Graduation
By Elizabeth Smith We walk through the hallway where the basketball players usually come, and we find seats in the blue folding chairs in front of the podium. We take turns waiting, taking a folder, snapping pictures, shaking hands. And then the dean announces those who studied more generally, and a hunched man—he couldn’t be under eighty—shuffles up the ramp, his walker guiding his way. In his smile is an inner satisfaction illuminating the gap between him and the dean, and we all stand until they finally meet. It all happens through our thunderous reverence as we imagine his retirement spent reading in the university library, conversing with professors half his age, and studying along with us. I must remember this, I think, as I leave for the workforce. I pray to God I remember this.
