One Is Silver, the Other Gold

A sophomore reflects on coming back to campus for a second year.

By Emilie Hankla '26
Date


As sweat builds under the straps of my backpack and my feet blister from working overtime, I crave the familiarity of last August, the rhythm of a schedule committed to memory and the ease of knowing. The previous year came like a present wrapped in a purple bow. One swift movement and everything fell into place. May ended like a sudden spring frost, forced to say goodbye to something so beautiful. Walking away from my friends, I couldn’t say I love you back; I knew I’d lose my weak grip on the sob caught in my throat. My teary eyes lost a sense of depth, and I saw soft, wavy walls.

All summer I waited for the very same August to come around again. But sophomore year had already sent me subtle hints; this year wouldn’t be like the last. I wasn’t playing jigsaw with plastic bins in my family’s blue Mazda, coordinating with a new roommate or debating between tan and floral sheets. Instead, I flew alone with one suitcase and waved goodbye to my dad as I turned the corner towards airport security. Dismayed by the change, I dreaded the return to campus. In response, a wise friend reminded me that memories are not meant to be re-lived, but remembered. So I held close to my chest the echoes of last August, and ran excitedly towards the new.

Gate C55 at the Columbus airport acts like a portal to my two worlds. Each break, the red Delta plane takes off and lands at the very same track. My arrival in Ohio for sophomore year was no different. Sitting by the rickety baggage carousel, I tried to block out the sound of a woman chewing loudly. Her lips smacked like a slowing pulse while I reread the same paragraph of The Nightingale. The suitcases took so long to appear. I began to wonder, as I always do, if the machine had eaten them for lunch.

The pastoral drive to Kenyon remains constant, as well. I notice reluctantly that steep hills still make my stomach drop. A herd of cows passes like a blurred photograph. Stop signs sneak up in the haze like a February sunrise. We’d been on the same road since the left turn at the camping car dealer. “Get off the grid,” its billboard advertises. I wonder if anyone else notices the irony. Miles later, the shuttle van’s turn signal begins to click and the stone Kenyon College marker awaits patiently, as it has for generations of students. Once we pass the ornate yellow house, though, the whispers of my familiar memories are swept up under hot, spinning tires. Everything is different. 

 “I jog down Middle Path. The pebbles knock against each other in song, while the Ascension’s long, decorative shadows dance over me. I find the searing heat curious; I only seem to remember the blistering cold. It is all a pleasant surprise.”

Emilie Hankla '26

My friends Molly and Renee stand under the bookstore awning. They wave their hands back and forth, conjuring the smallest breeze. “Those are my friends!” I announce to those squished beside me in the velvet backseat. My overt enthusiasm surprises me. Had I convinced myself I’d never see August again?

With a little force, the door slides open and the humid air engulfs me. I stagger out as Molly lifts my bags from the creaky trunk. With the clunk of the suitcase on the concrete, I remember a similar scene from only a few months prior: Molly slammed the trunk of her own car sending echoes of the vibrating Vermont license plate into the open air. Georgia, Renee, Margot, Jaya, and I sat outside the bookstore holding back tears as our ice cream melted onto the sidewalk. I am reminded that, this August, I return to established friendships and inside jokes. Having friends to greet me is perhaps the greatest change of all. We start right where we left off–hugs under the Bookstore awning, habitual dinner times, and reserved booths at Bombay Gardens. I start humming the familiar tune: “Make new friends but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold.”

After lugging my belongings to Gund Commons and picking up a new bronze key, my new roommate Renee and I head out to unveil our new room. The door reluctantly squeaks open. I set my heavy backpack down, ensure that all 13 of my items delivered by Summer Break Storage have indeed arrived, and jog down Middle Path. The pebbles knock against each other in song, while the Ascension’s long, decorative shadows dance over me. I find the searing heat curious; I only seem to remember the blistering cold. It is all a pleasant surprise.

On the second floor of Ascension, facing the iconic stained glass windows, my friend Margot sits with her orientation group as she helps them decipher their first semester schedules. It was only last August that I had scrunched my forehead in confusion, hoping Plan Ahead would take pity on me; only last year the roles had been reversed. I rush up the tiny steps into the seminar room. Margot and I collide into a massive, chaotic hug. Her first-years likely wonder, like I had last year, how the sophomores could stage such a dramatic reunion. “They’ll understand when they’re older,” I sympathize.

Much to my dismay, my freshman year at Kenyon, the year which ignited my light, cannot be repeated. I can remember it by peering through photographs and fuzzy memories, but regardless of how hard I hope, its exact charm has disappeared in time. I spent the summer mourning the loss, but these beginning months have revealed the possibility for a different yet delightful year. Now as I conclude October, I am thrilled to embrace new beats and old patterns. As the saying goes: “Make new friends but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold.”