I have to thank you for dancing on tables
In the basement of Brock.
I took your hand and we rose above the sea of sweaty faces.
You flashed me a grin of red lips and
I twirled you around the dance floor of Stages,
Laughing in the summer crowd.
Hidden coats stuffed under cushions and above tiles
Were our traditions for
The weekends and weekdays. Long conversations –
Talk of roses, thorns, and a thesis too far gone.
There were golden hickeys and togas that promised
An endless holiday
For reasons unknown.
We drove across province in a winter haze
When the Via Rail became old news.
I didn’t expect to lose
So many goodbyes.
No caps thrown in the air.
A cottage vacation for the ages,
but the sun has set
and we are fairy lights
forgotten on a winter porch.
No one is left to pass this torch.
Shannon Vorster is a fifth-year Con-Ed student.
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