Mt. Epiphany

The garden facing the windows is a miniaturized paradise of pockmarked cobblestones, potted greenery, and dried, scattered leaves the color of crushed cinnabar, desert sand, and fresh cherries. Red, chocolate brown, deep, dark green, and the ravishingly navy blue of a darkening sky. A backwards glance at fall in windy spring. I nurse a cup of black coffee, rolling it idly between my hands like a hunk of moldable clay.

Desires cycle through my mind like pebbles in my shoe. They stick to my dreams like pink gum smeared onto the underside of an ancient desk of pale and splinter-prone wood. Desires follow me through different rooms. I end one life stage and enter another. I exit one crossroad only to arrive at another crossroad.

Along with April, a new semester comes in with the unrelenting tide. I leave my basement office and find a hearty midday spread outside like a boundless picnic blanket, saturated in green, pallid gold, and cornflower blue. The light outside is far-reaching, balmy, clear, free of haze, dust, or cloud. Students leave their classrooms and filter into the cafeteria, carrying stacks of books in their arms. Head down as I pick through the crowds, I think of the shards of the future they harbor–glittering faintly, gem-like–in their eyes.

A small student band has gathered behind a building to play a cheerful, summery tune composed of pan flute and several guitars. Something about the song, buoyant, clear, brings me out of a stupor and into a new dream, sparking tears from my eyes.

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