Time is a fickle thing.

For quite some time, our understanding of the natural world taught us that time was constant — a cascading waterway unconcerned with the precious moments that make up a life and our flailing attempts to cling desperately to them. Then, Einstein introduced his theory of relativity. Suddenly, a roaring flood crashed through our gentle cascade, and that one great certainty was wrenched from our grasp.

And yet, no matter how much our experience of time ebbs and flows, we can still be sure that it passes.

Time is a fickle thing.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. How late nights in a windowless room on the second floor of Gallagher filled with a deliriously happy fellowship of daggone tired journalists can feel as though they’ll stretch on for a lifetime. How our entrance into this fellowship feels like a lifetime ago. And how last night — the final time we’ll ever be part of that fellowship — felt as though it both stretched on for a lifetime and disappeared in the blink of an eye. 

It’s a funny thing staying on staff for an extra semester. The goodbyes get quite a bit harder, and the short time you’ve been given seems to slip through your fingers. At a certain point you become defensive, almost jealous, in hoarding the last hours for use in the “right” way — looking over the shoulders of page editors to spy on their layouts or (im)patiently instructing the young copy editors in hopes that they will get it right. Most importantly, you hope to leave things better than you found them. 

There’s a strange sense of distance in it. On the one hand, there’s the impulse to share everything you’ve ever learned. On the other, those incredibly talented, immensely dedicated friends around you already know it. As the poet Nâzım Hikmet helpfully put it, “I know you can’t wash in the same river even once / I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see.”

And so we come to the final time we’ll ever be a part of this fellowship. We silently type away on this, our last article we’ll file, and slowly make our way through the last stories we’ll copy edit in service to the Newswire.    

As members of the Newswire staff, we did our best to find voices and stories that resonated in our community and to tell them truthfully in service to those around us. We hope we did so faithfully; at least, we hope we frustrated enough administrators to rightfully call ourselves student journalists. If nothing else, we briefly had our names on the Xavier Newswire Wikipedia page. 

And now, the brook courses. New things beckon, and there is little left to say except thank you. To all those journalists who paved the way, and for all those journalists who will come next, it’s been an honor. Kevin, Heather, Alex, Jack, Sydney, Luke, Aidan, Sofia, Hannah and all those on staff, you have our utmost confidence and admiration for the dedication, talent and friendship you’ve shown us throughout the years. One of the remarkable things about journalism is that it attracts people of all kinds, and the Newswire is no different. Thank you for accepting us, unconditionally, and helping us each to grow as journalists, writers, editors and human beings.  

To John — our guide, mentor and friend — we wouldn’t be here without you. From consistent feedback on our stories and pages to texts of encouragement when we least expected it, you have been a rock. Thank you for your support, instruction and witty banter.

And finally, to our readers, more thanks are owed than a mere 700 words can express. Without you, we would simply be frustrated curmudgeons and grammar nerds staying up late to rail against the administration and die upon the hill that is more than vs. over. It’s because of you that those late nights in a windowless room, those last-minute interviews and those sleep-deprived writing sessions were all worth it. Thank you for being a loyal audience, and thank you for reminding us of our true mission as student journalists.  

Time is a fickle thing, and yet some things are timeless. Fiat justitia, ruat caelum.