As a member of the class of 2020, packing up the last of my room on Monday, March 16 was both sad and poignant. I took one last look at my bare bedroom, furnished with the essential bed, desk, and drawer. I never had much in the way of decorations for my bedroom, so the spare walls and empty space didn’t seem too out of the ordinary. But backing up and looking at my bare common room made me feel indignant. This empty room did not do justice to the memories I made here and the time I had at Boston College. This was the place where I had spent time with the few friends who would come visit their RA friend in Walsh, chatted late into the night with old friends who were staying over, unwound after a stressful day, practiced choreography to perfection (disturbing the peace of the room below me—sorry!), and watched the snow silently blanket my corner of campus and the abutting graveyard through a back-facing window.
All that was physically left was this empty vessel, a vacant container where only I would remember what had once filled it.
As I went for some final rounds around campus those last few days, I found many more empty vessels. Empty cafes, once filled with the chatter of students meeting, studying, and enjoying a sweet snack—and where I would happily bother my friends as they made coffees. Empty offices, where I had gotten to know my professors, usually while procrastinating on my work. Empty archways, where I would quickly pause between classes to watch people go about their days. Empty dance studios, where we had practiced and goofed off so much it was near miraculous how things would pull together in time for a big show. All this emptiness exacerbated the feeling of loss. Nobody would know what this place had meant to me. The end was too rushed. The “best days” were supposedly ahead of us.
Yet, I expect I would have always felt some measure of this emptiness upon graduation. If my life were a vessel and my time in college were its contents, then closing a chapter would always have necessitated pouring out its contents to make space for new things to come. That doesn’t in any way mean that my vessel was not shaped by what it once held. Some imprint or scent of the former contents lingers into the future: memories, relationships, personal growth—each as filling as the prospect of a large Lower steak and cheese with extra American over sticky rice (my personal favorite).
What I also didn’t realize is that as we make space for new contents in the vessel, the old contents don’t get dumped in the dirt. Rather, we pass on what we have treasured to the juniors, sophomores, and freshmen, teaching them to value what it is they are receiving and to fill their vessels meaningfully. This is the legacy of all the trip leaders for Arrupe, Appa, Jamaica Magis, Jamaica Mustardseed and other service organizations. This is the legacy of all the E-Board members for culture clubs, choreographers for dance teams, and leaders for every student organization. This is the legacy of everyone who helped sustain the same caliber of community, friendship, and joy that transformed their time at Boston College.
So as I go about my life at home, I alternate between two feelings. Sometimes, when I chat with a friend like old times, I acutely feel the words of our conversation echoing in an empty vessel, marking every contour of what was had and what was lost. Other times, I stare into this empty vessel, and it seems like a conch shell, ringing with memories of the ocean in which it once tossed and turned, ready to sound anew with the next breath of our spirit, of God, that fills it.
Featured image courtesy of Chris Smith via Pexels
Noella D’Souza is a senior studying Chemistry with a minor in Medical Humanities. She’s is deeply devoted to BC Full Swing, Hillside Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, puns, and the Oxford Comma, in that order.
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