To my right there are rectangle patches of the foggy Atlanta skyline. It’s the last week of classes for January term, and APA is in the air — wafting in a blend of anxiety, procrastination and the unbearable lightness that stems from turning in a final project (regardless of the upcoming grade, turning something in, letting it go and getting it out of your control is akin to rapture — take it from a former student and constant witness).
Whenever I drive past my building, I always look to see if the lights are on in my corner. It’s a habit; born of curiosity or control I’d rather not ask. Today, I imagine what they’d look like against all the gray — small cells of light, just above the power grid. I wonder who looks up as they flow past? If they have any concept of the reams of paper representing students’ work? Maybe they eat coconut cream pie yogurt at their desk like I am now? Who are these people? Who am I?
What is my relationship to this place?
Regardless, papers are being completed. Things are turned in. We all let go a little. The lights are on.