The problem with academe is that people are always leaving: students graduate, colleagues find other jobs, people retire. The promise, though, is that sometimes they come back: students visit at Homecoming to update us on their progress, and some of them take jobs here and transform themselves into colleagues. And some people just never seem to go away.
I don't remember the first time I saw Margaret; she was always around, attending College talks and concerts, hanging out at faculty happy hour, attending Learning in Retirement classes. In fact she was so ubiquitous at first that I was surprised to discover that she'd retired several years before I started working here.
Margaret was the only retired faculty members to participate in our faculty writing group, the only member of the group who didn't need to worry about professional development or tenure clocks or annual reviews. She was curious about everything, asking great questions about topics far outside her field and offering encouragement to younger faculty members. Every time I saw her--which happened often but not often enough--she would ask about my classes, comment on something I'd written here, or offer a snippet of wisdom from her vast store.
I suppose I came to take her presence for granted, like an antique table that sits in the corner, too fragile for everyday use but always present, and so it came as a shock to discover that she'd died suddenly on Monday at age 91. I don't remember the first time I saw Margaret but I do remember the last time, just a few weeks ago at a College concert. I don't remember what we talked about but if I'd known it would be the last time I might have said something more significant, like "goodbye" and "thanks" and "you will be missed."
And she will be missed, at first. Right now it feels as if movers had come in by night and removed that antique table from the corner of the room: something used to sit there, something useful and beautiful and valuable, but one of these days no one will even notice that it's gone.
For now, though, she's hanging on, haunting the halls she loved so much, her ghostly presence always on the verge of asking another question.
2 comments:
I'm so sorry for your loss. My condolences.
I, too, have said goodbye to a number of colleagues who've retired, and it's always hard. But most of my retired friends are still healthy and enjoying retirement. I don't look forward to harder goodbyes.
I miss her too, and have since I left.
She would have loved that tribute. NIcely done.
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