FOR THE last two of my almost six-year-long stay at the University, I have lived more or less the same routine.
The routine is as follows: wake up, prepare myself, and make an early arrival at our office, maybe catch some coffee along the way, spend the rest of the day there, then go home. There are some variations, but it is more or less that. I have undoubtedly spent more time at our office than I did at my own home, even in the many days I accomplished nothing but sleep.
I liked it best on Saturdays when not a lot of people occupied the other offices, which made the day remarkably quiet. The gloom in me was sensitive to any hopeful thing like lights, so I kept those turned off until the evening.
The four walls became a respite for my thoughts. I talked to the walls; I told it my wishes and my prayers, hoping God was in between the concrete, listening to me.
Maybe the grace of Heaven manifested itself in this office out of the happiness of the people who dwelled here; out of the laughter that occasionally brushed off the walls.
Today, this routine ends. I had always known that someday, I will have to find another sanctuary where I must build a new regimen. The days I have left make up a dreadful space, and I will have no choice but to wait for that very last moment of goodbye. F
