It was the late part of early on a Thursday night and I'd just wrapped up a draft of a paper and was heading back to my dorm, feeling by all accounts, extrodinarily lucky. I had some time to kill and the air—though cold—was not too windy to prevent my lingering.

I hadn't ventured back inside the Quad gates since mid-September, and even then, it was only to pick up a roll of film from someone before hurrying back to finish before it got to be much after deadline. But now, I didn't particularly have any reason to hurry anywhere, so I did stick around a bit.

I crossed the courtyard I had thousands of times before, remembering all the stupid cracks I used to step to avoid. I opened the heavy door, heard its familiar squeak and decended into a hall that no longer really resembled my hall from last year.

The walls were painted a brighter, more sterile white; the ancient carpeting replaced by neat green tiles. New doors, new people. Last time I stopped by this hall, they were all just moving in, barely aquainted and hardly adjusted. In in the intervening months, entire social heirarchies have evolved.

I took a trip out over Junior Balcony, recalling the times I'd spent out there, furtively puffing on a cigarette in my solo rebellion. Or the night of Fling Liz and I spent out there, discussing matters ignorantly. Or the night Michelle and I spent with a bag of Tostitos, paranoidly munching away. Or the night Zara, Jon and I sat and talked over meatball subs from Wawa.

It was a long, long time ago.

I went up the steps that I can still remember my dad telling me he'd gone up hundreds of times before. I could never picture a younger, college-version of him living there. I still can't. Last year, I couldn't picture any moment but the one I lived in as being true to life—and now, even that is a hard one to see.

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