The breeze rustled the sheets of paper in my hand, and suddenly, with determination and complete trust in my decision, I checked the box that said, “Yeah, of course I’ll go to Mark Twain! It’s only the best middle school in New York City.” I have not regretted this decision in the three years that have passed. However, I stand by my belief that history repeats itself, and this is evidence: high school. I found myself sitting on the black couch in the living room, brooding over high school choices. I tried to feel happy for myself, glad that I would be leaving junior high school for bigger and better things.
But ecstasy was long gone as I flipped through my memories of Mark Twain, and I realized why: I love this place, and change was slowly loosening my grip and pulling me away. For three years, I lived in a fantasy I refused to believe would end as I laughed, cried, and flew with other people who truly understood my joys and pains. Nobody laughed when I did not do so well on my math tests, but the same people were there for me again as we relaxed after the dreaded SHSAT. I’ve met some of the best friends I had ever made here, and learned that school doesn’t have to be a long, daunting task to be feared everyday.
As I accepted that there are things to be mourned when the time comes, the floodgates shattered and the feeling of helplessness washed over me again and again. I wanted to hold on despite the end, and drink it in all over again. I sighed as I withdrew from the ominous thunderclouds in my mind, threatening to rain, when another emotion flooded my mind: wistful. I realized that there was no way to hold on to the past completely in the future, save memories to ponder when I had a calm moment in a busy day. When my mind got to thinking about the future, wistful left on soft, quick wings to be replaced with the best of emotions, whether on a stormy night or the best of days: hope. Hope that fate will deal me the right cards again and bring back what I wanted.