October 30

The first day

Five-thousand-eight-hundred-forty-two. That’s how many days I have to choose from.

 The day I moved schools? The day I first touched a volleyball? The day I turned 12? My first time in the driver’s seat of a car?

 I don’t remember the days, I remember the moments. I remember the hot gym and the excitement I got from being next in line. I remember introducing all of my friends to red velvet cake and watching everyone ask for another piece. I remember the loud yells from my dad when I slammed my foot on the brakes.

 But more specifically, I remember the cold chill of the air as I shakily open the car door. I remember the repetitive harsh beats of my heart that I couldn’t keep down. I can still smell the cold fresh air which was the last thing keeping me sane. I look around to see the piercing eyes of my future classmates. 

I remember how my skin was crawling when I opened the door to my first ever class at the school. Everyone’s face was covered with cloth and I didn’t know where to look. 

The ceiling? The floor? Someone’s face? 

I didn’t even know if I could build up a sentence.

 I hear pencils tapping, shoes squeaking, whispering, but I have yet to hear a “hello!” or a “nice to meet you!”.

“Your first impression is the most important” relays in my head, adding to the building blocks of insecurities clouding my thoughts. I was lost, scared, lonely, and I almost didn’t think I could muster up the confidence to say a word. 

This was until I found someone that had the same name as me. Someone whose presence was a relief and an escape, who gave me the courage to communicate.

“Such a simple thing” I thought, but something that I was so strongly holding back.

I was then able to participate in gym class without the fear of judgment, walk in the hallways confidently, and more importantly I was able to smile underneath my mask both physically and mentally. I remember how thankful I was to experience such a blessing, and I will know to remember the beautiful outcome rather than the scary process, even One-thousand-two-hundred-eighty-nine days later.
Category: Memory Writing | 9 Comments on The first day
October 28

“Home”, or the door

The door is always a trip up the road, with a wide spine and a relentless whip for a rear.

Sometimes, the door is open. Its whip has nothing to bite, and its spine is in a pink dress. 

Usually, the door is closed and I must first open it. Its hinges are reared. Sharpened. Always, they’re aiming for me.

Sometimes it is locked. My key is a soft blanket over her head.

It’s October, after all.

 

Category: class writing, Memory Writing | 5 Comments on “Home”, or the door
April 5

from 2015- 2024

Ten, Thats how many years Melanie Martinez has been making music for.

I have been listening to her soft-strong voice for almost her whole career for 9 years.

I had 8 chances to see her preform live & even get to meet her original character before she changed.

I jam out to her with 7 friends her.

I was 6 when I started listening to her, I searched YouTube for something to cure my boredom, as I clicked on a video. her voice gently tickled my ears, I could feel her voice breaking the more she sang.

I discovered 5 more songs her also hers,I searched her and instantly fell in love with every one of them. her songs showcase relatable things, the sweetness of her voice but the way she composed and manipulated her voice so well

choosing my favorite song from each of her 4 albums was harder than I thought, Mad Hatter, Lunchbox Friends, Numbers & EVIL

In less than 3 months I’ll be able to see her live for the first time. hopping to see and hear how much shes changed from the time I was just a little girl

Im going to her concert with 2 friends, we all listen to her the most.

Melanie Martinez has got to be my #1 Favorite artist

Category: Memory Writing | LEAVE A COMMENT
April 4

Mattina

by:Sophia Smalley

       I remember the cold October morning, the darkness of my room and the little rays of sunlight shining through my white curtains. The warmth of the buttery popcorn bowl in my lap, the sound of the coca cola cracking open i’ve grown accustomed to. 

 

My attention is drawn to the eerie music of the movie intro playing. A nervous excitement in the pit of my stomach. The sweet sensation of the fizzy soda hitting my tongue and  overwhelming my taste-buds with the sugary flavor.

 

The calm quiet that surrounds me is peaceful, the only noise being the music that plays as the intro to the movie concludes.  I sink into the mattress of my bed, looking around my messy room to find no person, only clothes littering the wooden floors. I feel the warm October sunlight shining through the glass window. 

 

The calm silence broken by the cheers and laughter of the movie on the TV screen that sits on my dresser. The movie discs piled up on the side of the dresser covers part of the screen. The anticipation of what will happen is preventing me from diverting my attention. I was so focused on the movie I forgot I was holding the cold can of cola and the warm bucket of buttery popcorn. The excitement and nervousness of what the next scene will hold is making a pit of dread build in my stomach.

Category: Memory Writing | LEAVE A COMMENT
March 22

Do You Still Think Of Me?

The cold days we once spent together left the month of love, dark and empty

At the end of the day do you wish you never met me?

Left alone the next day no where to turn

Seems like everything was just left to burn

You were the one that brought the “old” me back

Now i’m unrecognizable, not even my iphone recognizes me 

Do you think of me on the days you’re all alone?

