The Final Chapters

College is almost over. Almost, over.

My first night in Hodson 117: a night apart from home and family. My roommate hadn’t arrived; only my RA and a soccer player named Brandon had moved in. The orange lights of campus seemed unnaturally warm, sifting through the blinds into my darkened new home. College was a new and frightful microphone into which I’d sing beautiful and utterly important songs. I had recently caught fire, knew God, and IWU would soon hear my sweet music. Humbly, I would sing, and they would love me.

This night—the East Lodge 202—what happened? Through slotted blinds, the familiar orange glow falls on unfamiliar bricks. My memories are splintered, shattered—a reflection off moving water. My years were never years; they were weeks, days, shards of time, glued together by a miscreant child. And whatever happened to endless possibilities, and what about helping IWU learn all that I knew? I was going to change things—amount to something—make ripples. Didn’t I sing? No—they didn’t hear! Did I sing? And what was it that I was going to tell them, again?

I strain to isolate the memories in the onrushing current; I can’t make them out; I recognize some, others are lost, washed out and away. Stop it! Stop the rush! I’m not ready for this. For this, to float on.