The mirror hangs softly against the light-toned paint of my bedroom wall.
Slightly tilted to the glistening reflection of the light shining against it, the mirror catches my attention. As I stand stiff-headed and dewy-eyed, locked with the reflection staring back at me, suddenly, I see it all.
Every memory shines in the pupils of my eyes as they run through the back of my head, chronologically, of every step I have taken. In the dimly lighted halls, I stood in the satisfaction of the excitement flowing through for everything to come.
I wish I could say I hated what I saw. I wish I could say every moment spent was a moment wasted, and that it was all an insignificant, inconsequential, collection of my time.
But those words I do not have; that hatred does not exist.
To spell out hatred for mosh pit dances, games, both won and lost, and never-ending yap sessions at the center table of my fourth-hour English class, I cannot do. Although it would make it easier to say goodbye—easier to let it all become a memory shining back at me in the mirror—and although my pile of unexcused absences and excuses for leaving class may say otherwise, no part of me could hate the past 283 days.
I blink gently, stopping the memories from shining through the reflection of my pupils, and suddenly, I see everything I am now left to walk away with.
I see the commotion, the disaster of getting ready for every football game, the late nights sitting around the kitchen island talking, and every droplet of a salty tear slowly absorbing into the new transparency of my math homework. I see every last-minute trip, never-ending mounds of work, and pure joy.
I simply cannot hate the things I have most grown to love.
Standing here, in front of the ever-so-slightly tilted mirror, I see every part of my being and every inch of my growth. I see my mind, once unable to learn, now learning how to fall in love with my academics and everything it has brought to me. From sitting beside the one who gave me the most advice I’ve learned: that fearing what’s ahead is okay, but not being willing to face it isn’t. From the endless amount of new people I’ve met, the ones I’ve lost, and those I’ve kept, I’ve learned that change is inescapable. From the endless “I don’t know what to do” conversations and the “I believe in you” responses, I’ve found my future ahead of me and where I want to be. From the stack of failed math quizzes, tests, and unfinished homework, I have learned that numbers really may not be my thing. And from the constant, late submissions and apologetic begging, I have learned that I will never break my curse of procrastination.
As I stand here, in complete awe of everything that I see, I cannot help but remember every lunchtime conversation sitting at the table or on our drives around. I cannot help but remember every laugh in the back corner of my sixth-hour math class where we were time after time again threatened to be sent out. I cannot help but remember every makeup product, shirt, or sock lost in the midst of getting ready for a school dance, football game, party, or night out.
As I stand here, in complete awe as the tears run down my face, I cannot help but remember the parts of my year that have not only made it worth remembering but made it impossible to say goodbye to.
Unaware of how to walk away, how to let the past 283 days become only a memory of my time spent and a collection of the parts that bring the most of me to myself, I blink one last time, allowing the final tear to fall on the ground beneath me as it once did on the sheet of my math homework, knowing now that as I walk away, the mirror softly hung against the light-toned paint of my bedroom wall has captured every moment. The mirror has captured it all.
Standing here, in front of the ever-so-slightly tilted mirror, writing these final words, looking back at all that is looking at me, I now see that although I cannot walk away saying I survived Algebra 2, I can walk away saying that every moment spent was a moment loved, and with this leaves a bittersweet goodbye to my junior year.