A love that was thought to be never ending

Signs of love that were meant to be received but aren’t sending

Your presence was soft like a cloud

I would only look for you in a large crowd

From being together everyday to a complete blackout

Like the feeling as a kid being put in timeout

Do you still think of me on the days you’re all alone?

The rope tied at the end of both hearts, felt like the love from a mother

The chocolate smell in the air reminds me of each other

I woke up from what i thought was real

The love i once could feel

Ends at the end of both ropes when they burn

At the end of the day do you wish you never met me?

 

Category: Memory Writing | 5 Comments on Do You Still Think Of Me?
March 22

Minha Casa

Home. In Portuguese, minha casa. A word that more closely translates to “my house”, but my house is not where nor what home is. It’s a funny concept, “home”, one that causes moments to wash over me.

 

Home is safety. Home is the space encased by the chipped walls always needing to be repainted and the somewhat empty rooms, never fully bare, but never truly finished. Home is the familiar faces, passing me by, sometimes with a greeting.

 

Home is family. Home is the echoed laughter of my loved ones, loud but lively. Home is the shock that hits me when I watch my cousins faces slowly morph into a distorted reflection of their parents every time I visit. Home is the guilty empty promises, that I’ll return sooner, but I never do.

 

Home is comfort. Home is the sweet summer breeze brushing through my hair. Home is the morning walks to the padaria for fresh baked goods and the best açai one can find. Home is the long drives to the park, with the static music playing over the old car radio.

 

Home is like a big warm hug awaiting me with open arms, calling out to me, awaiting my eventual returns.

 

Home is safety. 

Home is family. 

Home is comfort. 

 

-but home is far.

Category: Memory Writing | 4 Comments on Minha Casa
March 22

5271 Days Old

5271 Days Old

Five thousand two hundred seventy one. That’s how many days worth of memories I have to choose from. How do I pick one that’s the most memorable? 

I mean, I could write about the time I fell between the train tracks and concrete that made my family panic? I could write about the time I stayed up till 3:30 A.M talking to my friend on a school night? The time I went to Hershey Park with my friend and went on candymonium, on which we fainted? Any late night conversations with that one friend? Lunch in Ms. Virgin’s room? Waking up at 4:00 A.M. to watch the sunset? Paddleboarding? Laughing while reading and people staring at us? Going to the bay with my friends? 

I have thousands of memories. Five thousand two hundred and seventy one to be exact, but still. There are so many good and bad memories. My favorite memory may be staying up until 3 A.M. with my closest friend, on a school night, at my dad’s house. I had to keep quiet the whole night. We were on the phone, gossiping, for about 6 hours. We talked non-stop about everything and anything. I was so tired the next day, but it was worth it. It was one of the most fun and memorable nights of my life. The floorboards in my house creaked, causing me to whisper into the phone. It was dark in my room, the only source of light was the moon peeking in through the blinds. 

Five thousand two hundred and seventy one days worth of memories. I can’t seem to remember any other memory in as much detail as  I can with that late night phone call.

Category: Memory Writing | 3 Comments on 5271 Days Old
March 22

That home.

One-thousand-three-hundred-fifty. That’s how many days ago I moved out of my childhood home. How could I pick one memory from the house? Why not all?

I walk up the driveway while my heart sinks as I realize this used to be my place but it’s not anymore. I see the mailbox I would always run to after school when my mom would ask me to get the mail. I turn and look up the street at the house that was like my second home. My best friend’s house, the place where I would spend half my time. There’s a whole new family there also. It just doesn’t feel right. I turn back and I slowly start to walk up my driveway. I get to the end of the driveway up to the walkway to my door. The big pot that’s usually filled with a bunch of beautiful flowers isn’t there anymore. I can smell the air on those days when I would help my mom plant flowers everywhere. The 2 wooden chairs that would always sit right near the front door weren’t there. Instead, there were different chairs there. I walk up to the door and realize it isn’t blue anymore like how we painted it. Before I walk into the front door I decide to walk down to the backyard. The yard where our whole group of friends would run around. The backyard where we had all our block parties. The backyard where I spend hours of my day in. The swings aren’t there anymore. Everything’s gone. It feels so off. I walk back up my yard as I remember all those days when I would run through the freshly cut up grass in my sandals and smell the scent of grass in 80 degree weather. I walked past our garden and tried planting vegetables multiple times. They would always die. I walk up the 3 steps which my little self would always sit on. I get to the door. I take the key out of my pocket and I unlock the door.

