Rituals are still, for me, amulets before test day, and meditating, and baths on the equinox. Rituals are how New Years is still hard because of what happened two years ago. Rituals are bus rides with friends after the parade sticky with sweat and glitter, and bus rides to get cake and hold each other and cry because she just wasn’t there—just gone—just like that. Rituals are reading every day, and rituals are pulling on a rugby I earned at a place that’s home. Rituals are the Big House in autumn and that place where the swing used to be. Singing is a ritual. And dancing tipsy through the streets of Prague with the best people in the world. Rituals are breathing. And breathing. And breathing.