Mercyhurst

A sidewalk in mid-December

Made icy and snow-covered

By frigid blasts of winter wind

Leads him to walk down paths

Familiar,

And somehow different.

A sense of nostalgia.

A sense of remembrance of days of youth

And youthful ambitious dreams that were so full of hope and excitement and confidence and possibility and inspiration and a sense of purpose and a sense of moving forward and

And…

And.

Looming in front of him,

Beyond the smooth sidewalk and row of lamp posts glowing in the early morning wintry mist

He sees reddish-tan walls and the green dome of the academic center

Beckoning him to enter this sacred temple of learning that challenged him and inspired him and pushed the boundaries of his mind in a multitude of disciplines.

He hesitates.

A turn back.

Retreat.

Across the wintry grounds the dark bricks and stone tiles of this

Institution’s castle-like main hall stands proud and elegant and warm and cozy and safe against 

The December elements as if to proclaim itself a metaphor for the strength of education.

He walks through the science center, through the wintry park, underneath the Garvey clock,

Around the entire campus,

And all the while passing.

Passing ghosts of himself.

Ghosts and ghouls of a kid enamored

With life and possibility and fun and adventure and

Buoyed by the joys of academic rigor and athletic competition and

Certain of his place in the world and how he might affect it and

Not yet.

And not yet beaten

Down by the disappointments of his career

And torn apart by the ways those most important to him

Left his life by choice and suicide. 

This bittersweet realization

That just as the campus streets and posts and buildings are changing

He is changing

And cannot return to those days

Nor impersonate those ghosts of previous selves

But can only stand aside and watch them pass

With gratitude for what was

And appreciation for this sacred space of learning and growth.

-The Poet of Windy Blue

This poem is a classic nostalgia fix. I wrote this poem while on Christmas vacation in 2022. I took a walk around my alma mater, then popped into a Tim Horton’s coffee shop and typed up this poem while sipping a warm vanilla latte. I reminisced on the days and years that I spent at that beloved institution, and I mourned all that I had loss. I mourned all the ways in which life had weakened me, and all the ways in which life had taken from me. I mourned the loss of my mother. I mourned the loss of my childhood and youth. Specifically, I mourned the days in which I still felt invincible and full of endless potential. All that is different now. Burnout, grief, and physical injuries have humbled me. Although I am now in a much better spot mentally and emotionally from the day I wrote that poem, sometimes I still feel the bittersweet sting of nostalgia when I think about those beautiful-and-nearly-perfect four years that I had at Mercyhurst. Hurst will always be home.