On June 1st, hundreds of students, myself included, jostled and jockeyed for a select number of blessed folding chairs shielded by the Killian oak trees from the hot afternoon sun. We sat, dressed in black gowns and grad caps, fanning ourselves with our programs, surreptitiously wiping sweat from, well, everywhere. Cambridge had changed seasons without warning that morning, seeming to abruptly realize that it had no further need for its chilly demeanor.
Distinguished faculty we could hardly see from our vantage points walked up and then away from the podium. I turned my Brass Rat. Mark Rober flew his grad cap into the air and onto the roof. We had celebratory receptions, we took pictures.
June 2nd remained hot and sunny. I made my half-minute appearance on the stage to receive that coveted diploma I had spent the last four years anxiously awaiting. It was a happy day I experienced with a tinge of sadness. We didn’t know if it would be the last time some of us would see each other, but we didn’t say goodbye, for that would have almost certainly sealed our fates. We hugged, we took more pictures.
On June 3rd, I watched many of my friends’ locations fan out across the world and said a silent see you later. I continued packing. We had rain that day, as if the skies had held off just long enough so we could experience sitting under the scorching sun on the lawn at least once. I showed my parents all the campus spots I had deemed decently cool.
My family flew back to Michigan in the morning of June 4th. Me, I returned to Maseeh and taped up my final box with the remainder of my belongings, shortly to be delivered to a family friend. All that I had collected during college was now neatly segmented into the containers before me. I moved out as the 10-year anniversary alumni moved in. I supposed I was an alumnus too, now.
Without hesitation, graduation had come and gone like this.
