1. It is Spring. Which means high school seniors are coming to Tufts's campus with their moms and dads. Whenever I see such a prospective incoming student, holding a map, with mom, or dad, or both, lagging behind, I feel a pang of hope that they love each other. I want to urge the student that his or her parents are vastly more important than any of the college freshmen for whom he or she so desperately wants to look cool.
2. Sitting in class, I looked at the back of my hand and saw on it a smear of blood. It occurred to me that I must be bleeding on my face or neck, and that I had grazed the wound with my hand. Not having a mirror available in class, I began covertly stroking my beard and scratching my neck to scan for the bleeding. I would scan in this way for a few seconds, then check my hands, but there seemed to be no regularity to when and where either hand was bloodied. Sometimes I'd scan and there would be no blood at all. Sometimes my hand was marked by a dot of blood, sometimes a thick streak. The apparent location of the blood was haphazard and inconsistent. Was that from the back of my neck? The corner of my mouth? Chin? Forehead? Behind the ear? It was as if the bleeding were a fly in summertime, migrating around my head.