Closing Time

The higher ups recently decided to shutter the university athletic complex I infrequently visited for the past year. A vestige of the 1950s with an indoor track surrounded by machines on its periphery and basketball courts in the middle, the space was unimpressive yet convenient. It was just down the road and rarely had too many people. I found solace in its lack of circumstance, like the satisfaction of feeling sad on a rainy day.

I arrived on its final morning to more students than I ever remembered seeing at that early hour. By seven o’clock there were tens of people.

I finished my run and played my cooldown song. I noticed older patrons reminiscing by the stationary bikes. Younger ones were lifting weights in what appeared to be joyous conversation. A group of boys I had never seen before were playing pickup basketball. I walked just one more lap around the track, and then another.

Was I lingering?

When my dad painted our house, I missed the grey chipped paint. Though I loved my high school, I rarely considered the office dividers that delineated our classrooms. On the final day of my busboy job where everyone was so mean to me, everyone was so nice to me.

Everything is special on its last day.