An extravagant ending to a film worthwhile


Sofia Hargis-Acevedo

This is the moment before the end credits roll. It is the final scene that beautifully flickers across the screen.

Things are ending now.

The past nine months race through my mind like a film in fast motion. What started in vibrant colors faded to a dull black and white over time. We are reaching the credits scene, only eight days left.

Eight days.

This film felt both like it has been rolling for an eternity but also like I just pressed play. I enjoyed it, nevertheless, and it somehow pains me to endure the final seconds. I loved this film, a cinematic masterpiece, if I may. Each and every piece fit together perfectly to create a wonderful movie that is one-of-a-kind.

The film opens in September. Everything was bright, loud, and exciting. A cacophony of screams and cheers came from one packed section of the bleachers filled with peers dressed in colorful outfits, and their voices echoed throughout the stadium. It was warm and sunny every day. There was not a night when my scalp wasn’t adorned with glitter and hair spray. It was light and breezy—happy; that was September.

The camera pans into October. The glitter and the cheers continued into this month, but it was cooler. The sky faded from a brilliant baby blue to a deep auburn. The leaves became tired and slowly fell to the ground to rest. Days consisted of pumpkins, apples, and warm, crispy donuts with a side of cider. It was a burst of warmth on those crisp, autumn days; that was October.

The film fades into November. It began with some leaves still fighting for their spots on the trees. They’re exhausted, but they don’t want to accept the change in seasons. It gradually got colder, with fewer nice days in the forecast. Light snow blanketed the branches and rested on the ground. Sweaters and jeans hugged me tightly as I engorged myself in wonderful feasts. Those were the warm moments before the bitter winter; that was November.

I took a tour of the most wonderful basement known to man, and I witnessed love in the Fazoli’s on Alpine.

December came rolling in like a storm. It was cold and cloudy—snowy, but not snowy. That month I got my wisdom teeth removed, but the memories are fuzzy. Christmas was green with a still-swollen face, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I didn’t see many people during the holiday break, as it ended up being two weeks of recovery and quarantine. Happy, but lonely; that was December.

The film abruptly cuts to January. 365 days were ahead of me, and I had no clue what the future entailed. Every weekend consisted of hairspray, makeup, and screams of energy-inducing encouragement. I was wrapped up in the biting cold and the pearlescent snow—I was freezing and couldn’t wait for this part of the film to be over; that was January.

February was one of my favorite parts of the film, despite the gloomy, gray scenery it is based in. There was more dancing, more makeup, and more hairspray. There was a weekend of warmth and cheers and tears and sun. It was a weekend of chaos in a hotel room on the seventh floor in Florida. It was an unforgettable weekend in a forgettable month; that was February.

The camera sweeps from February to March in a brisk, quick motion. The snow finally began to melt this month. The sunsets began to peek through the thick clouds. This month was the beginning of trips to the park and Sweetart Ropes. It was the month that we celebrated the long life of a beloved computer that typed its final words. It was the month that I faced my everlasting fear of delicate butterflies. It was the month of trips to Eastown on cold, rainy days; that was March.

The cut to April was sudden. It was thirty days leading to new beginnings. It was rainy and sunny and warm and cool. The sky was gray with bursts of cerulean sprinkled intermittently throughout the weeks. I test drove used cars and fell in love with who is now known as Kathy. I went on hikes that resulted in a search party for car keys. I took a tour of the most wonderful basement known to man, and I witnessed love in the Fazoli’s on Alpine. I turned sixteen; that was April.

And finally, the film comes to an extravagant conclusion with the month of May. It began with tearful goodbyes to people I ended up seeing later that afternoon. There were plenty more hikes and pictures of the scenery. There were blissful moments of nothingness, where all that was audible was the chirping of birds and the turning of a page. This was the month of hot days and bright sunsets. There was bleach and blue hair dye, ice cream and Shirley Temples, and car rides and long walks. I sat on the bleachers at the park one evening by myself, while everyone else was down the hill by the baseball field. I watched as the sky bled from blood orange to a deep blue, and I looked back on this past year. Though not every minute of the film was perfect, I still cherish each moment to create a beautiful masterpiece of a year; that was May.

As June is approaching, I come closer to the end credits. Nine rapturous months are coming to a quick close. Time is moving faster than it should. The score of the film is quickly paced and intense. Scenes are flickering from one to the next before everything comes to an end. Flashes of my favorite people and my favorite places race across the screen.

And then everything goes dark.

The movie is over and the lights in the theater turn back on. The audience claps and rises from their seats. They pick up their popcorn, drinks, and snacks, and walk out of the theater until the room is empty.