As I look toward the future—not just the future, but my future—I try to walk forward.
One foot in front of the other, just like I take life one day at a time.
But I am yanked backward.
I try again, same thing. I start to jog, same thing. I progress to a run, and a sprint, and the faster I go, the harder I’m pulled back. I have whiplash by the time I give up.
I turn around, and there’s a mess of threads and strings and ribbons and ropes attached to me. It’s a multicolored web of tangled lines, shining in the sunlight, weaving through time to find me.
The thickest one is anchored to yesterday. My memories are sharp, the rope’s purpose is clear. I am tied to yesterday’s events and directly experiencing their consequences. The strings get thinner as the memories get dimmer, as they get older.
As I crane my neck, looking further and further into the past, I see holidays and summers and autumn leaves and beach houses and late-night drives.
I see the first day of school each year, acceptance letters, and the first time I landed an axel at skating. I see Culver’s trips, and the day I got Editor-in-Chief, and the day I got a 5 on the Advanced Placement (AP) U.S. History exam. I see sobbing fits, and old recurring nightmares, and Christmas Eves. I see fights and losses and falls.
All holding onto me, though I thought I was holding onto them. It’s an overwhelming sight, and a beautiful one as well.
I see my car seat in my dad’s silver Honda Accord. That may be the thinnest thread of all. I see my old bus stop on a foggy morning with gray seats, and my shortcut home. I see monkey bars and swing sets, Zoom calls and video games. I see Friday night lights and the bus ride home from the senior retreat.
It has been a great 18 years.
And 13 of those have been spent at FHC.
So many of those interlacing cords have a hint of green and white in them. Like a colored lens over the film roll of memories in my mind. That’s all life has been for me so far. Centered around school.
Now that that’s over, these barren threads, these thick cables, are all I have left of this life.
When I walk across that stage, will someone cut the strings? Will I be set free, or pushed off the ledge, or feel a piece of me missing? It can’t be done in one moment, can it?
I do think I’m ready to find out.
I’m ready to pick up the detached threads, spool them like yarn, and move on, keeping them close by. Maybe in a box in my room.
I plan to take them with me wherever I go, still keeping this place close to my heart, keeping these memories in the back of my mind. I’m ready for new ones, but they won’t hit quite the same as these.
I’m ready to be free from these barren strings and tied to new places, new people, and new things. But I refuse to fully forget.
