All That You Can't Leave Behind

Friday, May 9, 2003 (9:23 PM)

I'm done.

I wrote the 15 pager, I finished the late critical paper and dropped it off in Piskor. Half an hour ago I uploaded my final piece of work, my webpage for my soc. class. I blinked at the computer screen. Didn't know quite what to do with myself. When I went to log off, my breath actually caught.

"Log off stolcs37?"

I stared at the prompt. Is it really over? There must be something I've forgotten: a meeting, a response paper to dash off, an e-mail. It just can't be over.

But there is nothing.

I log off and stand up, slinging my red bag over my shoulder, knowing very well that I will not be back.

I walk upstairs, slowly, past my couch at the top of the stairs under the bronze plaque, my couch where I would sit and watch people walk through the revolving doors. I walk down the wall by Richardson, past the study tables, seeing reflections of myself everywhere in the picture windows that run floor to ceiling there. Past the hidden couch by the window in the back, where I would go if I wanted to hide and write, past the huge window that looks out on Herring Cole and the tree-lined walk.

I circle the second floor and head for the stairs. I sink down onto my couch and pull my knees to my chest like a little kid. Oh there are ghosts, don't let anyone tell you there aren't. But they're not the kind in the stories. I stare at the reflection of myself in the glass railing, and it's eerie, but I feel like, if I turned my head quick enough, it would be sophomore year.

But the thing is, if you want to live, you can't stay. You can't sit on a worn yellow and brown couch forever, picturing all the still-familiar faces that you will never see walk through that door again.

It's really over.

I gather my things, pull on my sweatshirt, and walk, looking around me as I go, looking everywhere. I gather, yes, that's a good word. I gather it all to me. I walk through the revolving doors.

And as I pass the library, outside on the brick sidewalk under a gorgeous purple sky, between the looming silver bleachers that have already been set up on the lawn for graduation, I glance up at the picture window and can almost see a ghost of myself.