“I know it’ll be June before I know it, and I’ll grow without even realizing it. And my garden will grow with me. My flowers and I—eternally in bloom.”
As the summer approaches, I find myself sadder and sadder, cursed with the knowledge that nothing lasts forever.
I’ve been able to keep these thoughts at bay for quite some time, but as I’ve gone from four years of memories to make to two years of assignments to complete, I’m getting sadder. Sadder and sadder, more and more somber, with the rain washing away the vibrancy I once held in the cracked palms of my hand.
Now, I am stuck between goodbyes and hellos.
Now, I am stuck between laughter and tears, often arriving simultaneously.
Now, I am caught between relief and anguish, a fraying string holding my limbs together, splitting my dignity in half without quite tearing; a string that used to be the catalyst for my friendship bracelets.
But as Time has proven over and over, the weight of her mighty gavel knocking on the hardwood floor, the sun always shines brighter where you’re not—rather, when you’re not.
But the picture frame holds more than just pressed flowers and greener grass, it showcases a period of life where every last vein of mine was spilling from the seams, but I won’t recall that part when I stare at the pictures.
So as I’m typing this at the picnic table during lunch with my friends, reveling in this time I couldn’t cherish any less, I want to leave a message to my future, reminiscing self.
You can’t spend eternity watching the traffic lights turn while you sit wistfully on the curb, s’mores ice cream in hand.
You can’t spend a lifetime staring at the chemtrails through the sunroof of your best friend’s car.
As enticing as it may be.
Now, the summer rain waves goodbye to me, wailing in rolling thunder and lulling me to sleep with the gentle shake of the trees in the wind; she leaves droplets on my window that will fade by tomorrow, reminding me that there is a tomorrow.
The thin-trunked trees sway through the mesh of the window screen, falling back like dominoes without ever truly falling, crashing against one another, free. The urge to break the quiet environment with a scream is everpresent, but I won’t. I prefer to let the crickets crick and the birds chirp while I sit observing from the cool solitude in my room.
The rain comes in waves, and it will for forever and forevermore. Picking up when I need to be reminded of how tears, happy or sad, feel on my weathered skin, and lessening when I need to bear the sun.
Up and down and in and out. Drowning me in time and then draining me of air, reminding me of what I want and what I need, reminding me of the end, reminding me of the beginning.
The woeful, wonderful beginning.
Running through falling leaves and coffee-stained textbooks. Running through the headlights of snow-dusted cars. Running through burning bridges and sidewalks and tireless care for the wilting flowers.
Now, I’m running through words, running through endings, running through tears, running through wishes, running through the motions.
Running, running, running.
Until my legs gave out, until my heart gave out, until my lungs gave out.
I wouldn’t do it differently.
I wouldn’t take back any of the words I wrote, any of the tears I cried, and of the passion I wasted.
Everything, all of it, everywhere, every time, every day.
Now, I’m going to stop writing, not for the last time ever, but for the last time exactly as I am; I’m going to say goodbye to a year of living to the brim.
One year ago, I wrote my final column of freshman year; I ended the year looking to the future.
“And in a year, I plan to be still in a state of serenity, typing another column in which I once again hopelessly attempt to combine my contrasting sentiments of this particular ending into a singular piece of writing.”
And in another year, I will be doing the same. I will be saying “one more time” for the last time.
My love letters have been sealed with floral postage stamps, and now, I find myself running out of them. I’m not quite ready to say goodbye, but I have no choice but to comply. Farewell to sophomore year, memorialized in the 25 columns, the 25 love letters, that I wrote. I’m closing the garden gates, and the manner in which my flowers blossom now is beyond my control.
“My writing will grow into that wildflower garden. Each and every column, each and every flower, will remind me of when I planted it and remind me that I’ve grown. The idea of such a lively bouquet brings me hope just thinking about it.”
