They have punctuated my life like colors on a paint pallet



My favorite seniors as colors on a pallet

The hallways of Forest Hills Central are dim, masked in black and white. Through each twist and turn, corridor, and in between the classrooms, there is nothing but blank walls. Backs hunched over by the draining weight of textbooks and laptops, dreary and unenergetic as the days go by. I feel dreary and unenergetic as the arrival of graduation becomes nearer. Seniors who are the small splashes of warmth in the color pallet of my life are leaving soon. 

Her fiery red hair is the first thing I long to see each morning, for I know her simple humor and extensive jokes will quickly swarm the area around me. She, just like her hair, is the color scarlet. Morning after morning for the past two months, she has intrigued my interest, possessing that hypnotic touch to her essence that I can only long for. She doesn’t know it, but I look up to her. To have her courage and assertiveness but also be able to brighten anyone’s day with just a slight smirk—I don’t want to enter that classroom and not be met with her smile. 

I’ve grown up with her neon green spunk. A color almost equivalent to the highlighter goalie uniform she wears each time she takes the field—each time I am in awe of her. My longing for her to stay goes far beyond the soccer field though, as each time we catch sight of each other in the hallway, our passing periods become a full-blown conversation. It’s always been so easy. Her being something similar to my former coach, she knows how to help and when to provide that extra push, yet she is still the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Who’s going to be there when I need my extra push?

I know none of these people will ever be able to comprehend the way even their simple smiles brighten my day.

He’s sort of a light lavender purple. I can’t exactly be certain. He’s not even my friend or someone I’d share anything with. We’d never hang out beyond the four walls that are Mr. Manders class, but he is goofy, compassionate, and has acted toward me as any older brother’s best friend should. His impact on my life hasn’t been significant, nor will he remember me in three years, but I will always remember his light pastel shirts, ugly sneakers, and the shy smiles he has perfected glaring my way. 

Who else would I go to for a snack other than the one and only baby blue? The same color as the Jordan 1 sweatpants she wears once a week that I’d steal from her in a second, blue embodies her kindness and carefree mindset. Throwing my age and the fact that I’m the youngest person in our first hour out of mind, she has always made this school feel more like home. Giving me bags upon bags of quinoa chips and even my own tube of Aquaphor—I formerly would steal it from her. Ours will be one of the hardest goodbyes I have yet to endure. 

We are too alike, the person who is the spitting image of navy blue and I. Our speech follows along similar trailing paths, both sounding almost like Kardashians. The way we pick and peel people apart, dissecting every move they make, questioning everything they do. Even down to the way we dress, bundled in layers of baggy clothes almost every day of the week. But like the depth of the ocean, she is still dark, mysterious, and independent—murky and full of secrets—just like me. 

I know none of these people will ever be able to comprehend the way even their simple smiles brighten my day. How they are like acrylic paints ready to be used, with so much potential for the world, but still waiting for their turn. When their time comes, I hope they continue to have these surging impacts on all they meet, for even though these are some of the most difficult goodbyes I will ever endure, they will all do such amazing things in this world. They will all paint the pictures of compassion, courage, kindness, independence, and encouragement I know they all can.