Most of my friends swear they will never step foot into their high schools again. So it is often a surprise to them when I say that one of my favorite places to go is my high school football field.
However, it must be understood that the Governor Livingston High School’s turf field at 2:00 a.m. is much different than the school itself.
Truly a different aura.
The school is secluded from the rest of the town; allowing us to pull up to the school in the wee hours of the morning without a soul noticing, blasting Queen with my five best friends after a disgusting but beautiful trip to the diner. All this elicits an indescribable feeling.
The rest of the town is long asleep. It is as if we are the only people alive. The night is young and has so much potential.
We’re still blasting music when we make our way down to the football field, laughing at the top of our lungs. Within seconds of stepping foot on it, a motion sensor light comes on, signifying that the lives of the party have arrived.
We always plop ourselves smack on the centerline of the field, and then we lookup. The stars never fail to impress. On an especially good night, the curvature of the Earth can be seen. Everything falls silent beside the main highway behind us. I feel alive and free, surrounded by the most valuable people in my life. The school building itself, as much as we may deny it, has significance.
There is something so powerful about feeling this free on the property of a place that was the focal point of our lives for four years. The place that brought us together, the place that led to all our inside jokes and insane stories, but also the place that we spent so much time wanting to leave. Nostalgia is the word. Being there brings me back to easier times — times when we never had to say goodbye and life after high school was nothing but a daydream.
But at this moment, we do not worry about goodbyes. At this moment, we are together and no force can prevent us from taking in the beauty that surrounds us.
Our conversations sometimes last until 5:30 a.m. which is right around the time I get a text from my mom that reads, “Where the f*ck are you?” or something like that.
For a second, it feels like I am a kid again. It feels like I never left high school. There is some degree of joy in apologizing to your mom about why you got home at 5:30 a.m. This conversation does not exist at college.
As we drive home through the ever-familiar streets of Berkeley Heights, I wonder why this feeling can’t last forever.
It was not until I left home for the first time, that I was able to recognize the feeling. The feeling of home.