I walked the halls of my highschool, saw my face on the wall, ran my hand over the paint on my old locker, the same scratches still etched deep.

There is this smell in the science wing. Leaky roof rotting mixed with natural gas and dissection trays. It smells like grade 12. Comforting science wing smell - the place where I am forever smart.

The cafeteria still makes me cringe. I stare at the long tables, knowing where the cool people sat. It's intimidating even now.

So I sat in the dress rehersal of the Alumni Homecoming Concert. Scott noticed the spitballs from our year were still firmly stuck over the horn section. Eight years later!

I watched the vein in the directors forehead pulsate as he got more and more into the overture. It's the same vein as before, perhaps even more pronounced with age. I found myself automatically raising my flute to my lips four beats before the rest was complete. My left foot kept the beat. How etched into my brain and body this music is. The concert band. That pin I earned: 8 years of concert band enrolment. It's a pin of congratulations of conforming and moulding into this nerdy flute playing robot.

I'm walking under the halos of streetlights, past piles of soggy orange leaves, down that road that I walked every day for 5 years. This time I've got my black wool coat buttoned up tight, hood over my head, flute case under my arm, and I know how much I've grown away and up from this place.

Because I'm wearing a skirt and a collared shirt, and because I flew from the nest. Because I smile with utter amusement at the ironies in life. Because I know it's all a game. Because I know that sometimes you need to go back to go forwards.

I can't say that I would have done it all differently, no, I would not have. This is who I am.