Stamped paper promises

The day began with breakfast: bacon, sausage, toast, coffee, and chocolate chip pancakes. I was the only man in the deli wearing a suit. A shirt and tie had been requested; the final hoop to jump through before the school handed over our papers and sent the lot of us on our way.

Graduation day. So soon, finally, etc. After breakfast the family was sent off and morning mimosas were poured. The four of us toasted to ourselves on a balcony overlooking the square of city block we’d spent the previous four years. We gulped it all down.

We showed up late and seemed early, traded our names for robes and other rituals. We were lined up, arranged, re-arranged, and led on an audience-less parade across the quad.

Other people’s parents bombarded us inside the theatre, waving frantically and flashing cameras in our faces. People we hadn’t heard of, deans and presidents listed on calendars but never seen or spoken to, gave the same speeches they’d given at the morning edition and would again at the third ceremony later that afternoon.

We were told again to stand and walk across the stage, shake hands with further faceless academics. Finally, at the edge of the room a final hand reaches out, this time familiar from so many Thursday afternoons in his classroom where we shared our secrets and our words.

So he smiles and says, “you’ve made it,” and I pull back my hand and give him a hug. Follow the path off stage, check spelling (R-U-S-S-M-A-R-T-I-N), shake head and say to self, “Yeah. I guess I did.”