I had enjoyed my time in high school as best I could considering the topsy-turvy state of my emotions. I had met some fine people and experienced some genuine "fun." My achievements were satisfactory and I felt content that graduation was near. I did not wish to relive or prolong high school. Maybe my ideal demanded too much of life, or perhaps I was more fully accepting that one's ideal vision of life had little in common with reality. I knew only that I wished to pursue a life unfettered by those wistful images. It was time for me to begin closing one door. After final exams, school was recreational rather than educational. The yearbooks were distributed and I made a point to sign the annuals of those with whom I had shared memorable occasions or developed worthwhile relationships. For many, the message in the yearbook was a last farewell. Some I would truly miss and remember always, even though they were not persons who had spent time with me outside of class. Impressions were a curious phenomena. I wondered why certain moments captured my attention. . . the carnation I received on "flower day" from a junior who had taken notice of me. . . the penny retrieved from the hallway which my Spanish teacher handed to me. . . an inside joke which survived two years. . . smiles and humor and craziness. These were the ingredients of my foremost impressions, and the forerunners of memories; these fragmented images would survive outside the confines of the yearbook, and generate fleeting smiles for years to come. Graduation was no longer the solemn promenade of grace and grandeur it had once been. The classes were large and impersonal, and it seemed that everyone graduated whether they earned the honor or not; a classic example testifying that, where there is plenty, there is often little gratitude. We wore disposable gowns and caps, with the latter being so cheaply constructed that all four corners hung down about our heads in a mockery of pomp and circumstance, creating a group which looked like berobed court jesters. Due to the behavior of the previous graduating class, teachers patrolled the group to assure no items such as frizbees, squirt guns and bubble blowers made it into the field house. I was relieved; while graduation had lost its magnificence, I still did not desire to take part in a circus. Aside from our appearance, the ceremony was fairly respectable. The various speakers neither rushed nor belabored their material. Row by row we stood to file toward the stage. I felt my stomach pinch. It was an orderly system; a name was called, the diploma was presented, then a hand-shake completed the scenario. My name was called. I accepted my diploma, smiling, and proceeded to the principal to receive a handshake. It was my moment. Then another name was called as I paced down the center aisle to my seat. For me, all was done. Another name echoed through the field house. . . a moment belonging to someone else.