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“The crane will lift us way up high/up up up ‘til we reach the sky.”

-My mother, 1998, in a poem to my little brother

            For some reason, my school seems to be in a constant state of construction, never fully achieving its highest level of architectural completion. But in any case, towering cranes are stationed at, what seems like, every street corner, lifting up unimaginable bundles of brick or mortar or gravel, doing the work of twenty sweaty, tattooed men. It is majestic, nonetheless, piercing the cold BIGCOLLEGETOWN blue sky with its metallic reminded of mankind, an American flag waving from the top-most antenna on the top-most section of the steel terracing.

            And, gazing up at this sight, as I’m running to catch my next class (late, as usual), I can’t help but feel optimistic, stereotypically continuing to literally “keep my chin up” as the slowly swinging crane traces my movements on the pavement below it.

            The crane, however, doesn’t have to worry about a cute girl in a blue shirt on a black bicycle who is not looking up and is barely able to avoid the curly-haired new optimist who just had a wake-up call with the near-accident of reality.

            But I do.