This One is For Amy

It’s something like 10:35 on a Monday night.  I should be at my apartment planted in front of my computer music blaring from my headphones.  However tonight I get to go back to my roots; away from street lights, traffic, and crazy singing foreign men with Hookahs.  On this night all I hear is the wind blowing in the open window and the soft murmur of Amy’s voice on the phone in the room next to mine. 
         I try to sleep, but can’t.  For one I’m not used to going to bed so early and secondly I have a million thoughts running through my head.  I sit up quietly and look around the room.  I page through the Literary Review Journals on the cabinet beside my air mattress; read my favorite essay Amy wrote entitled “Blood.”  Put it back carefully and try to sleep again to no avail.  I decide I want to write.  This must be because I’m an English major or it’s a side affect of spending the night at your Creative Writing Professor’s house; one of the two.  I steal a piece of printer paper, a pencil, and a book to write on top of and curl up on the window seat surrounded by pillows.  It’s way cool and makes me hate my cement block walled apartment even more. 
         The house is silent now Amy is off the phone and all I hear is the wind outside and the methodical ticking of the clock on the desk across the room.  I stare out the window and think to myself.  It’s been an amazing evening.  I love this house, the country, and the lady who lives here.  I think how I saw constellations for the first time tonight.  Something I’d never seen even when I lived in the country as a kid.
         I think about how I wasn’t supposed to stay here.  My mom is probably wondering why I didn’t call like I said I would and what I meant by that cryptic message I left on the answering machine.  I feel kind of bad for bugging Amy last minute to let me stay, but I couldn’t help it.  Although it probably didn’t seem like it I had become attached to everything about the place in the few short hours I’d been there and I couldn’t face the idea of going back to my lonely apartment complex.  I don’t care that I don’t have pajamas or a toothbrush it matters little to me, besides Amy was kind enough to supply those things for me.
         I’ve thanked Amy a million times over for all she has done for me and it still doesn’t feel like enough sometimes.  Other than Haley and a few individuals back home Amy is the only other person I like to spend time with.  We’ve known each other for a little over a semester, but sometimes it feels like we’ve known each other forever.  She puts up with my consistent stream of e-mail, bad humor, and my pathetic attempts at writing.
Sometimes I wonder how she does all that she does.  She teaches something like four classes a semester, is on every committee you can name, gets probably 50 e-mails a day, and deals with crazy students (like myself) and her colleagues.  All while managing a farm and taking care of her friends.  Sometimes I think she’s crazy other times I think she’s amazing; most of the time it’s the latter.  To give of yourself so tirelessly and sometimes never receive so much as a thank you or positive feedback must be difficult, but you won’t see it get her down. 
If I ever mange to graduate and get through graduate school I want to be the kind of Professor and person she is.  I’m not talking teaching Creative Writing; I’d much prefer Young Adult Literature, but to be as giving and as kind as she is.  She wouldn’t have to do any of the things she does, she wouldn’t have to respond to my e-mail or let people stay with her, but she does.  Somehow I think if I can only be half the person she is I will have done well. 
         It’s getting late I should sleep.  Tomorrow will be here sooner than I want it to be.  Sooner than I like I’ll have to get up and ride with Amy and Ron back into town.  Back to my apartment so I can go to class in the morning.  Right now, that all seems insignificant.  For now in the quiet of the house I stare out the window and try to savor the moment.