There is something about seeing an outdated calendar sitting at your desk. The empty squares you never crossed off but the days have long gone by.
There is something about reading your handwriting. ‘Post-col theory essay,’ ‘Poetry essay,’ ‘Columbia deadline,’ ‘Zainab’s bd’ and so on. Two lines crossed over the numbers and so have gone by those deadlines.
December 2021. 13th the last crossed date. The day you left for winter break.
You pick up the calendar and flip through the past months. November ‘Magical assignment,’ October ‘Magical Mid,’ September ‘First day of classes.’
You live through those memories, like a rope being rung. In one squeeze, all the emotions wrung out leaving you with a feeling of what once was.
You throw the calendar in the trash and take the new one out.
January 2022. 17th the date circled; ‘First last day of uni’ and you set it on the table, looking at the empty squares yet to be inked.