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The night I make up my mind, I do not congratulate
myself. Instead, I sit down at the kitchen table with an entire
bottle of cheap white wine and a Latin text to translate,
because the work doesn’t ever end.

There was no epiphany, no divine guidance telling me to
stay, telling me that I am exactly where I need to be. There
was no incident that made me realize my decision, just
another meeting with my advisor and a date for my exams
penciled onto my academic calendar. There is no certainty
about this, except that I know I care too much to give it all up.
That will have to be enough.

Elia comes in after her evening seminar ends, a little after
10, and she knows upon first glance. She sets her bag on the
floor, sits down in the chair across from me, and says without
preamble, “When word went around that Grant and Lee were
going to meet to negotiate terms of surrender, the Union
Army started cheering and everything—you know—‘We won
the war! Goddamn Rebels!’— that sort of thing. And Grant put
out an order and just said, ‘No, stop.’ He forbade all
celebrations.” She pauses. “Some historians say it’s because
he understood the surrender needed to be political, or that it
was a kind of statement of honor, but honestly? I think he was
just tired.”

“I’m staying,” I tell her, although I know I do not need to.
“I know,” she says. She grabs a juice glass from the
cabinet and pours herself some of my wine. “Your
Reconstruction will not be kind.”
“I know.” I put my pencil down and sigh. “I think this is
the right decision.”
“You’ll never be totally sure,” she says.
“I know.”
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I’m glad. I know it’s
selfish, or whatever, if it isn’t going to be the best thing for
you... but it wouldn’t be the same here if you left.”

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