Driving east down 18th Street, a person can see a line of diaphanous mist on the horizon lit up by the rising sun. The fog rests just over the train tracks in the distance and is solid enough to hide the buildings that usually identify that skyline. Instead of those stark cement structures, there is a ribbon of pink and blue stretching across the lower sky as if God took a paint brush and ripped it across the day’s canvas and said, “Okay, let’s get started.”

My teacher’s desk is a bit more diverse this year, and I will be traveling back and forth between the Middle School and the High School. I will miss my peculiar old room — my familiar ship. We weathered a lot of years together, and it was indeed a refuge filled with dusty old books and unforgettable memories.

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