Last night, I dreamt I went to Saratoga Springs again. It seemed to me I stood in the recreational “quad” of Skidmore College, the grass rippling peacefully in the gentle breeze, gently sloping into the arches and the ever-constant pillars of the majestic cafeteria under the idyllic blue sky. For a while, I could not move, for I had been overtaken by awe. The clouds drifted lazily across the sky, content in their direction. I searched in my dream for someone familiar, and after surveying the campus, I realized I was alone. Strangely, the quad appeared empty, physically unchanged by human presence, yet one could not possibly feel alone here.
The trees whispered softly, voices gently welcoming my presence as they had welcomed numerous dreamers before me. I closed my eyes and embraced the warm sunlight, letting my surroundings encompass me.
My eyes, gazing about the field, rested upon the iconic cafeteria and its pristine architectural silhouette caressing the sky in harmony with the clouds. The cafeteria’s glass windows seemed to reflect a million ethereal shades of cerulean blue sky, facets of light contained in their depths. As I stood marveling at the beauty of Saratoga Springs, I tried to etch the vision into my memory, but the lines began to fade. I was overcome by a desire to cling onto the shape, the outline, or any semblance of Saratoga Springs, but I could only see the blurred silhouette of the cafeteria’s white dome. My very being was pulled in the direction of the cafeteria, towards those iridescent panes of glass, strangely focused now and showing me objects that only existed in my memory: a roll of masking tape, a lanyard, glowing sticks of light, and a book of shared memories that I knew I could not read now.
I told myself that I would not allow myself to feel anything, yet I lost myself in the pellucid surfaces reflecting the deepening blue hues. Tentatively, I reached out and plucked a hazy sliver of glass from the air, and a warmth pulsated from its depths under my touch. . I gingerly held the blurry pane in my hands, willing the image in the heart of the glass to focus until thousands of individual lights shone within it. I pressed my palm softly against the warm glass, old but not yet worn, but it remained as resilient and everlasting as the lights it reflected. As each light became more focused, the glass emitted a brighter glow. Each new, awakening light did not diminish the significance of the glass, but instead enhanced the essence of the glass’s beauty.
And before I knew it, it was all gone.