I promise I did once, maybe a few years ago. When things seemed less serious, when we were in the midst of our fun little college experience. When the clocks ticked less loudly and there was time for all that. When the end was far and we could do away with those thoughts with song and dance. When things were all new and unchanging, the way they always would be. I used to know your name, I promise I did.

There’s a sense of finality, where everything becomes the “last first.” A last first meal, a last first day, a last first dance, a last first move-in and so on. This will eventually turn into the “last lasts.” The process of graduation unfolded before me thrice before, and now it seems to be calling my name, detaching me slowly but inexorably from my identity as a Carleton student. I used to know the events that happened in Sayles, but nobody else does. I used to know the people who were here last year, and the year before and the year before that. I used to know that everything would be ok, and Carleton was an eternal summer of academic rigor, parties and big events. I don’t know that anymore, and I’m not sure if I ever did.

The mirrors must be lying, I’ve decided. I don’t recognize the face that stares back, worn as it is. It cannot be the same face that entered shaven and enthusiastic into this place three years ago. The face that stares back is confused, scared even. That doesn’t make sense. I’m a senior now, and I remember what the seniors were like. They knew everything and had their lives planned out. Some of them are abroad and others are starting families, and yet others are living in big cities and doing the things I always knew they would.

There are all these new faces around, and all the old ones have seemingly disappeared. I find myself annoyed, jaded, at their excitement and slow walking paces. In the uncertainty, hopefulness and possibilities swarmed around them like so many fireflies. At the beauty of beginnings and self-discovery. When did I lose that? What a strange way to think. I used to know what that was like, and I wonder when I’d forgotten that. What has happened has happened; all the mistakes I’ve made along the way are forever present with no way to rewrite them. If I had another chance, would I have done anything differently? Does it matter?

There’s always more and less to do. More reading, more applications, more work. Less time left to be with friends before our inevitable partition, less time to talk to my favorite professors, less time to just sit for a while without feeling the inevitable tug of unfinished assignments and unanswered emails. Someone somewhere said that the only time you truly understand a system is the time at which you begin to exit it. The paradox of being able to work most efficiently with the least amount of time left in my college life feels like the world’s cruelest joke. The ability to do the most within my majors with only 48 more credits left feels like a personal insult. Each day passes in a funereal manner, another day closer to the final day.

But it’s not over, not yet anyway. For all of the fatalism and lamentation that senior year brings, there is an equal and opposing sense of appreciation and joy. Yes, it is the last time, yes, this is coming to an end and so now’s the time to do it all right. I find myself lingering more and more. A few minutes after class with my professors, an hour more at a bonfire, a day more here and there. In the awareness of the twin calendars and clocks, there is a heightened awareness of the sheer preciousness of each moment spent and the need to savor each and every one of those moments. There is a strain and exhaustion, present and deeper than any year past, that comes with the weight of time and the burden of final performances, yet it makes it all the more special to be here as it happens one more time.

I find myself stopping while walking a lot. I tend to walk quite quickly and with determination, buzzing from place to place and task to task. Not so much anymore, I mean, how could I? The skies are alive with reds and oranges and sometimes blues. The birds seem more vibrant than the color itself. The leaves tinge themselves with all the shades of the rainbow and beyond, whirling and dancing as they descend. There’s a lot that I forget about Carleton, that I’m trying to write as deeply as I can into the wax tablet of my mind. I think it’s working, but who knows?

I find myself knowing while talking. As I talk to my friends who have been here, old stories about freshman year hijinks and sophomore year woes and junior year banalities flow freely. As I talk to my friends who haven’t been there, I remember your name. The times we’ve spent together, the stupid things we’ve done, the private moments that become myth and legend and food for new stories and overexaggerations. I used to know your name, and now some others do too. It’s senior year, a time for beginnings and endings, and so stay a while longer as the seconds wait just for a moment longer.