Late Light on the Quad

I went back to the bench in the evening, before the flight home. Yesterday I sat there at noon and conducted a full audit of my younger self, which the light encouraged; noon light is an accountant. The evening light is not. It came in low through the arcade, turned the sandstone the color of strong tea, and declined to compare me with anyone.

The courtyard empties at that hour. The students who cut across it all day were elsewhere, being late for dinner instead of class, and the only sound was a sprinkler somewhere insisting on California. I kept the notebook on my lap and did not open it. This was not discipline. There was simply nothing to correct. A bench, some arches, a woman in black getting the last warmth of a day she had already used.

I flew out the next morning with one page fewer than planned and no regrets about the page. Some visits are for the record. Some are just for the light.