Swan Song

I wish everyone could experience how it feels to sit alone at the break of dawn on Engel Terrace. Sun’s glimmer piercing through milky fog above the lake, gentle petrichor and the cicadas buzzing in the background. After a while, you stop hearing them. How quick we are to take what we have for granted. 

I remember the raindrops rhythmically bouncing on the roof of a grey Honda van and the birds flying through the humid air of this August morning. This tapestry is the first memory I made in the New World. I always dreamt of studying abroad, and at that moment, I was freaking out as the car turned right and onto the interstate. The sound of its wheels rolling over the rough concrete of the highway filled my ears on my way south to Indian Springs. 

I was amazed when I set foot in the concert hall for the first time. The floor and walls paneled in wood and the black piano, proudly standing amid this scenery, lit only by thin refracted beams of mid-morning light. Its tones broke the silence of that majestic room and resonated through the air. Perhaps it was at that moment that I fell in love with this school.

The rain was pouring over my head. The sound of it landing on the mirror-like surface of the lake mixed with chatter all around me flowed through the air. I jumped and dove off the dock and into the water. I remember my surprise when I realised it wasn’t cold at all. I didn’t want out. I still don’t.

Tree leaves were shivering in the autumn breeze, letting out the quietest, yet most beautiful of sounds. A single doe emerged from behind a tree. It was still, almost motionless. I stopped and held her gaze. For a brief moment that afternoon, I forgot about everything and stood there, frozen in time, until the other runners caught up to me, and she vanished deep into the woods.

The sun set behind me as I stepped out of the water and onto the muddy soil in front of the dining hall. The wind blew cool across my back, making me shake slightly. I turned around towards the red evening sky, perfectly mirrored on the surface of the lake. A single swan glided gently across its surface and broke this kaleidoscopic patchwork of colours into two.

The rhythm of my fingers hitting the keys of my computer blends in with the silence of the Art Building. The smell of paint and wooden shelves invigorates me as I reminisce over the year I spent at Indian Springs. I stand up and open the glass door out into the darkness of the night. The gentle buzzing of cicadas is the only sound piercing through the silence. How much will I miss this?