Abigail Plants
The time is 5:00 p.m. The sunbeams are poised to bounce from a mirrored skyscraper onto the front wall of the Timothy Dwight courtyard. The golden rays saturate the bricks with warmth, wavering over pediments and window panes. Above this oasis rises a slender white tower — its arches unlit, its entrance unknown. The only signs of life gracing the spire are the two bronze figures locked in a never ending tour of the courtyard below. They spiral with each nor’easter that blusters through the courtyard, pointing the way to the culprit snatching the leaves from the unwavering ginkgo tree.
For now, the leaves are desperately clinging to their summer green, fending off a yellow that is close to leeching in. Before long, the yellow too will pale as the leaves languish under a blanket of snow. Green, yellow, white, green. Deep beneath the web of stone and grass, this sentinel’s roots snag at the soil that has been its home for so long. The brick walls had risen around the tree, blocking its view of carriages and trolley cars. Each brick is a little less red than the year before; each season carries with it a fresh tide of students. Waving hello for 89 autumns is the ginkgo tree, its branches outstretched, enveloping the courtyard in a dappled haze of green and shadow.
Encircling the trunk of the ginkgo tree is a round wooden bench that always seems to be damp, no matter how much time has passed since the last storm. Sitting on one side, you cannot tell what events are unfolding behind you. That thud on the opposite side of the tree could be a squirrel, or a new neighbor saying farewell to their parents. An infinite loop forms of hugs and handshakes masking sad goodbyes, of bonds forged in shade and sunlight. Cross-legged on the bench, a lone guitarist plays, the musician’s soft song filling the urban courtyard with the refrains of the wilderness. The leaves seem to deepen from shamrock to emerald — like the dusk is crowding close in poignant expectation.
“True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree; A willow dancing on air before covering me; Under cotton and calicoes; Over canopy dapple long ago…”
From a first-floor dorm, you have an unobstructed view of the daily travels of your fellow inhabitants. As you sit at your desk, the occasional breeze grazes your shoulder, turning your cheek to the sunlight and beckoning you into the revelry outdoors, like a mischievous sprite of folklore. You wave hello to a friend at the coveted corner table, the mosaic of the Timothy Dwight crest an ideal location for math problem sets and weekend debriefs.
Bridging the expanse from the veil of the ginkgo to the waiting corner table is White Hammock. White like the spire in the moonlight, illuminating the tangle of legs and arms and laughter. Each occupant — or three — causes the ropes to unravel ever so slightly. Loosening lower, lower, then wound up again, a grandfather clock pendulum marking the passage of silent reflection and informal rendezvous. White Hammock is a resting place. Swing back and forth, breathe in and out. See your new stars — of the TV, fairy or LED variety — blinking through curtains rising up four stories. Your feet drag the ground for balance as you perch as if in a rocking chair. Lean too far and the pendulum swings back, flinging you off in a flurry of notebooks and pens. You can’t see the sunset from White Hammock. Shot down by the fluorescent Chase Bank, the arc of the dying sun bleeds orange into the mirrored sky.
Even when the residents of 345 Temple St. are locked away in labs and libraries, the courtyard remains poised on the brink of activity. A forgotten frisbee or a relic of a disc golf tournament of old languishes in the shadow of the vacant volleyball net. The spike ball net seemingly sprouts from the grass; the ball itself is hidden on the other side of the yard, where it had rolled to rest alongside the muddied volleyball. The expectant stillness, like the time between the dimming of the lights and the rising of the curtain, quiets the space. The chimes of nearby church bells break this rare spell: once, twice, five times. As if summoned by the chimes, the courtyard fills once more with its inhabitants racing around on familiar tracks. Like cuckoo-clockwork, individual routines interlock to create a machine in motion.
The courtyard is cleaved by a cobblestone walkway guiding travelers from the gate to the town hall. Scattered along the perilous path are plastic Connect 4 disks and stray pieces of chalk– child’s play, but there were children here. Little curly heads peeked over basement armchairs; legs swung from their perch on dining hall chairs. The children sign their names in chalk, drawing rainbows and flowers. When the rain carries the rivulets of color into the roots of the ginkgo tree, they will simply sign their names again. Green, yellow, white, green. The other children, whose feet reach the dining hall floor, are back on the playground once more, “What is your name? Where are you from?” The children huddle together in the early hours of the morning, watching the stretcher roll up to a familiar doorway. Their wide eyes reflect the red light slicing into the darkness; their ears cower at the blare of sirens on an otherwise serene night. They are glad the adults know what to do.
It seems wrong to linger in the upper half of the courtyard for too long with the windows of the Head of College’s house watching from above. Besides, the white swing, the premium seating option, is almost always taken. If you are the lucky occupant, the ginkgo tree and the white bell tower fade into the background. Instead, your view is bordered by overhanging leaves, creating a hush within the four posts of the swing. It is illuminated by a nearby lamppost whose glow is faintly visible through the leaves. Otherwise, this is a gloomy corner of the courtyard; the great arches of the dining hall go dark just as the dormitory windows begin to catch light. But those are behind you now, and from the swing, you think you can see a singular star amongst the blinking trails of airplanes.
Already, the grid of lights has begun to form a network of familiarity — where, one by one — windows gain names. Top-left is a makeshift midnight barber shop; bottom-right is dark to hide the crowd anticipating a birthday “SURPRISE!” You could easily sit in the courtyard for hours, joining the ginkgo tree in waving hello to your new friends. Celebrations of club acceptances, of midterms passed, of daily victories — all tangled within the branches like prayers caught by cathedral arches. You trust it to guard your secrets too, frets and fears abandoned under green shadows. The courtyard is personal, so many memories made in such a short time, in such a small space. When you say you are going “home,” you now mean Timothy Dwight.
Someday, you hope to find the entrance to the clock tower. Surely, one must exist. You would climb the winding staircase, emerging above everything but the ginkgo tree. From that high up, you would become a faithful observer, joining the ginkgo tree in its centuries-old post, holding firm as the current of time rushes through the courtyard below. Green, yellow, white, green. If you wanted to, you could turn around and survey the route towards the center of campus. But you would rather study the familiar red bricks, glean new insights from a new height. A gust spirals towards your perch, handing you stray leaves torn from their boughs. You catch one. The characteristic green fan has begun to give way to yellow, but only along the edges — like the pages of an old book, changing with the times. Green, yellow, white, green.