I hold onto the memories of my friends’ lips moving with their words, laughter ringing in my ears, hands and arms pulling me into an embrace, pictures I take and memories I hold.
I hold onto the interesting things I have learned. Things I have found interesting and things I found entertaining. The pencil in my hand scratches off a gray led color and stains the paper with my handwriting. Raised hands and open mouths answer and ask questions about the world. We’re all so curious.
I hold a binder in my hands, the soles of my shoes scuffing the vinyl and linoleum floor. Not being used to walking in a hallway all the time, I began missing the times when I was in one class and one class only. It’s better like this, I tell myself, Gives me the opportunity to walk around every hour.
Memories of forgetting how to open a locker, believing I would never be able to get it, and memories of talking to people I would have never met any other way. The ring of the school bell and the odd aroma the hallway—my hallway—had.
Memorizing the way people act and not being used to anyone being different from everyone else, I begin to act like them and dress like them. To fit in, to live in.
The year passes by and I’m not ready to go. I hold the memories of the fun times I had for so long my knuckles turn white. Forgetting any upsetting memories; I hold them for too long. I will be back next year, what’s the problem?
I hold the memory of the first day back, I remember nothing of the summer and only remembering how terrified I will be to go back to the building I missed dearly.
I hold my backpack in my hands, at the verge of falling apart in my shaky hands, and sat in the front seat of my car. I hold the memory of realizing how wrong I was last year, what a nuisance I was and how weird everyone will remember me as. I hold onto those insufferable memories the same way they will forever hold onto me.
The memories of falling asleep, wishing to never wake up. Nightmares of failure and bad grades, echoing in my mind it disturbs me constantly. I cut almost everyone off besides my four closest friends. Sleepovers after school to get my mind away from the shadows.
Too many memories, my head hurts.
I hold the memory of joining the theater. Memories of being forced to join by my peers and memories of being terrified of the high schoolers, wishing I never joined.
Memories of tech week, memories of hot screws falling out of plywood screwed together by the drill I hold. The idea of leaving holds onto me, yet I refuse to hold its hand. It’s touch burns the way my eyes burn during senior speeches. Everyone there is someone I adore and the idea of it ending makes my stomach do rounds like the power tools in the scene shop.
Spring passes by, the play ends, the snowfall turns to rain. I cling onto running back and forth from my school to my future. Pebbles hitting the ground, dirt flying in the air, I make sure that the dirt will never be in front of me.
I hold the memory of the year passing by and not being ready to go. Hugs being exchanged, everyone’s last goodbye and way too many emotions banging against my skull. I hold the deja vu and believe that I won’t be this happy again. I will be back next year, what’s the problem?
I hold my shirt in my hands, deciding I want to look different. Everyone wore the same things last year and the year before. If you have to dress up every day, why not make it interesting?
I hold someone’s hand, showing them how to open their locker the way someone had taught me. The attached lock hitting against the metal locker rings grinding noises, a rhythm I couldn’t get out of my head. They told me they would never be able to get their locker combination right.
I hold my pencil yet again, scratching the paper in front of me with advice to future kids like me. My writing is based on past experiences of my own.
Memories of joining theater yet again, the fear still stands in my gut and on my face. The auditions haven’t changed and neither have the kids that have been there since day one. Sounds of saws and hammers and drills echo throughout the rehearsal space, home.
I hold a drill in my hand, bending over to unscrew a staircase we had put together last performance. Building walls, doors, windows, and other everyday things for a production the drill carves another memory into my head. The fear of failure still lingers, though I hammer it to oblivion, painting over it and starting anew.
I hold notes in my hand. Notes I’ve written for school, and notes that have been passed down to me. A wide variety of words and letters and different ways to write the letters. Each note tells a different story, a story I hold.
I hold the realization that nothing lasts forever, knowing I won’t be here for long I make the memories last.
I hold onto the memories of talking to my friends, laughter ringing in my ears, hands and arms pulling me into an embrace, pictures I take and memories I hold.
