Concordia College - Concordian Yearbook (Bronxville, NY)

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Editorial Staff NORMAN D. DIETZ HANS SPALTEHOLZ Editor-in-Chief Assistant Editor NORMA NEUMANN ROBERT WERBERIG VIRGINIA FUSS RICHARD BEIMLER Production Assistants Photographers HENRY SCHRIEVER G. HOLMES MENDELMAN Editorial Researchers Business Staff PAUL THIELO ELEANOR WENDTE Advertising Manager Business Manager ' JM PROr ARM1N MANNING f An Advisors ■ A WKu

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Epilogee J- lie mellow half-light that entered through the tinted reat windows of the chapel cteated an at- mosphere of melancholy peace and calm. Twilight, the silent forerunner of Night, settled slowly around me, and the shadows of the aging day grew deeper and deeper until the altar in the chancel merged with the blackness surrounding it and I could scare- ly discern the outline of the old wooden crucifix with the gilt corpus that shone so brightly in my memory. I closed my eyes for a moment in silent medita- tion. And when I awoke from my reverie some time later, the twilight shadows, the altar, and even the wooden crucifix with the gilt corpus were gone, hidden by the overwhelming, all persuasive black- ness of night. Groping in the darkness, I made my way to the door. For a moment I turned and siared back into the blackness, recreating in my mind ' s eye those last few moments of the twilight. Then, turning, I descended the stairs to the first floor and left the building. The rain had ceased. A blanket of mist had covered everything and obscured the very black- ness of the night. It was a world of gray — cold, empty gray. And I found myself a solitary figure in the midst of it, walking alone. I made my way between the checker board pud- dles on the front drive toward the pale white glow of a streetlight. The gravel crunched as I trod on it for the last times. When I reached the street, I turned around to catch one last fleeting glimpse of all that I had left behind. I squinted and strained my eyes, but I could see only the swirling, rolling mist and the reflec- tion of a bush on the surface of a puddle. It was as though the curtain had fallen on the last act of my reverie and apparently there was nothing left for the audience to do but pick up its program and leave. I wonder, I rhought, as I walked on into the wet, misty night, whether they ever really found out who threw that orange through the window. Finis 85

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