maybe i'll ask Freud.

I’m not home sick. The past two weeks and impending finals have kept my focus from everything except J.M. Coetzee, post-apartheid South Africa, rape, lesson plans, and how to convince my professor that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is worthy of academic inquiry. Evidently the landslide of scholarship isn’t an effective sell.

It’s not that I don’t miss my family and friends. I do. Dearly. But location wise, my brain’s in charming Boston with the rest of my freezing body.

Last Thursday, the freezing bodies of my classmates and I convened in our classroom located in the sinking, mold-infested humanities building, just as we’ve done every Thursday night for four months. We sit at a rectangular table in a room that doubles as some kind of banquet hall. We know this because of the crumbs and empty water pitchers.

I brushed the proof of earlier meetings from my chair and settled in for an evening of presentations. I gave mine the week before, which was kind of a disaster. Maybe “disaster” is a little dramatic. My classmates were interested in Buffy, but my professor was disconnected and critical. And I, poor public speaker that I am, sat hunched and angular and digging at my palms like a meth addict, trying to explain Spike’s gender as performance. And we know it’s not just Spike, right? It’s everyone. But Spike’s fascinating. And sexy.

But I’d paid my dues, so I sat back and listened to my classmates discuss Willa Cather, Edith Wharton, and James Joyce. J began his presentation on architecture and its role in literature. His handout circulated while I dug through my bag for a working pen.

Then in J’s very gravely, very Boston voice, he said, “Whitney, I put Salt Lake City as a shout-out to you.”

Next to maps of Dublin, London, and Denver was Salt Lake City in all its grid-like, Mormon landscape glory. I ran my finger from one landmark to the next. Temple Square, Pioneer Park, the Salt Flats, and the Delta Center. Redwood Road. Places I’ve been; places rich with texture and steeped in memory. I wanted to grab B’s hand and sit on the floor with my legs crossed and tell him about my first Jazz game, or about taking a nasty spill in Temple Square while racing to Meghan’s wedding.

I haven’t been able to shake the strangeness of Salt Lake City in a Boston classroom. It’s a collision I hadn’t expected, and I still can’t make sense of why I got so sentimental and a little protective. And why, for a moment, I wanted to tell someone, anyone, about my Utah narrative.

J and I hopped the same elevator after class where we both expressed general relief that class is over. “And hey," I said, "thanks for the shout-out."

“Little bit a home, huh?”

Little bit of home.

sorta like Leonid Afremov

My neighborhood houses some gorgeous triple-deckers. Admittedly, I was easily seduced by their structure and stained glass windows. By their colors. And Boston’s city landscape didn’t offer much by way of color.

I miss Utah landscape every day: green and gray mountains, red rock, even Utah Lake in all its filth. But in the few years before I left, Utah County’s affinity for all things beige was on the rise. Neutral brick, stucco, moldings, shutters, the works. All the same. Antique Beige. Whispering Wheat. Navajo Sand. Golden Coast. The housing developments west of 1-15 near the point of the mountain are proof of the worship of the subdued.

The older homes or bolder owners still use color. My favorite house back home boasts peeling turquoise trim and burnt orange brick. There’s a wheelbarrow leaning against the north wall, and I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.

On the days I take the train to school, I pass my favorite house on the block. It’s deep teal with white trim and a red brick staircase. Tiny, stained glass diamonds accent the corners of every window; they glimmer like fish scales in the sun. The house to the left ranks in my top ten: royal and light blue with open, welcoming windows and white pillars. It looks a bit overdone with its double porch, but I’d take my tea out there if they’d let me. The house two doors to the right is burgundy and has a broad porch that wraps around the house like folded arms. In my brain, the burgundy home has authority, is somehow in-the-know about the rest of the neighborhood. I wonder if it knows what the hell is up with the house across the street.

The house in mourning. It may have been blue once, but now it’s only a suggestion of its former color. It’s impossible to see anything inside. Pillows, clothes, hangers, dressers, sofas, and boxes press against its windows. My roommate says she’s seen a Vietnamese family hustling their kids off to school, but I haven’t witnessed any movement. It’s always still.

I wonder how they live. Where they sleep. Why the clutter. I think about how many Hefty garbage bags it would take to clean the house. How long it would take to paint it rusty orange with turquoise trim.

When the sun’s out, the paint still looks wet. But when it’s overcast and the ocean reflects the gray skies, Boston reminds me of Utah housing—Granite. Charcoal. Stone.—and the colorful houses are the fluorescent hang gliders soaring from the point of the mountain, airborne over the muted neutral.