Romantic Melancholia

There are just certain times of year that evoke strong memories, and the first weeks in September take me back to my undergraduate life. I have vivid memories of those four autumns and the sweet, adolescent angst.

At the start of my freshman year I knew only one person on campus, Sarah. She'd graduated from my high school a year ahead of me and gone to Drake. We weren't exactly friends, but she was probably one of the first people to see and accept me as me. I often wonder what happened to her. By the time I got to campus her life was in high drama. I wasn't aware of the details, but she dropped out of school after the first semester of that year. I believe she went into the air force, and years later I heard rumors that she found Jesus in the cornfields back home.

My sophomore year found me determined to make a best friend out of my roommate. It was disasterous and very painful for both of us. He devolved into alcoholism very quickly and left campus after that year. I had a nervous break down. Over the years I heard stories about him and occasionally I Google his name. If I've located the right guy, he's actually an Episcopal priest in New York. I would never get in touch with him, but I read a sermon of his that I think mentions me. If it's not me, he relived the drama with someone else. At least he doesn't put all of the blame on me.

My junior year was probably my best year. I lived on campus, alone, but comfortable with the fact. If I had to pinpoint a moment in time when I began to become a grown up, that fall would be it.

However, my senior year saw some backsliding in the maturity department. The only comfort I have to offer myself is that I'm pretty certain everyone else was living their own dramas to such a level that mine barely registered.

Yet, on rainy Sunday mornings such as this, I just want to put on some Elvis Costello and Elton John and think about what life was like then and exactly how far I've come. There are recurring themes, but they're not as flourescent as they were when I was twenty-one. And now I don't see those themes as disfiguring indicators, imperfections that no one else possesses. They are simply elements that make up me. No real shame or pride, just facts.

I just put "Riot Act" on. If I close my eyes, I can see shadows of my old dorm room. Ten years ago I would have been back there and the pinches and twinges I felt then would come become immediate. Now, I just see shadows. I'm not in the room, on the campus, in the classes, saying things I wish I'd said then. I see myself there, frozen like a film. The pinches are now just itching, faded scars. "Oh, remember when you got that one?" Like the six-inch scar down the top of my right forearm: there, visible for all to see, but part of me."

I can look back on all the silly drama and smile a little. Now.

"Just a Memory."