Lana feels

Today there was mist again. I finished everything last night, a good feeling after a week of juggling work, rehearsals, and dorm head stuff and usually dropping the work. This morning I got up early and had a leisurely getting-ready, then set out on the walk to the bar fork. I keep wanting to say "the walk to school" even after all this time. This is my third year here. It's still just hitting me. My third year of living down a little gravel path from where I go to classes, my third year of eating 19 meals a week in the Bar Fork, my third year of relative independence. My last year, too. Last year of the north end, last year of the bar fork, last year of Mt Sopris being all I see when I look for the horizon. Last year of aspens turning in the autumn, last year of watching the snow inch its way down Sopris until suddenly, one morning, I wake up and there's snow on my windowsill. Last year of Peter and Kelley and Chris and Heather and Clarkie. There's so much I want to escape from, here, but so much I'm going to miss. I'm glad I'm leaving now, because I can only see it getting worse from here. Andrew's on a power trip that has no closer parallel to my mind than what's going on on Capitol Hill right now, the school is losing its best teachers in a steady stream, the student body is becoming less hippie and more preppy with every new class. But I will miss the aspens, the mountains, the bar fork mugs. I'll miss Clarkie shouting and teasing Tom and Chris bouncing around like a lunatic. I don't know why I'm even thinking about all of this yet. I'm not going to graduate until June. It's just all so present right now. Maybe it's the mist; the mist always makes me pensive. I'll miss the mist.