The 1,000

I found this photo the other day--the 1,000 steps. As one walks along Euclid Ave, between Maryland and Lancaster, a steep stairway arises from the cracked concrete and dashes of college houses. There seems to be no purpose to it; by darkness it is dangerous, a place to be avoided. In the winter it's the most entertaining sledding around. Yet at it's summit was a small park, an overlook onto Syracuse with one of the best views of city, day or night (short of the REALLY sketchy Air Force tower on top of the old ski hill on South Campus). Westminster Park, as it's known, is largely a secret. Most students never know it's there, and the city has all but forgotten its existence as well. I don't know why I'm thinking about that little park and those steps so much right now.
My first trip to that overlook was about a month into my freshman year, with a boy I'd kissed when we were drunk and he wasn't yet sure how to end it. He was a senior and to me seemed to know the world. He showed me places that would later become some of my favorite spots in the city. This was one. I recall standing up there next to him, feeling invincible, free, opulent, graceful and good, looking down onto a new place and claiming it as my own with a grin.
I didn't go back to that park again til my senior year. Time caught up, threw some viscous hooks and jabs and had left me simply weathered. My house was on Lancaster, and there was a way to get to the park without braving the steps. The first time I went up that year was with my roommate. It was late, the stars were out, and our friend who should've been in a house a block away was gone forever and we were still trying to process it.
The next visit was with a boy who was trying very hard to get me to love him, and I knew I couldn't, but still I was glad for the company. That night was spend with wooing and ultimate rejection, and in memory it is melancholy. Standing next to him that night I felt more alone than I ever thought possible.
After that I'd take walks up there to smoke a clove, sit on a little cement fence post and stare out. Be still. I could hear the parties, hear the drunkards, hear the mistakes being made like the breaking of glass. The world still felt like my own, like it was full, but not of what I'd claimed that night years before. Below those steps was the world I lived in and knew well, but in that little space I had my own cloister--my own reprieve in which to simply...I don't know. Remember maybe? Dream? Without it I think I would have cracked in the chaos.
I'm realizing I'm forgetting these things.
Some I'd like to keep.