During the quarantined months of March, April, and May, I made many lists. They were lists of things I missed: daily experiences I had taken for granted at Colby, and swore to never do so again. The items were simple, things like: dancing in a crowd; meeting someone for dinner; procrastinating in the library; walking across campus; seeing a friend across the way, waving.
These lists went on and on, as the days of Quarantine hardly seemed to pass. Because, of course, there were no banters at breakfast, no gossip in the library, no spontaneous nighttime adventures. There was only me, trying to stitch colors into the thinning veil of solitude (which, until then, I had always claimed to love).
I remember crawling into bed last spring, and thinking about all the things I used to say: “Dinner at Bobs?” “I’ll meet you in Miller,” “Let’s go to the Observatory,” “I’m in the AC,” “I have class in Diamond,” “Arb walk?” “See you at the Spa,” “I’m working in the Museum.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m coming.”
This common vernacular was suddenly a dead language. Mostly, because there was no one with which to share it. The people close to you become the journals in which you record your history, the instruments that help you learn and remember. When they vanish, so does the understanding of how you used to talk, how you used to be. And now, with two weeks left on campus, I’m scared of this vanishing.
While my quarantine lists may be reminders of things once lost and now returned––telling a happy story––they also signal what will soon disappear again. And reappear, and disappear.
And then, on a day not far from now, all these Colby things will disappear forever. It’s too soon to talk about graduation, I am aware. And I don’t quite know what to make of the prospect of leaving for real (and not because of a global pandemic). All I know is that when I drive onto campus every morning––and see all the kids with their backpacks on, walking to and from class––I feel nostalgic.
I envy those kids clutching their coffees, listening to music, sharing a laugh on the way, taking brisk steps towards a destination, or slowing down to enjoy the walk. I envy their lives of learning, of living together, of not quite knowing what will happen next. I envy their youth, their search for internships, their time spent in office hours, their anxiety in choosing a major, their long nights of thesis writing, their early mornings of cramming material.
I envy them, as if I aged a thousand years. And then I park my car, and I am one of them.
I go to class, I go to dinner, I go to the library. And I think nothing of it. Maybe that’s how it should be. Maybe I am not supposed to age a thousand years.
For now, I still get to say, “Where are you?”
“I’m coming.”
Quiet Histories 