on graduating

Today, I graduated with a Master of Letters (with Merit) in Creative Writing.

I was an exhausting, beautiful, fantastic day.

There was snow covering the turrets of the main building and dusting the grass in the quadrangles. Coloured light poured through the stained glass into the hall and everyone was more than a little cold. We were nervous. We were exited. We sang in Latin and tried not to trip and shook hands and got our degrees. We stood in the cold taking photos and drinking the free alcohol (to celebrate and keep warm), and almost didn't want to leave. Snow crunched under our shoes and bit into the legs laid bare by short skirt hems, but we didn't want it to be over; didn't want to take off our gowns and hoods and not be set apart. But we did. We shed our robes like snakeskin, leaving studenthood in the seams; picked up our qualifications and marched out, onto the streets, into the traffic, shivering with pride and happiness and latent fear. For some, this was just a step--a necessity before doctorates and teaching and more letters after their name. For others, this was the end. No more classes. No more tests. No more essays.

It was over.

But we're still not done.