It will be impossible to forget all of the people I’ve met and memories I’ve made here.
When I was in fourth grade in Mr. Donovan’s art class, we made a mosaic.
Everyone had to paint one tile with a floral design to make one flower garden: a mosaic of our childhood and our futures. Our own personal garden.
Over the last eight years, my tile has cracked. It’s been chipped away at, it’s been damaged, and poorly glued back together with a number of temporary solutions. The tiles surrounding mine have moved and shifted, growing closer and farther apart from mine.
In middle school, I found a group of people who made me feel important. We grew around each other and with each other, and they helped me repaint the colors of my flowers that were long faded.
We grew apart, but if you look far enough beneath the surface, you’ll find that all of our roots are still connected. Through shared memories, experiences, and a kind of connection you can only achieve in your formative years.
In high school, I found my passions. They shone brighter than anything had before, a kind of nourishment that I hadn’t yet experienced. I took my writing, the hobby I always said I’d turn into a career, and I took the haltingly terrifying step to share it with others; to bare my soul to them.
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I took my writing, the hobby I always said I’d turn into a career, and I took the haltingly terrifying step to share it with others; to bare my soul to them.
They encouraged me to grow even brighter, even louder. I found my place in the garden that was Room 139. I found myself in a room where everyone spoke poetically, and mediocrity wasn’t an option because everybody was so truly exceptional.
There is no simple way to sum up all the ways in which I’ve changed and grown, no way to trace back every influence on my life and thank them for their role in who I’ve become, and truly no way to write about the life I’ve lived inside the walls of FHC.
I remember ninth grade, when my days were spent impatiently waiting for my four years of high school to hurry up and be over with. When I spent every day in sixth hour laughing over something stupid one of us said, or brainstorming titles for our new stories.
I remember tenth grade, when I swore I hated school. When I memorized all the presidents while laughing loudly in a silent class, when I would pretend I understood what was going on at football games, and when I had teachers for the first time who really understood me.
I remember 11th grade, when I moped over how difficult junior year was and how the end couldn’t come fast enough. When every car ride was with my windows down and my music blasting, and the sound of laughter and the same conversation repeated for the 50th time.
Soon enough, I’ll be remembering 12th grade. A blurry lens from watery eyes and a poor memory. I’ll forget what it was like to sit against a locker, dreading my next math test or history assignment. I’ll forget what it was like to doodle in economics and then complain when I didn’t understand anything. I’ll forget what it was like to pass a friend in the hallway and realize that sometimes there’s no one who can understand you better than your friends. I’ll forget what it’s like to go up to the lunch line and realize that all of those orange juices I bought actually cost something. And slowly, bit by bit, I’ll forget high school.
Everyone has changed so much.
But our mosaic is so much more beautiful now, more vibrant.
Out of those cracks in my tile, new flowers have sprouted. How can we grow without first breaking?
The roots reach through the chips and reach out to those around me, tying us all together in a symphony of color: the garden I will never forget.
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