I wrote this creative piece a couple years ago. It hasn’t been edited or tweaked. But it’s December, and feelings of loss seem to always surface this time of year.

December seemed like an awkward month to receive an undergraduate diploma. You don’t have the summer to soften the blow. You don’t have that time to pad your ease into a life that isn’t anything like the one you’d been living for twenty-three years. No, it hits you, hard. Life as you’ve known it has changed forever.

My family had just left town that afternoon, and I’d been sitting in a warm bath, marinating in thoughts of loss. My father hadn’t yet talked with me about rent, about paying my own bills. That conversation hadn’t happened yet. But I knew it was looming in the not-so-far distance. But that didn’t seem to be what bothered me most. I had a job tutoring English. I could pick up more hours and perhaps a second job. Surely I could get by. I thought about the long hours in the library writing papers, reading. I thought about the excitement and dread of a huge paper that needed to be finished and how that was all gone.

I picked up the phone. I’d been having an affair with a professor in the English literature department—the same subject in which I’d majored. I called. The phone rang, but there was no answer. “It’s me. I don’t mean to bother you. I know you’re probably busy. Call me if you want to see me. Let me know.” I hung up, knowing that I wouldn’t receive a call back anytime soon.

I sank deeper into the bath water. There seemed to be a weight on my chest that was heavier than anything I’d experienced. I’d lost so much when I was handed that diploma. I’d lost what had been the reason to live for the past twenty-three years. I knew I was being melodramatic. But I felt so useless. There was really nothing to do.

I decided to purchase a book with some of the money I had received from family members. I emerged from the bath water, determined to shake this—determined to reinvent my purpose. Toweling off, I decided to purchase the Sartre novel that I’d been wanting to read.

When I arrived at the bookstore, I felt self-conscious. My boots clicked on the wooden floor, and I was convinced that I was disturbing everyone. I walked through the literature section, and couldn’t find the book. I know it’s philosophy. But this is a novel. It should be in literature. Maybe it’s in philosophy. I walked upstairs toward the philosophy section, the clicking of my boots on the stairs echoed. I found some other books by the author, but couldn’t find the particular novel that I had wanted.

Defeated, I left. I thought about asking an employee. But I felt embarrassed. I had just received my diploma, my diploma in English literature, and I couldn’t even navigate a bookstore. I started the car. I guess I’ll go to one of those big chain bookstores. Surely they’ll have it.

When I arrived at the second store, the carpet muffled the heels of my boots. I walked to the literature section. It was tiny compared to the same section in the other store. Instead of walking around like a fool, I decided to look on the computer to discover in which section this book resided. Hmm, literature, that’s what I thought. I perused the aisle. I was relieved at first. I felt home among all these books. I looked at their covers and thought that at least they’d always be there for me. At least I could count on Oscar Wilde, on Joyce. But then there were books that weren’t familiar. Books that I hadn’t read. I felt inadequate.

I finally found the novel. There was one copy left and it was a bit expensive. Whatever, I need this right now. I can’t go home empty handed. I’ll certainly drive myself crazy, alone, without a book. I went to the checkout line and impulsively grabbed a moleskin notebook. I can use this to document my new life. I knew that wouldn’t be happening. As it became my turn, the man behind the counter asked if I wanted to sign up for some kind of rewards program. “No. Well, will I have any other obligations? I really can’t get myself into anything too time-consuming. I mean, anything that will conflict too much with…”

“It’s ok. You don’t have to.”

“Ok, thanks.”

I took the moleskin book and the novel, burying them in my purse. In the parking lot, I glanced down at my phone. Maybe he called. It’s been on silent for a while. Maybe I missed it. I looked down at the screen and saw a picture of my family dog. But there were no missed calls.