On Cleaning Slates

Ah, the new school year. Crisp new notebooks, freshly sharpened pencils, and lithe young ladies in Catholic School Uniforms. This feeling of a fresh start hasn't changed much since I first donned a little navy blue skirt, slipped on my saddle shoes, and scampered off to kindergarten toting my mother's old tin lunchbox. Although the scenery has changed (disappointingly, Catholic Schoolgirls in Ireland wear ankle length skirts) there is still a deceptively optimistic thrill in the air that seems to say "this year, we will write down every inspiring word. This time, every textbook will be read cover to cover... and every term paper will be written and revised a full 24 hours before it's due date. This year!"
Of course I am now too old and wise and postgraduate to really believe any of it, but it's a nice thought. I have made my own attempts at cleaning my slate, after all— trying to distance myself from the messiness of my former life by walking across Spain with nothing but 15lbs in a backpack to my name. Then, for good measure, I parted ways with the young man who had been pretty much omnipresent in my work, school and social life for the past 14 months... choosing instead an absolutely brand new squeaky clean start here in Limerick.
Alas! Almost the minute I arrived on campus, I was reminded that no matter how we try to erase our mistakes, there is No Wite-Out in the Great Essay Question Of Life.
"Hi, you must be Nora."
"Yes?"
"You know T***."
"er... what did he tell you about me?"
That's right, my friends. In an obscure master's program thousands of miles from home, not only is one of the FOUR PEOPLE in my program also from upstate NY, but he already knows me by reputation, courtesy of my first high school boyfriend.
It's not that this person actually knows much... aforementioned boyfriend is nothing if not a gentleman. It's more the principle of the thing. Here I am, imagining that I can start over in Ireland, when the truth is that pieces of my heart (ew, gross) are strewn up and down the eastern seaboard... and there's not a whole heck of a lot I can do about that. It's also autumn here, and there's no way that the smell of chimney smoke and damp, cooling earth can remind me of anything but CNY in apple season. All of my new memories must always be built on the foundation of the old ones.
That foundation sometimes feels too much like an unfinished game of Jenga for me to feel entirely comfortable... too much built up on top of pieces that despite time and distance still feel like they're missing.