Love letters
On my desk shelf, wedged between an assortment of books I have not touched since syllabus week and a massive salt rock I impulsively bought at the National Aquarium, I keep a glass box crammed full of love letters.
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On my desk shelf, wedged between an assortment of books I have not touched since syllabus week and a massive salt rock I impulsively bought at the National Aquarium, I keep a glass box crammed full of love letters.
Fall at the University is striking. On Tuesday mornings, I walk through the Lawn archway on the West side of the Rotunda heading toward the Music Library. Stepping out of the shadows cast by construction, a resplendent view of the Lawn stretches before me. The haze of summer and stifling Virginia humidity have given way to crisp air and a brilliant October sky. Sunshine streams through the colonnades and spills out across the cobbled brick and the Lawn is doused in varying hues of vibrant gold — nothing about this beauty is subtle.
It’s 1:25 a.m. and I am moderately overcome with self-loathing. I’m just starting this column — technically due a few hours ago — because, despite staring at a blank Microsoft document for two hours tonight, I couldn’t come up with a topic for the piece. In hopes of finding inspiration, I opted to walk to the Amphitheater at midnight to engage in political discourse with a couple of friends. For an hour and a half, we debated about institutionalized racism, whether or not dialogue can actually be an impetus for social change and political inactivity at the University.
I spend more time than I care to admit perusing YouTube in search of valedictory and commencement addresses. My somewhat bizarre penchant for graduation speeches started my senior year of high school when I was searching for inspiration to write my own.
About a month and a half ago, I was less-than-cozily nestled in seat 34A on a red-eye flight bound for London. 39,000 feet above the Atlantic, I had given up on any feeble attempt to catch some sleep and preserve myself from the impending jetlag.
“I didn’t learn how to ride a bike until I was 16” has always been my go-to fun fact at parties. With respect to my dignity, I never found the fact all that “fun;” I was merely unable to think of a weird quirk which would elicit equally entertaining reactions from my fellow breakers-of-the-ice. That is, until now.
Dear recent graduate,
Sitting on the Lawn today, I joined legions of slackliners, girls in sundresses and boys reminiscent of Easter eggs. What started as a group of three blossomed into almost 10 as friends joined after classes. Aside from receiving my first sunburn of 2015, I had one of my loveliest afternoons at the University. We played Hozier’s album twice, crashed a Guide’s tour and indulged — for the first and last time — in blueberry coffee.
I did not join hundreds of my fellow students in the amphitheater Wednesday evening, but looking back, I wish I had.