The carpet in the Great Hall of the University of St. Jude’s is red. It is a deep, arterial red that swallows the light. You are standing in the center of it. You are wearing a suit that fits you well. The fabric is wool. It feels heavy against your skin. You are the Provost. You have been the Provost for three years. You are good at your job. You are very good at your job.

The room is full of people. They are sitting in rows of dark wooden chairs. They are looking at you. They are not looking at you with anger. They are not looking at you with fear. They are looking at you with a kind of tired curiosity. They are the faculty. They are the board. They are the donors. They are the people who built this place. They are the people who are about to unmake you.

You hold a piece of paper in your hand. It is a list. It is a list of names. It is a list of things you have done. You have done many things. You have saved the library. You have expanded the physics department. You have negotiated a deal with the city for the new sports complex. You have been efficient. You have been fair. You have been just.

A man stands up. It is Arthur. Arthur is the Dean of Humanities. He is old. He has white hair. He has a beard that is thin and grey. He looks at you. He does not smile. He does not frown. He just looks at you.

"Margaret," he says. His voice is quiet. It carries easily in the room. "We need to talk about the root."

You do not know what he means. You look at the paper in your hand. You look at the names. You look at the faces of the people in the room. You do not understand. You want to understand. You want to explain. You want to say that you are here to serve. You want to say that you are here to build. You want to say that you are here to make this place better.

"What root, Arthur?" you ask. Your voice is steady. It is a professional voice. It is a voice that has been trained to remain calm in the face of crisis.

Arthur does not answer. He looks at the other deans. He looks at the board members. He looks at the donors. He looks for support. He finds none. He looks back at you.

"The root," he says. "The one that holds us together."

You look at the floor. The red carpet. It is smooth. It is clean. There are no roots in the carpet. There are no roots in the room. There are no roots in the building. The building is made of stone. The building is made of glass. The building is made of steel. It is a modern building. It is a place of learning. It is a place of reason.

"I don't know what you mean," you say.

"Yes, you do," Arthur says. "You know. You have always known."

You feel a coldness in your chest. It is a small coldness. It is a coldness that is hard to name. It is not fear. It is not anger. It is a feeling of distance. It is a feeling that you are looking at yourself from a great height. You see your suit. You see your hands. You see the paper in your hand. You see the red carpet. You see the faces. They are all part of the image. They are all part of the pattern.

"I am the Provost," you say. "I am here to lead. I am here to guide. I am here to ensure the future of this institution."

Arthur nods. He nods slowly. He nods as if he is agreeing with you. He nods as if he is disagreeing with you.

"Are you?" he asks.

You do not answer. You do not want to answer. You do not want to engage. You want to leave. You want to walk out of the room. You want to walk out of the building. You want to walk out of the city. You want to walk away from the red carpet. You want to walk away from the names. You want to walk away from the weight.

But you do not move. You stand in the center of the room. You stand in the center of the power. You stand in the center of the gaze.

The silence stretches. It is a long silence. It is a heavy silence. It is a silence that has a texture. It is a silence that has a weight. It is a silence that presses against your ears. It is a silence that presses against your mind.

Then, a woman speaks. It is Eleanor. Eleanor is the head of the finance department. She is young. She is sharp. She is ambitious. She looks at you. She looks at Arthur. She looks at the room.

"Let’s be practical, Arthur," she says. "Let’s be practical, Margaret."

You look at Eleanor. You look at her face. You look at her eyes. Her eyes are clear. Her eyes are bright. Her eyes are full of a kind of cold logic.

"We have a budget," she says. "We have a surplus. We have a plan. We have a future. Why are we arguing about roots?"

Arthur looks at Eleanor. He does not smile. He does not frown. He just looks at her.

"Because the root is rotting," he says.

Eleanor laughs. It is a short laugh. It is a dry laugh. It is a laugh that does not reach her eyes.

"Rotting," she says. "Is that what you call it? Or is it just changing? Is it just evolving? Is it just growing?"

Arthur does not answer. He looks at you. He waits for you to answer. He waits for you to choose. He waits for you to decide.

