It rains in Ithaca. A lot. And, yet, I don't remember how it felt to clutch an umbrella on the brink of Libe slope. I don't remember the slosh of rainboots or socks hung to dry. I remember cold, sure. The way it itched at my scarf and left us raw. I remember the sun's stammer, how we clung to its brief note. But Ithaca, in its steady, constant, reliable stretch of rain. This, I don't remember. This, I never see.
|Cornell as I see it|