What's left is no longer what's right.

This morning I got to school earlier than usual. The sun had already been up for quite a while, and the sky was covered with scattered feather clouds. I sat in my parked car and watched the janitors carry away stacks of folding chairs which were no doubt being transported to Assembly Hall for graduation. "They're already sending us off," I thought, and it was true. The school has been preparing for our graduation since we first walked through its doors; its primary purpose had always been to teach us, let us get grades, put those grades on paper and into someone else's hands, and firmly yet gently push us up on the stage and out the door.

It was an odd morning, which I spent in a partial daze. I only went to school today because I didn't want to miss out on the last few opportunities to experience all there is to high school: 1) doing the morning announcements, 2) spending time with friends before school, and 3) sitting there, tapping my fingers on the desk for an hour while pretending to read and watch Saved By The Bell in study hall.

And that's why I found myself going to the library at 9 o'clock, heading out the door into the warm morning, at 68 degrees, sunny, with 55% humidity, a 51-degree dew point, and 10-mile visibility. It smelled oddly like summer and winter at the same time: the air was still and clear enough, like in winter, to have a detectable hint of small-city smog, yet warm and humid enough to make you imagine the smell of sunscreen.

The town was in vacation mode already: the students checked out last Saturday, the downtown restaurants seemed to be busy with what might have seemed like spring cleaning, and even the local palm-reader had a $10 special because she knew everyone was gone for the summer. I drove very slowly, frustrating the drivers behind me, partially in a daze and partilaly simply observing my surroundings. As a habit I parked far from the library (even though for the past year I normally parked in the "Fine For Parking" area), but I soon realized that the lot was absolutely empty--everyone was gone. It's time for us to go as well.

This must be what it feels like to be of old age. When you know it's time to let someone else take your place. When you want to go just because you're afraid that the things you love will become stale and boring. When you've mastered the art and can only sit back and watch others attempt climbing the same hills. And when the first minute of Metallica's "The Unforgiven III" keeps playing over and over in my head.

Listen to the song and tell me if that doesn't sound exactly like what's going through your head right now.

--E.A.