It’s my last day of college. Finals are over--all that’s left is the donning of the proverbial cap and gown. I get off the elevator and walk into my beloved Professor B’s office. It’s a warm day. I look out the window and down to the
palms and other tropical greenery. I’ll miss this. She’s sitting at her computer and gives me a quick, wait a minute, glance. I sit down on the boxy, leather chair, studying the bookshelves as I lean back and prop my elbows on the wooden arms. They are crammed with literature. Hardbacks, paperbacks--leaflets, loose leafs, photographs, special editions. I wonder what my office would look like if I was an English professor...
She turns to me--middle-aged, with her long, ‘fro-y, black hair moving everywhere around her large face, her big brown eyes framed in dark, thick-rimmed glasses. She’s at once masculine and feminine, and I’m fascinated by every bit of her wild yet thoughtful mind. “I’m thinking of painting the walls Pompeiian red, “ she says, “what do you think?” I remember back to the dry, hot day I shared with Lindsy, walking for hours and hours through ancient volcanic ruins. I remember the people preserved in ash, praying or running or reaching for each other. I remember all the reds--shades of clay and dried blood. I nod my head in agreement. “Maybe just the one wall?" she asks in her nasally accent, pointing to the shelves. “Maybe just the one,” I reply. We talk about this and that--how she’s looking for a new babysitter, whether foregoing a scholarship to grad school to try out the restaurant business was the best decision for now, Mme. Bovary, why the color red, the importance of always learning, never stopping...we say goodbye. A hard one for us both.
“Courtney,” she calls as I stand up, “you have a wonderful mind.” She turns to the shelves, pulling out
this and
this and handing them to me. “Whatever you do, wherever you go...
never stop reading.”
(That was five years ago...I’ve never opened the covers.)
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