Three Days at Yale
So there I was on College Street in New Haven, staring at a huge display of posters in red and white, all announcing a performance of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony. It had taken place two weeks earlier, at the Yale Commencement Concert at Battell Chapel. It wasn’t the first time tears filled my eyes during my weekend at Yale, nor was it the last.
That weekend was everything I could have imagined, and nothing I could have imagined. It was as if my vision of the experience had been on a little black and white TV, and the reality was in Technicolor, beamed onto a movie screen. My first sight of Yale was the gothic stone of Branford College, gorgeous buildings on their own but that day festooned with royal blue and white banners welcoming various classes to their reunions. Welcoming me. When I left three days later, the last thing I saw was the broad smile of the undergraduate who directed our group to the shuttle van that would take us to our cars. I smiled back, wondering if she saw in us a glimpse of her future. Then I said goodbye to Yale, taking with me a part of my husband’s past.