The Graduates

10:15 AM

“I’m afeared.”

“No, no, it’s going to be alright. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here. Look. Look at the beautiful garden. All summery and flowers.”

“It’s here, and it’s thickening. Spreading.”

Her voice, though soft, was hers alone. He looked at her in her chair, so much smaller now. Someone had helped her put on some lipstick. She looked nice. Her hat was in her lap, and he could see that she was wearing her pearl earrings he had given her all those years ago. Her once beautiful locks were thinning and grey. Wispy. She had made an effort. He checked the brake on her chair.

“It won’t be long now,” he said.

10:26 AM

The chairs before them were filling, a sea of hats against the sun.

“I’m afeared it will keep coming,” she said. “It will darken.”

He turned and saw that those brown, watery eyes were searching for his face. He smiled.

“It may darken,” he said, “but I’m not sure it will remain.”

“I worry,” she said, “after I’m gone.”

“I think at our age it is a legitimate concern, isn’t it? Those we leave behind.”

“But now, its encroachment. Darkening.”

He reached across and took her hand, once so petite and capable. He stroked her twisted thumb with his.

“We’ve had a real go of it,” he said. “We’ve seen a lot, haven’t we?”

Her gaze drifted over the grounds, careful and manicured for the ceremony.

He continued, hoping to keep her here for now. “Remember back in the 1940s and the 50s.”

“We dressed better then,” she said.

“We did. More care. And more modest. It was about community, wasn’t it?”

“Those ridiculously long white gloves.”

“You hated them.”

“It was stifling,” she said, still staring out over the grounds.

“Certainly, for you,” and he got the small smile he was hoping for.

Mulched garden beds, the bushes trimmed, and the blooms were colourful and proud. He wished his eyesight were better to see if the bees were busy at their work. The potted colour was wilting in the heat, but they were doing their work for the ceremonies.

“It was different then, that prevailing morality, all starched collars and Sunday Mass. Father always leading, the rest dutifully behind. There was an awareness, though, of what we were capable of and what needed reigning in. We put our faith in authority.”

“You did.”

He nodded, grinning. “Oh, such conformity! The 1950s. Those haircuts.”

“Who could forget those?”

“Not much in the way of creativity, agreed. It did breed a lack of opportunity for many minority groups, that’s for sure. But the seeds of the future are always being sown.”

“The 60s were better.”

“Ah yes, the swinging 60s. Throw off constraint.”

“Aquarius.”

“Indeed. Age of liberation, creativity, and being true to yourself.”

“We loved to dance.”

“We did that.”

“The rain and the mud.”

“Great music. But I preferred the 70s. Remember the rock music tracks? Some of the all-time classics. We should listen to them again. Yes, a lot of creativity in the 1970s.”

“Lots of issues as well. Lots of chaos. Some cities weren’t safe.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “the 70s were quite a scary time; the lack of control. And trust.”

“It wasn’t safe.”

“No, looking back on it.”

10:42 AM

He turned to look at her, concerned, but noted no agitation, only remembrance. He stammered, “Ah, so to the 80s. Now there was some fantastic music. Better dressed as well. More a bourgeois backlash against the 60s bohemian liberation, right?”

“The 60s were more fun.”

He laughed. “That might be youth talking. I think the re-establishment of traditionalism of the 80s suited me better. Maybe it was being a parent, holding down a job, trying to make ends meet. It wasn’t a return to the 1950s, though, was it? There was still individualism. We hadn’t lost that.”

When she did not reply, did not comment, he continued, “For me, I think that in the 1990s saw a convergence of things. A coming together. Remember how we felt when the Berlin Wall came down. And European unification. We even felt that there would be peace in the Middle East. The 90s, an information age. Universal education and convergence. It seemed as if the world could open up. Connected.”

“Connected by greed and consumption. I’m not sure we understood the meaning of prosperity.”

“It was short-lived,” he admitted, “the euphoria. The 2000s produced a shocking loss of faith in reconciling liberation and old-fashioned values.”

“It condenses,” she said.

He let out a long breath. What happened to prevent the coming together? Why the retreat? Why the loss of social connection? This wasn’t just his old age; him in retreat. It felt as if his society had abandoned some essential understanding, a loss of moral knowledge. Everything once grounded, carved up and surrendered to glowing screens. Perhaps she was right; the foundation, the secure base, had been taken away, and with it, the soul. What did the 2020s signify? If the 1970s had fractured our faith in institutions, then the 2020s shattered our faith in one another. Why? Why did people stop trusting each other, creating an era of isolation where individuals were only quantified rather than genuinely perceived? You must either climb the meritocracy ladder or be left behind. But that’s silent humiliation. So very far from the freedom promised in their youth. And humiliation is powerful.

She had her eyes closed. Perhaps she had dozed off. Dignity, what if we lose equal dignity? Our society advocates for equality but produces inequality. A breeding ground for resentment. A recipe for devaluation. Contraction.

10:55 AM

“They’re coming.”

She hadn’t been asleep. He looked up from his deliberations and watched as the graduates made their way across the mown lawns. They came in their characters. Some were serious, well turned out, trim, smart. Their mortarboards sat steadfast on their heads. Others were chatting, their capes flowing and carefree. Black mortarboards moving in expressive hands. Others were shy, as if they wanted the day to be over. They filed through and took their seats, and the dignitaries theirs.

He looked for her, and when he saw her, so young, so full of vitality, his emotions overwhelmed him, as he knew they would. He caught himself and wiped the tear from his cheek. After he sniffed and regained his composure, he asked,

“Can you see her?”

“Yes, she looks happy.”

He took hold of her arthritic hand with care. “She is happy. And that is why it will not stay. Look at them. All these graduates. They’re so ready for life. So much vitality. Energy. Do you remember last week when we saw their artwork, heard their music, and watched them perform? It brought me great happiness, their achievements. It was so inspiring, don’t you think? There may be rupture, but there will be repair. Them, this generation, so primed for living.”

But she had gone to that other place. She sat staring at the ground. He continued to hold her hand and watched as his granddaughter strode across the stage, cape flowing behind her, to receive her certificate. She was smiling. He smiled.