I push the door open and walk inside. I step on the hardwood floor. As I walk in, I hear the sound of my footsteps hitting the ground. The smell of the crockpot dinner I would always eat after a long day of being outside with my friends. I keep walking through the house. I open the squeaky door that leads to the office I would always do my arts and crafts in. We had a bird nest chair in there my family and I would always cuddle up on. My parents were sometimes there working and we would go in there and annoy them until they told us to go away. I walk out of the office and into the kitchen. The kitchen I would eat all my snacks in, and help my mom cook. Probably one of my favorite places in the house. I see the dining room table that always seemed so high to get up to but now I’m taller than it and it all just seems so weird. I see the laundry room where I would feed my dog and my cats. Also the place where I would get so mad when my mom would tell me to do my laundry. I walk out into the living room and then I walk right out. I go downstairs into the basement. The place my friends and I would hang out on a cold rainy day. The basement where people we go in and out of when we have block parties. I cleaned that basement probably over 200 times, it was always a mess. I walk upstairs into the kitchen again and I walk towards the front door. Over by the front door are the stairs to go upstairs. I walk up remembering all the times where I would trip and roll down the stairs. When I get to the top I turn right into my bedroom. It was my favorite room ever. All the times I would pretend I was a teacher teaching a class came rolling back to me. I feel the parts on the carpet that are crunchy because of the amount of times I would play with slime and it would go everywhere. The room that my parents came into every night to say goodnight to me. Sitting in this room brought everything back to me. I walk out of the room and feel a brush of air left behind in the room. I go to my parents room which I spent more time in than my own room. I would sleep in my moms bed 85 percent of the time. I see my moms walk in the closet. I would always steal her heels so I could do “Fashion Shows” for her. She always thought it was the funniest thing ever and still talks about it to this day.

I decided it’s time for me to finally leave. I walk down the stairs and out the big door I walked right through 10 minutes ago. Down the path that leads to the driveway, I have a memory of everyone’s bikes just lying on their sides in the grass. My eyes start to water after everything I have remembered. All the memories, the good and the bad. Everyday I wish I could just move all my stuff back in and live there again.

       

Category: class writing, Memory Writing | 3 Comments on That home.
March 22

The 13th

The 13th

February 13, the date I stood outside letting the cold sharp air hit my skin as I waited in line.  I can hear upbeat music playing and the chatter of people.  Laughs surround me, side conversations, and the occasional drunk goers.  The smell of fried food and popcorn hit my nose as I passed security.  My mouth watered at the thought of food in my empty stomach – my nerves kept me from eating all day.

We walk around the entire Wells Fargo Center looking for sections to find our seats.  Once we found it, we entered, and my jaw flew to the ground.  The sound of cheers, the darkness compared to outside, and the number of people in one place.  That sonder feeling hit me over and over again.  Was this happening?  Was I in the same room as THE Billie Eilish?  

After waiting for what felt like a century, the lights turned off.  The suspense of it all made me jump with excitement.  Gleaming white strobe lights flash before the room goes dark again.  The first song starts to play, making the entire stadium shake.  Billie Eilish appears and the entire night goes by in a blur as I enter another dimension filled with laughter, tears, rage, and thousands of blurry videos.

  Never in my life would I have thought hearing someone sing would make me cry.  It wasn’t like it was my first time listening to this song but her angelic voice wraps me like a hug that I desperately needed.  “Halley’s Comet”, the song that brought warm tears down my face and so much comfort.  If only she knew how much it meant to me.  

Walking out, I didn’t care how cold it was.  I didn’t care that my feet were sore from standing in shoes that were not broken in.  I didn’t care that my voice was raspy.  Or, the fact that I had school the next day.  I did care that I was able to check off  “Go To Concert” on my life bucket list.  I did care that a core memory was made on a single date that I would look back to, time and time again.  February 13th was the date I went to my first concert and on the same day, I lost my voice from screaming too long.  

Category: Memory Writing | 3 Comments on The 13th
March 22

The Year Of Covid

Covid the year of…. 

Driving Dad’s lawn mower around the backyard until it ran out of gas

Riding bikes from sunrise to sunset with my best friends 

Laying in the middle of the night watching the stars

Back when we went to the creek to swim with our meals packed in our backpacks 

Manhunt at 11 on a Monday night 

No stressors or responsibilities except trying to not log out of class early

Playing dress up at the age of 13 because there was nothing better to do

Rib sticking down the biggest hill in the neighborhood with bruises all over our legs and arms

The Neighborhood friend group that got close because we only had each other 

Screaming music on the trampoline and talking about the world ending

All different age gaps but just as immature as everyone else

Movies on the projector in the backyard on a starry night 

Matching your mask to your outfit when we finally got back into school

Sanitizing groceries after going to the grocery store in the driveway

Old people having to wear masks in their own cars

Learning tik tok dances from Charlie Dmelo hours on end

Sleeping in till 11 

Careless eating without gaining any weight

Shorts and T-shirts everywhere we go 

Online shopping for clothes

Sneaking out to the hay fields to take pictures

Sleepover streaks and pulling all-nighters nights on end

Buying a Jeep just to drive around 

Hikes with family for miles down a back road

Watching church on the tv

Streaks on Snapchat being the connection with school friends

Drive by birthdays with posters handing out the windows 

Beaten up bikes as only transportation 

Logging off Zoom class early to go outside

Special days doing school with friends

Outdoor dinners with grandparents on the back porch with masks 

Category: Memory Writing | 3 Comments on The Year Of Covid