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.