It's a cold cold cold emptiness. Gusts of wind-chill drive cruelly tinkling shards of ice into my stone walls, while the sun looks the other way.

Last night, the windows rattled woodenly like footsteps that would not come as I lay huddled under the blankets. On my half of the cold bed, I thought I would not sleep. I thought I would freeze, tears still warm on my cheeks. But I must have slept because I woke in the morning, still alone.

It seems I do not need you to keep me warm.

Sure, it's a little late to be talking about Tuesday. But Tuesday was worth talking about at the time, and it's still worth talking about.

It was, quite honestly, a glowing emotional achievement. I sat through roughly five minutes of vehement, repetitive verbal abuse from a professor who really seemed to take a somewhat inappropriate amount of pleasure from humiliating me in front of my classmates and program faculty. And not only did I not cry in front of everyone, I didn't cry at all. As a matter of fact, he was barely able to hurt me.

While I listened to his tirade about how I was apparently incapable of seeing what was right in front of me, the blood rushed to my face no doubt coloring it a seemly shade of embarassed. But. In my mind I just kept telling myself that if I could sit peacefully through those five or ten minutes, it would all be over, and I'd never have to put up with him again. Almost done, I thought. This is the last hurdle. This is my last test. If I can make it through this, I deserve to graduate, whatever else I may not have accomplished. So I did. With grace, composure, and good humor.

The last day or two, I've even been discussing him with a deep and serene generosity. After all, the nicer I am to him and the nastier he is in response, the bigger the payback will be when what goes around finally comes around.

I dreamed
of the long walk home
under predawn skies
paved with rain.

A chain-link fence
dripping
across the peach pale
landscape that is Philadelphia
at night.

There's nothing entirely like the rush of performing to an audience. A real audience provides to the performers excitement, nerves, and a sudden, strong desire to prove themselves. It's this last that sometimes lends the performers a reckless sponstaneity paired with the instinctual concentration of a predator.

This is what we felt last night. Our soloists broke out of their timidity to a new level and vocal instrumentals functioned as shining steel parts of a precision machine. A precision machine which, by the way, appeared to be having fun.

So, here's to my girls, the TrebleMakers, who I have taught, cajoled, coddled, scolded, nurtured, and grown to love over the last two months. I couldn't be prouder.

I imagine that I am much like an athlete, bedridden this long year. As winter returns, I am struggling to sit up...to stand...eventually to walk and to run again. Muscles complain with strain and disuse, but force of will can gather them to function, once more.

I will learn to run faster and jump higher than I ever did before, but for now, even lifting my head on my own neck is an accomplishment for me to be proud of.

My shoulders ache with the buzz of trainwheels. Through the window there were trees growing through standing water and train tracks.

A dull muffling sleepiness hung over me the whole way home.

And welcome back.