The trickle of tears had begun during the eulogy given by the Dean. Seeing Professor Young through the eyes of others only reminds me of how much I’d admired him, of how much he meant to me. He was more than just my supervisor. He had been a kind of guide, encouraging me to push myself and my ideas in a way that no one else had - apart from my father. I’m too restless to go home and I find myself instead in the lecture hall where I’d taken my first class with Professor Young. I sit in the same seat I occupied during his classes. I can see him standing at the front. ‘I am a zealot among the cynics,’ he once exclaimed and laughter rippled through the room. Since he passed away I’ve often had a chill of panic when I wonder what his loss means to my work. I’m halfway through my thesis and it’s difficult to change supervisors. The task of finding a replacement has been so daunting I don’t know where to start. I’ve thought of just giving up and going home. Giving up. Just like Professor Young had decided to.
