Graduation

By Elizabeth Smith

We walk through the hallway
where the basketball players usually come,
and we find seats in the blue folding chairs
in front of the podium.
We take turns waiting, taking a folder,
snapping pictures, shaking hands.
And then the dean announces those who studied more generally,
and a hunched man—he couldn’t be under eighty—shuffles up
the ramp, his walker guiding his way.
In his smile is an inner satisfaction illuminating
the gap between him and the dean,
and we all stand until they finally meet.
It all happens through our thunderous reverence
as we imagine his
retirement spent reading in the university library,
conversing with professors
half his age, and studying
along with us.

I must remember this, I think, as I
leave for the workforce.

I pray to God I remember this.