Graduation felt surprisingly insignificant. A few hours of speeches and names, and it’s time to leave and catch a late lunch. 

More jarring was the feeling that the past four years were just supposed to be over. It was about as sudden as waking up from a dream: you convince yourself of this absurd, stressful situation, only to wake up and, in that instant, lose all attachment to the scenario. By breakfast you’ve forgotten it entirely.

There are so many people I’ll probably never see again. Classrooms. Sunsets on the train home after practice. Even now, only weeks later, these are less than real. They’ve all been thrown to the curb to clear space, and a quiet, creeping part of me wants them back. I feel like a hoarder.

It starts in small ways: the clutter that spreads to every open surface like an invasive moss. For my mom, it’s her office; for my grandma, it’s her crafts room overflowing with old fabrics, jewelry, and half-finished projects; for me it’s my bedroom. I’m told it runs in the family. Anyone looking in would call this stuff trash, and I see it that way too. But when it’s my trash, there’s a quiet impulse to keep it all. 

I’m learning that my mind is the same way. I find myself missing kids I hardly spoke to, or teachers who might not even remember my name. Connections I never cared to form are suddenly worth mourning.

I’m probably lucky I’ve been forced to move on. If my time in high school hadn’t been cleanly cut off, I’d end up hoarding it away forever. Before long my mind would resemble my grandma’s crafts room.

[originally written 5/25]