Two semesters bring lifetime of memories


By Jessica Dillon

News Assignment Editor


I came to Bona’s for the trees, and now, as they adorn themselves in that delicate green lace once again, I smile.
I walk from one class to the next, the sun ducking behind the clouds, and I anticipate a “YO JESS,” shout from the one-and-only Dom, and a cheeky grin from Natalie, who is, without fail, wearing her most prized possession, a mustard-colored bookbag that matches my favorite sweater.
As I move from Murphy to Swan, tripping on the sidewalk, just once, I realize I never imagined I’d be leaving so soon.
No more running to Christian’s room at 11 p.m., because, ‘Oh my gosh, I just saw this penguin video and you need to see it right now.’
No more racquetball with Stacey, no more off-key sing-alongs with the rest of the rugby team as we return, muddied and bruised, from a game, and no more ice cream with Brogan.
No more RC wraps.
And, even worse, no more BV.
My second year as a college student is also my last. I haven’t had a chance to make the second half of those lasting college memories. I’ve missed out on 50 % of the potential very-best-never-will-I-ever-forget-you-please-be-in-my-bridal-party-or-so-help-me-God friendships, and I’ve only had two whirlwind semesters writing for this establishment.
Looking back, I wouldn’t trade those half memories for the world.
To Dom, I love your Oreo’s, your enthusiasm, your terrible jokes. Even when you’re grumpy, you’re the brightest light in the place, and I’ll never forget your sass to match my own.
To Emily, you beautiful soul, words cannot describe how much I adore you. Thank you for believing in me, for laughing at me, for ranting with me. As Denny so often likes to say, you’re going to do well.
To Brandon, Brando-Ice, who taught me the meaning of low-key, thank you for being the most chill transition into The BV that a girl could wish for.
To Christina, yas queen. I’ll treasure you forever, and your epic story comments too.
Finally, to Mike, my dearest Mike, listen closely: Forget the wall. In fact, Mr. DeSanto, tear down this wall. We’re too good for it anyway…
Earlier this week, I walked out of The BV room after my last-ever Tuesday meeting. Of course, I nearly missed it because I forgot (again). Amelia had cranked the volume and set Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” on repeat. My eyes moved from the old and yellowing stacks of papers on the desks to the doorway that, in a few days’ time, I would walk out of one final time. A whoosh of cold air escorted me out, and with it came a whisper of my own.
Thank you. I’ll miss you more.