The Creative Writing department room is loved by many Creative Writers and non-Creative Writers. We house walls of past-show posters, the lion statue whose rocking his yellow cowboy hat, and a widespread rug that entices you to a few minutes of nap time. However, the most beloved of all is the bird clock in the corner of the room.

Many new students in the room for their first time will hear the hourly birds chirping and question where the sound is coming from. Upon identifying the source of the sound, some will pause to briefly laugh, while others will take a moment to stare down the clock like it is a fascinating creature.

Now that I am a senior, I have come to appreciate the small, everyday, hectic parts of Creative Writing. I’ve adopted a second nature of hearing Heather’s footsteps marching towards the cell hotel, speedrunning to the classroom as the time inches closer to 1:20 pm, and fishing through my bag for my cat notebook before I am caught without one. But I know next year there will be no college professors yelling through the annex windows, “Is your phone and food up?”

These days I am plagued by time. In my love for predictability, I am terrified by my uncertain future. I do not know where I will end up a year from now— whether I will continue to pursue writing in the way I’ve been doing so these past four years, or if I will find love for something else like film or music.

Because of the bird clock, time moves differently in this room. I’ve watched graduating seniors come and go countless of times, each year more tearful than the last. I remember past conversations while sprawled out across the carpet, listening to the old seniors bickering and talking about their plans for college while the 3 o’clock bluejay sings in the background.

In the CW 2 fiction unit, our artist-in-residence Fatima described that every place is haunted by a story and memory. I believe it to be true. While the old seniors have moved to other places, I still feel the love they brought into this space, their laughter, and burning glares through the window every time the underclassmen would be too loud in the other room.

I know when I leave, I will also haunt a space somewhere in room 227. Probably through the magical fairy mini-library I made with Starlie for our writing buddy project at the beginning of the year, or through the poster I’ve put together for the Prose Were The Days show. However, I am not too worried about haunting Creative Writing right now.

There are some parts of the room that will remain as it is, and there will be many parts that will change. I hope the bird clock is one of the parts that stays. I hope that when the classic northern mockingbird or bluejay chirps, the new Creative Writers will take a moment in class to ask, “What was that?”

For now, as the end of the year is coming closer, we will all simply take a moment to circle around the carpet to talk about whatever is weighing down our minds, our hopes for the future, and our favorite memories of the year. We will talk and talk until the next bird of the hour sings, signaling to us that it’s almost time to go.