I've been told, as I sit here in early morning of my last late night in The Observer office, that my sadness over leaving this club -- or clique, as it is -- is a sort of post-partum depression. "Ha," I've laughed at that comment with those beside me in the same situation.

But we're wrong.

I now think of The Observer as no longer mine. The paper we've worked so hard to improve is nearly no longer in our hands. We've passed it on to our successors so that they may improve on us. It's something I knew would come, yet still have trouble handling. I can barely think of my position here -- or my friends either -- without the lump-throated, achy, tear-welling eye of deep sadness. For four years this office has been a haven, an escape from the hassles of big time college life at Notre Dame -- from classes, homework, responsibilities, classmates, roommates, even friends.