It’s an ordinary September day.

My students are peer reviewing—a task I’ve labored to instill with meaning—and they seem to be engaging with purpose, as far as I can ascertain. There are windows in this room, a rarity in this 1960s building, and the light is blazing outside, playing with the still-green leaves whose trees cast long morning shadows across the campus lawn.

I’m alive.

This work matters.

Fall is at hand.

For the moment, this is enough.

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