Irony is a green and yellow jacket

It's only been seven months and I already feel like the sad, old Oregon dad. As I stroll across Kincaid, I realize that I've never recognized less faces on this campus. I entertain the possibility that my former classmates decided never to graduate, and I might still catch one crossing the street on their way to Rennies. One day, one of my children or nephews will go to this school and when I visit, I'll tell them stories of when I went here, hoping they assume nothing's changed. But in that moment, looking into the eyes of a true college student, I'll know it isn't mine anymore. The campus is theirs now. They know the faces, the professors, the smell of the EMU--and I'll still think it has Panda Express.

Alas, one familiar face. A theater kid, of course. He stops to hug me on his way back from Barry's, propping his longboard against the fence to free up an arm. I accept the hug halfheartedly, wanting it to be more meaningful. But as he jogs down the path to Villard to catch up with his friends, I feel the same. I realize it's not about recognizing my old friends. It's about recognizing myself. The last time my feet touched these sidewalk squares, they were dismounting from bike pedals. My heart would have been beating fast from an exhilarating ride as I fumbled to click off my iPod shuffle, which undoubtedly was playing the perfect cruising song. Maybe Ben Harper or Otis Redding. And i would stuff the headphones into my Oregon jacket, that at the time, didn't make me feel like the sad old Oregon dad.