The last time I was in my college’s library, we sat in one of the second floor alcoves. He was working on his student teaching final portfolio and I was writing my last paper for that accursed Brontës seminar.
I had no interest in that seminar. But it was a reading seminar rather than a writing one and my senioritis got the better of me; I switched out of fiction writing for it. I could easily read a novel in a week, but write one? No way. But however much I enjoyed British Literature, as I would come to learn, I would pick Elizabethan over Regency any day.
So there we were, him writing about pedagogical evidence and I was writing about “Journey and the Journeywoman” in Jane Eyre —
I was over it.
Done.
I cited a few sources and submitted the paper that afternoon. He wrapped out his portfolio as well. All in all, that was it for our workloads. Classes were over and neither of us had finals. I had also logged my last hours in the Writing Center (which happened to be located in the library as well) the week prior. We were finished — graduated except for the walk across the stage.
When we left the library, we stopped by our favorite librarian’s new office — he had just become Library Director. We were all embarking on new, journeys.My friend was going far away from home after graduation, and I was going back. Our librarian was beginning a professional journey as well. We left the library that afternoon without giving a passing thought that that would be our last time there — working on papers, procrastinating, chatting with Joby in his office, and hanging-out. With one journey ending, several more began.
Cassidy B. Charles 