It’s my first summer in Iowa, and I imagined a brisk summer like those spent in Seattle as a child-- pulling plums from a tree in the backyard and regretting the decision to wear shorts. Instead, we subsist in what has been dubbed ‘corn growing weather.’ The Iowa City Bank sign illuminates red digits. One, zero, seven. I didn’t think it possible outside the southwest. The humidity knocks you back, down, and rolls you around on the ground.
I run into Liz and Sydney in the writing center. I think we all escape to Peterson to find a little quiet in the nearly-empty basement. With the exception of a few glass research students, our little niche is cool and silent. The coffee supply has dwindled to only decaf, but it doesn’t seem to matter. We complain to one another about the systems migration. F-drives and I-drives don’t work. Or maybe they do. Everyone laments lost progress and class assignments. My honors composition portfolio is gone, but then again, maybe my prose isn’t as good as I recall. The summer is rattling its last few breaths; classes start in a week and a month - Emily
