High above Cayuga's waters

Dylan told me the times were changing, and how right he was. It was a beautiful spring day in upstate New York, the kind of day where the sky is a little bluer, the air a little fresher, the grass a little greener; the kind of day you long for and dream about in the depths of the winters here. As I walked home under those bluebird skies, through the quad that echoed with the voices of classes past, glimpses of Cayuga Lake in the distance, I tried, again, to take it in, hold on to it, and never forget it. To take in the sound of the bells from McGraw Tower as it reverberated off the pockmarked stone of the buildings around me; to hold on to the feeling of peace I had found at Cornell, to never forget each and every memory that I had made here. I had been trying to do this for months, knowing that the day would soon come where I would be thousands of miles away from this place, where the only access would be through the remembered snapshots in my head. I think I knew, deep down, that this was a futile exercise. That those snapshots I longed so desperately to hold on to would fade, inevitably, with time. That the bond I felt with this place, with this campus, with its sights, sounds, and smells, that this too, would fade. That time, and life, inexorably take away what they once gave.  

I had come to Cornell two years ago – driving my Volvo from California and unsure of what to expect as I turned off Interstate 81 in what seemed like the middle of farm country. I had come to Cornell with a vague sense of direction, a dose of apprehension, and a larger dose of a particular type of anticipatory excitement that is only found at the start of what you know will be a great adventure. 

Things were quiet when I first arrived that July – streets empty, Campus devoid of human activity, stores in Collegetown still ‘closed for summer.’ It was like looking at a dry, desolate streambed, knowing that when the rains came, so too would life. I did not know what this flow of life would look like but I did know that it would come. 

And come, it did, with a torrential flurry of SUVs and minivans, weighed down with families, televisions, and suitcases; students, weighed down with expectations, pressures, and perhaps a bottle or two of vodka. It was interesting to be both a part of and a witness to this sudden influx of energy and life; interesting to see, in those first weeks and months of school, the ebb and flow of social relations and interactions, much like the freshly fallen rains finding their way to the streambed, rivulets of water flowing this way and that, branching out, rejoining, working their way around rocks and over pebbles. Couples came, couples went. Friends and acquaintances were made, many forgotten, and a lucky few cherished forever.

Life had become a blur, like an old flip book that, moving quickly, fools viewers into thinking of it as a continuous stream of motion instead of a collection of static scenes. I can pick out some of those scenes, recalling them with a sense of clarity I suspect is borne purely of personal bias. I can recall lying on the field abutting Cayuga, grass blades gently pricking my skin, a light fall breeze blowing over her and me, the intermittent sounds of kids playing and water lapping the shoreline providing the soundtrack to a perfect day. I remember alcohol, lots of alcohol. I remember French fries and camaraderie in Amsterdam, credit card roulette at John Thomas, sledding the slope with the help of Jager and gravity, paddling the Susquehanna River, roommate dinner at The Antlers, opening presents by our Christmas tree. I remember even smaller portions of static scenes, the laugh of my favorite professor, the thunderous roar of Niagara Falls, the smiles of my friends, stark silhouettes of trees cast black against the white and gray hues of freshly fallen snow and overcast skies, the smell of old wood mixed with brewed coffee at Collegetown Bagels, the gentle touch of a beautiful but forbidden fruit. 

I can remember the last night I spent in Ithaca, in our apartment that was once so full of life and laughter but that was now occupied by only me, a few boxes, and one suitcase. A living room devoid of furniture, two empty bedrooms, a hallway stripped bare – the apartment looked and even sounded empty, lifeless. 

I have never felt more alone.  

Suddenly the place that I wanted so dearly to hold on to became a place I could not wait to leave.

I can remember all this, scenes and snippets from a life I used to live and love. Sometimes they inspire me and fill me with satisfaction and delight, sometimes, like the fading glow of a past glory, they sadden me. I am reminded that the streambed only looks dry and dead because you know what it used to look like with water and life in it. The grander the past, the more sobering the present. Relativity – it is a bitch. 

And so I walked through campus that spring day, again possessing a vague sense of direction and a dose of apprehension. But instead of the delicious excitement of anticipation that I had brought with me two years prior, I now had two years of beautiful memories, memories of days and nights gone by, memories that will comfort - and haunt - forever.