dresswarm@dartmouth

I was in the middle of studying for finals in one of the gorgeous nooks of Sanborn library, the austere lettering of Poe's Complete Works and the gilded cover of Leaves of Grass watching over my work, when I got the blitz. It read:

Midnight.


The green.


Tradition.


Dress warm.

My grin reflected back at me from the snow-darkened window beside me; the Christmas tree in the middle of the Green glistened faintly against the yellowing light of the town. It was six -- I had to eat, study, and get back to my dorm by 11:30. Dinner became a tin of non-pareils, and studying became a rushed series of essays, and getting back to my dorm became singing all the way home with the snow falling about my head. I layered on clothes, searching for everything waterproof, hoping I'd be too warm rather than the other way round; gloves so ill-fitting I could barely lock my door, boots thick and dry in the hard-packed snow, the distant call of voices as I neared the green, my watch-hands parallel, pointing to midnight.

I crested the hill of Dartmouth Hall and ran onto the Green -- the Green, teaming with ski coats, snow boots, the tree an oversized centerpiece, snowballs careening through the air at the rate of dozens every second. In the dark, on the outskirts, I recognized faces; we hugged like astronauts and dove into the fray, scooping handfuls of snow and hurling them as fast as we could pack them; facing sneak-attacks, false alarms, group sieges and friendly fire, we pressed on, laughing til our cheeks were sore and our lips pinkish and dry. Then: shrieking, uproarious laughter, a rush towards the center... a dozen streakers bounded in a neat, flesh-colored line across the Green, clad only in mittens and hats, and gracefully returned to RoBo (Robinson Hall, the meeting-place of the Dartmouth Outing Club, often called the DOC).

The spectacle wore off, though fighters were still committed to achieving victory -- for whom, it was unclear, but the passion was palpable. We looked at each other and trotted off towards the BEMA (Big Empty Meeting Area, a beautiful open spot in the woods located on the hill above the Fayerweather dorms). We walked the path with the feeling that we were approaching something greater than we could expect, some sight more beautiful than the Green; the woods were heavy with quiet. We broke through the trees -- before us, a careful space of earth, blanketed and untouched, the moon shining fiercely through the bordering trees, the hillsides smiling whitely. We laughed and ran to the center, spinning round with our arms outstretched like dizzy children, fixed on the moon, falling backward into the arms of snow-angels, still laughing. We raced up the hill, slipping on the slick leaves waiting under the snow, grabbing hold of branches and stones, leaping and tumbling our way to the top. Robert Frost was there to meet us, his bronze brow bent and furrowed over his work, perpetually incomplete. Sitting for a time, gazing chin-to-chin up at the sky, looking on past the observatory, the weird contrast of orange lighting and endless trees, and then clamoring back down as though we might see the sky differently from inside the scoop of the hills.

We lay back and looked for ages, hardly breathing, when we did, deep, pensive, terrified breaths, in awe. We clasped hands in the snow as the trees curled inward upon the sky, clutching at the grey clouds with their brattled limbs; tears streamed down my face as I saw my life before me, my childhood behind, and just me, here, in this empty space, ensconced in the glorious, wintry death of nature. Our hands clasped tighter and tighter until smiles broke upon our lips like eager waves, and still tighter after that. We walked home.