Henry Abbott

On a cold and sunny afternoon during the first full week of spring semester classes, I finally took advantage of the outdoor ice rink on the quad. A friend from my first year and I had packed our skates before heading to class, and an early release allowed us to hurry down to the rink on the quiet quad. The wind was frigid on my exposed face, but I was determined to skate on the quad—something I hadn’t done despite being a student at the College for four years. My skates slid along the cleared ice, and I felt a thrill at carving circles and loops on the surface. I kept my gaze focused on the ice, the snow between Hubbard and Mass too bright against my unprotected eyes.

There are many things I wanted to do at the College that I hadn’t done until now: my final spring semester. The most notable that I like have been skating on the quad, rope swinging and swimming at Sewell Pond and participating in Bare Bears. These are the grand moments, but there are also quieter moments that bring me so much joy. Sitting around the common room table playing Catan with my roommates (all who are friends I made during my sophomore year as a member of Howell House), grabbing a meal with friends from first year, horrendously late nights at Supers, walking the Commons and journaling in my dorm room. I have my car on campus for the first time this year, and I love re-experiencing some of my favorite Maine locations with my non-Mainer friends. But now there’s a time stamp on all these moments. A ticking clock chimes in my head, making it difficult to sleep every night. These moments might be the last time I experience them, in this particular way, at this particular location, with all these special people.

The chapel bell echoed across the vacant quad, and I slowed to a stop in the center of the rink. The friend from first year skated up beside me, and we watched as other students were released early from their 1:15 p.m. classes: a slow trickle, then a mass exodus as 2:40 p.m. approached. Chatter flowed from each building as students entered the quad. Some ignored the pre-plowed pathways and paved their own, trudging through the ankle-deep snow. I went back to skating, feeling perceived in the center of the quad as students, professors and community members walked by. Then, not even 10 minutes later, the quad was vacant and quiet again.

While I looked around at the students, I realized how few faces I recognized. Another time I noticed this at the College was upon returning from studying abroad, when the other half of my class was abroad, and the first years (the Class of 2027) had already arrived and settled in. All of this served as a flashback to my first year, except now I know the campus. I guess that feeling of distance never went away—it just metamorphosed. In my first year, the feeling was scary, but in junior year, after study abroad, it was startling, and in senior year, it simply prompts reflection.

I’ve heard some students share that this campus is rather stagnant without much going on, but in my experience, it is always changing: Different class years bring new people, new perspectives, new groups. I love the person I’ve learned to be during my time here through my interactions with people who flow in and out of this campus.

And now it’s time for me to leave, too, and the College this year is repeatedly telling me it’s time to go, even as I dig my heels in. But actually, I’m grateful for this gentle nudge as graduation creeps up. The time flew by (something my relatives warned me of my first year and I neglected to truly heed), leaving me to resonate with the song “Passing Through (Can’t the Future Just Wait)” by Kaden MacKay.

My friend remarked that their feet were beginning to ache, bringing me to an awareness that mine were cramping in my skates, too. As the day ticked on, the ice was becoming a slush in the middle, carved up by our skates. I kept breaking through the ice enough to catch the teeth on my figure skates. So, we went back to the bench, kicked off our skates and made our way back to Harpswell Apartments—to the homework sessions in the common room, the daily ones that devolved into laughter over bizarre quotes and crash-out comments pertaining to various readings or assignments. From there, the night would often evolve into board game playing, movie-watching or assembling all the roommates to head to dinner or an event on campus. Then we’ll do it all over again, every day. Until May.

Amelia Jacobson is a member of the Class of 2025.