wishing she had laid out a dress and heels the night before; all while missing the quiet mornings of the past months at home, answering emails and G-chatting with her friend Jenna.

When she looks in the mirror she sees in her reflection someone she wholeheartedly loves and enjoys being, but someone she didn't know she would be. Twenty-five years old, freckles still sprawled across her face, still only standing at 5'4"--but, to the relief of her 15-year-old self, in a B cup--and married to the sweetest man, living far from home in Minneapolis, mostly self-employed. Unable to pass up a temporary job because she's terrified of missing an opportunity. Still afraid of most things, but getting braver every day. Thoughtful, sometimes intense, and always trying to be kind. Proud companion to some of the best friends around, thankful for her family, and just really happy to be living this life of hers.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "In the same way a painter does a portrait of a person, do a portrait in words...Do a self-portrait in the third person." (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 214.) If you write a response of your own, please share a link below in the comments! For previous posts and next week's prompt, visit this post.

Photo by V.A. Photography.

It's rainy and cold today and I can't tell if it feels like spring or autumn.

We had a couple sunny, warm days recently and I found myself with a slight sunburn on my right arm on Sunday evening. The next day was just as beautiful so I slathered myself in sunscreen before donning a tank top for a nice long run outside. I've written about this before, but the smell of sunscreen brings me back to a time before Minnesota where spring is always warm and sunny and it never snows in March or April or May.

I wrote this in 2012 when I lived in Charlottesville:

I thought of grad school--those six weeks starting in July, and Men, Women, and Dragons: Gender and Identity in Fantasy for Children, which was from 9AM-12PM every Monday and Wednesday in that freezing room in the art building. I thought about quick Starbucks runs for dirty iced chais by myself on those same days before my History & Criticism class. I thought of that apartment with the brick walls and the cold shiny floors. I thought about Roanoke, last summer. All this, because of some sunscreen.

And now, after the coldest winter and during the chilliest spring I've ever experienced, that sunscreen scent reminds me of Charlottesville, too, and the hard runs in the woods with my dear friend Shawna; the smell of dirt in the humid air and cold press coffee on ice. Virginia really knows how to do spring.

I don't know what smells will remind me of Minneapolis in the years to come. I'm sure they will drift by and surprise me one day when I least expect it.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "Write about a memory of sunscreen." (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 209.) You can visit this post for future prompts, but I'm taking a break from these for a few weeks (at least until after my wedding.)

Last spring, right after Rob and I got engaged, I made mango popsicles and my friend Tina and I sat on the back deck of my parents house with my family, watching the sun set and the boats go by. Rocky sat next to me, trying so hard to get a bite, or maybe even a full popsicle of his own. The grass was green and the air was warm and flowers had bloomed already. My new ring felt so bizarre on my finger, and I probably spent hours admiring it over the course of those first few months. I was still working at my old job and knew that I had a move to plan, but there was also a wedding now at the forefront of my mind and I wasn't sure what step to take first.

We talked about the wedding (it was still just this abstract idea, which is so weird to me now because it's happening in three weeks and the cake baker is emailing me to confirm that we're doing the textured frosting with little pearls around each layer) and my eventual move, and at that time there were no real details--it was just so fun and exciting to imagine what life might be like in Minneapolis. 

Most days I stay home and work--I talk to my mom and write blog posts, try to read or muster up a short story or an essay, fold laundry, plan dinner, work on the blog some more, etc. I usually get a lot done. Sometimes I don't. But I always spend a lot of time alone.

I made a list of errands and set out to spend Tuesday morning away from our apartment. An almond milk latte at Spyhouse, where I would write at least ten thank-you notes. Then to the post office, where I would buy stamps for those thank-you notes. After that, to Mall of America for false eyelashes at Sephora, Victoria's Secret liquid eyeliner, and a BCBGeneration dress that was not on the list, but was on sale. I found myself deep in conversation with people working in each of the stores, which is something I never did before moving to Minneapolis. I did some grocery shopping at Trader Joe's (another favorite because the cashiers are always so chatty) before heading back home for lunch and a cup of tea.

As I walked away from Spyhouse toward my car, pulling my jacket closer around me in the 22 degree April morning, I thought about warm spring nights in Virginia and how complicated it is that I still don't always feel as though I live in this city. There's so much to see and do and eat (and I've befriended so few people) that I often feel like a stranger here, even after eight months. But still, I love this place.

When we talk about our next move and the possibility of being within driving distance of all of our friends and family once again, it feels like everything is falling into place, but then we both sit on the edge of our bed and feel sad at the thought of leaving Minneapolis. This place has been good to us, and even if I don't always feel it, I like that it's my home. But I guess by now I have a lot of homes.

Will we leave little bits of ourselves everywhere we go?

This post is in response to the following prompt: "Write about a memory of a Popsicle." (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 209.) If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments!

P.S. Visit this post for future prompts.