Journalism Schism

     He could only be described as ephemeral. Within the four-year stretch of college, I had seen Jeremy off and on. We met at freshman orientation, he with the Ivy League haircut and over-sized sweater, I with my fake pearls and canvas shoes.

     As I studied Voltaire and Rousseau, I’d run into Jeremy at the library, the courtyard, the terrace outside the dining hall. He’d say my name and wave before walking away.

     I recall watching him working on a set backstage. Elizabeth was to meet me after rehearsal. He looked my way and smiled as he sweated over his saw.

     Javier took his mortarboard and gown back home. Graduation only three weeks away, he was still wondering. Was community college the right choice? Would it really be worth it? He didn’t get into Baruch or Hunter, and his bank account couldn’t survive NYU. He walked up the stairs into the afternoon sunlight. He didn’t know anyone in his family who had been to college. “This is a good day,” his mother said upon reading his acceptance letter.

     “Finally, the countryside,” she thought, hiking through the forest, verdant, peaceful, water running in the distance. It was different from car horns, bickering neighbors, and constant construction. She left, a woman about town. She emerged, a trailblazer through unspoiled woodland, camping at twilight. No cellphone reception.

     “Let’s go to the movies,” I said. The snow was coming down hard, but I was suffering from cabin fever. I heard a sigh. I knew she didn’t want to go out. The cold would bother her joints, and she would worry the whole drive over. I didn’t want retirement to be just sitting around, but I knew Mary and winter never got along.