Every fall, I think about my first semester at the University of Hong Kong a decade ago. In the mornings, I’d trek uphill toward the flame tree that guarded the entrance of the school campus, my arms aching from heavy textbooks that wouldn’t fit in my backpack. After lectures, my classmates and I read poems and talked about our crushes on the benches outside the baroque-style Main Building in the chestnut light of the late afternoon sun. Winter was around the corner, but we were hopeful; our lives were just beginning.
It has been years since I graduated, but I still often found myself visiting the campus whenever I was in the neighborhood. My friend L was similarly prone to these fits of nostalgia. “Do you remember when we went out to look at the rain during our comparative literature class?” L would sometimes say at our regular meetups. I did; we had run out during a break to watch rain cut through the palm trees and melt into the fountain in the courtyard.
