A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
We walked toward the queue, our steps muffled by the thick green carpet that ran the length of the gallery.
The walls of the corridor were lined with glass display cases containing old brass microscopes and leather-bound journals from the turn of the century.
Anna stopped before a case holding a collection of hand-drawn diagrams of cellular structures, her eyes scanning the faded ink lines.
“These were drawn by Dr. Vance’s grandfather,” she said, her finger tracing the outline of the glass frame without touching it.
“I did not know the family had that deep of an integration with the university,” I said, standing back so a group of younger students could pass us.
“There are many details we did not discuss during my transition to Oakridge,” she said, her voice quiet but clear.
“I am beginning to understand that,” I said, checking my watch again before catching myself and lowering my arm.
The line for the registration table moved slowly, the sound of low, academic laughter echoing off the marble floorboards.
I noticed several of the older professors carrying small leather satchels that looked identical to the one Anna used to carry during her senior year.
