I went in early today, so I could read through the last few poems from the workshops. I sat there in my cubicle in the basement of Weller. (Yes, there is a secret passageway to my office, and yes, I roller skate down there--come by for 80's night sometime. It's awesome.) And these are the moments you're thinking, "I can do this. I'll just read these last poems, talk about Willy and Biff Loman one last time with my Lit class, and then I'll get in my car and I'll drive to York to pick Nora up with hamster in tow and..." But I can't do it that way because of the dark hallway I walk past, the one with the wooden trophy cases that remind me of that movie--"The Dead Poet's Society." Because when I walk past them, I can't help whispering, "Seize the day, boys. Seize the day" while nodding to the replica of the cave paintings in Lascaux. (Don't ask me. I have no idea what they're doing down there either. They clash with my 80's theme, too.)
So, I get to the last poem, and it's five pages, and I read it and Chapel is in 10 minutes, but I'm crying. Hard. Dang. Not in the plan. Not in the plan.
But I never like my plans anyway.
And while I don't necessarily like going to class looking like I went through a car wash without a car, I'd rather go ahead and just...feel it.
So I cry in the following classes:
1. Morning poetry workshop because of courage.
2. Intro to Lit because of extended hands.
3. Afternoon poetry workshop because of double entendres and the last poem on the table and how I wanted to dig through the desk for more of them, but that was it. The last class.
And someone had written "O, Captain, my Captain" on the board. And this is when I'm done for and cry all the way to York because, as Linda Loman says, "All of life is a casting off." But I don't want to yet.