You look at the paper in your hand. You look at the names. You look at the list. You see the names of the people who have supported you. You see the names of the people who have opposed you. You see the names of the people who have left. You see the names of the people who have stayed. You see the names of the people who are dead. You see the names of the people who are alive.

You realize that the list is not a list of people. The list is a list of choices. The list is a list of compromises. The list is a list of sacrifices. The list is a list of things you have given up. The list is a list of things you have taken. The list is a list of things you have become.

You look at Arthur. You look at his face. You see the lines in his face. You see the wrinkles in his forehead. You see the bags under his eyes. You see the exhaustion in his soul.

"You are tired," you say.

Arthur nods. He nods slowly. He nods as if he is admitting a fault.

"Yes," he says. "I am tired. I am very tired."

"I am tired too," you say.

Arthur looks at you. He looks at you with a kind of pity. He looks at you with a kind of love. He looks at you with a kind of fear.

"We are all tired," he says. "We are all wearing out. We are all fading. We are all becoming roots. We are all becoming the thing that holds us up. And then we break."

You look at the red carpet. You look at the pattern. You look at the color. You look at the way the light falls on it. You look at the way the shadows fall on it. You look at the way the room feels.

You realize that the room is not a room. The room is a body. The walls are the skin. The floor is the bone. The ceiling is the sky. The people are the blood. The power is the heart. The knowledge is the mind. The institution is the self.

You are the self. You are the heart. You are the mind. You are the body. You are the root.

You feel a pain in your chest. It is a sharp pain. It is a hot pain. It is a pain that is hard to bear. It is a pain that is hard to ignore. It is a pain that is hard to explain.

You drop the paper. It falls to the floor. It flutters down. It lands on the red carpet. It is a white square against the red background. It is a small thing. It is a big thing. It is everything.

Arthur picks up the paper. He looks at it. He looks at you. He looks at the room.

"It’s over," he says.

You do not answer. You do not move. You do not speak. You just stand there. You just stand in the center of the room. You just stand in the center of the power. You just stand in the center of the gaze.

The room is quiet. The people are quiet. The air is still. The light is bright. The carpet is red.

You feel a sense of relief. It is a strange relief. It is a heavy relief. It is a relief that is mixed with sorrow. It is a relief that is mixed with gratitude. It is a relief that is mixed with love.

You are not angry. You are not afraid. You are not sad. You are not happy. You are just there. You are just the root. You are just the thing that held it together. You are just the thing that is fading.

Arthur walks toward you. He walks slowly. He walks with a limp. He walks with a heaviness. He walks with a dignity.

He stops in front of you. He looks at you. He puts his hand on your shoulder. His hand is warm. His hand is rough. His hand is strong.

"Thank you," he says.

You nod. You nod once. You nod slowly. You nod as if you are accepting a gift. You nod as if you are receiving a blessing. You nod as if you are letting go.

He removes his hand. He turns around. He walks away. He walks toward the door. He walks toward the light. He walks toward the end.

You watch him go. You watch him disappear. You watch the door close. You watch the room empty. You watch the light change. You watch the shadows lengthen.

You are alone. You are in the center of the room. You are in the center of the power. You are in the center of the gaze.

You look down at the paper on the floor. You look at the names. You look at the list. You look at the things you have done. You look at the things you have become.

You bend down. You pick up the paper. You hold it in your hand. You feel the weight of it. You feel the texture of it. You feel the reality of it.

You stand up. You straighten your suit. You smooth your hair. You fix your tie.

You walk to the door. You open the door. You step out.

The hallway is long. The hallway is dark. The hallway is quiet.

You walk down the hallway. You walk with your head up. You walk with your shoulders back. You walk with your heart open.

You walk out of the building. You walk into the street. You walk into the city.

The city is loud. The city is bright. The city is alive.

You walk into the crowd. You walk into the noise. You walk into the light.

You are gone. You are free. You are the root. You are the faded root. You are the thing that was. You are the thing that is. You are the thing that will be.

You walk on. You walk on. You walk on.