Author: seaprepignite

Jules Conklin ’25

I.

           The first snowfall arrives. It’s quiet. Not even the air stirs. The world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Waiting for me to remember something. I stand at the window, palms pressed against the glass. My cold fingertips tracing the frost, tracing time. What is time, really? If time is elastic, as Sartre suggests, then the snow stretches it, linking my memory to the moment it lands. But the snow does not care. It does not think. It just falls. 

           But it’s not weightless, is it? Like Bruegel’s painted hunters trudging through a snow-covered valley, it carries everything—every flake, every moment frozen in air before it hits the ground, vanishing without a trace. 

           Outside, the streets are empty, yet the hum of streetlights seems to be louder than ever. How can silence be so loud? However, the world does not quiet; we do. We shrink, smaller and smaller, beneath the weight of everything buried under the white. 

II.

           “Magic,” we used to say. The snow, the way it melted on our hands and tongues. Each flake disappears in an instant. It felt like the world was offering us something secret, something fleeting. A trick of time, maybe. But was it ever magic? Or was time simply running too fast for us to notice? 

           Back then, everything felt alive. The sharp sting of the wind bites our faces. Did we know it was biting, or did we think it was part of magic too? 

           I felt enchanted, but I was just falling. I remember the snow, soft and deep, how it seemed to wait for me, catch me, protect me. We never thought about what was underneath, did we? What was melting below us, while we played, unaware of how quickly it would all disappear? We called it magic, but maybe that was just to avoid seeing it for what it really was: fragile, fleeting. 

III.

           Soon, everything will be different. The city will change, grow, shrink, repeat. The greenbelt behind my house, where the coyotes once roamed, will be gone. Replaced by rows of houses that all look the same. No more magic.  

           But the snow will come and hide everything, right? Snow is like a mask, perfect in its stillness, covering cracks and scars beneath it. But when it melts, the world reappears. Raw, unchanged, and impossible to ignore. The same snow will no longer feel like it belongs. It will not be the same, not anymore. The plows will push it aside. The salt will eat it away.  

           What’s left? Nothing but my memories. Snow doesn’t stop the world from changing. It only pretends to, covering up everything to make us forget, just for a moment. But I will not forget. I know what’s still beneath — the cold, the emptiness. It always stays. 

IV.

           Maybe it’s not about magic, or the snow at all. Maybe it’s about the silence, the waiting. The held breath, just before something falls, just before something breaks. The snow settles, still and quiet, like a sigh of grief. But it does not last. The snow never lasts. It doesn’t stay. It melts, vanishes, and sometimes it never comes at all. And so, we waited again. For the snow to come, to cover us. For a chance to forget. A chance to bury what we cannot bear to face.

V.

           Maybe it’s not about the snow. Maybe it’s about what we choose to bury underneath it. 

Catie Smolinski ‘25

           As women we are fed opinions about who we are meant to be from the moment we open our eyes. Expectations are plastered everywhere, embedded deeply in the core of the sphere where we reside. Our physical environment and the content we consume—whether that is social media or works of entertainment or education—all seem to have a profound image of what it looks like for a person, more specifically a woman, to find our sense of purpose in the short time we have on this earth.  

           From childhood fixations to classic literature, I now see how the stories I consumed shaped my evolving understanding of purpose. 

           Little Women is a timeless tale of growth and self-discovery through the narrative of four sisters. The story follows the lives of the four sisters—Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy—as they navigate their independent lives in accordance with each other. Each with different passions and desires in life, they search for their place in this complex world. Their distinct paths and identities embody the question of what it means to be a woman. No matter the journey, each sister’s life was equally as important as the others. 

            I am five, watching Disney princess movies in my parents’ room, snuggled up between them under the covers. The screen radiates with images of the various princesses, each damned to a similar narrative. I watch, my mind captivated by the graceful, elegant, and beautiful depiction of these women. Each of them holds wit and talents, but all find a similar path in the end: love. The picture-perfect story, an intelligent woman with unattainable allure either saves or gets rescued. Watching these movies, I was taught the notion that to find purpose in my story, like Ariel or Cinderella, I eventually had to find love while maintaining this standard of refinement.  

 
           “Just because my dreams are different than yours doesn’t mean they’re unimportant. I want a home and a family and I’m willing to work and struggle, but I want to do it with John.” 

           Meg, the eldest March sister, is a vision of class, elegance, and tradition. She dreams of a simple life filled with family and love. She grapples with the societal expectations of the world around her, while balancing her personal desires. Her dreams of a stable, simple home life may not seem as ambitious as the rest of her sisters, but hold just as much importance. A path of love does not mean a lack of strength and power; it is a different form of bravery. 
 

           I am eight, reading my first fantasy series which thrust me into a deep spiral of analyzing heroines in novels. Annabeth the brave and mighty, the daughter of a goddess, a savior in the novel Percy Jackson. Hermione Granger, indescribably strong and resilient, the leading young woman in Harry Potter.  They defy the rules, reach for greatness, and pursue their passions to the most extraordinary extents. Save the world, be intelligent, conquer kingdoms, slay beasts: all somewhat “easy tasks.”  I attempted to mimic this, developing habits where I constantly seek to excel in everything I do, no matter the cost; that was what would make life meaningful. I strove for perfection, guided by the belief that a slip-up or a bad grade would be my damnation. If I didn’t excel, I wasn’t striving for greatness; I was wasting my so-called “purpose.”  

           “I do long to be master of my own fate.” 

           Jo, the second oldest of the little women, holds a fiery spirit that defies modern conventions. She aspires to become a great writer, finding freedom and self-expression through that path. Her refusal of social norms and gender roles are a radical view in her time. Her journey focuses on discovering herself, illustrating the vitality of individualism and passion even in a world that contains us. Her character is for the dreamers, and the ones with ambitious hearts, and for the restless souls. 

           I am thirteen, tucked into the corner of my bed from which I haven’t moved in ages, engrossed with my phone, the world around me going up in flames. Stuck in that room, with only the media to keep me connected to the world around me. TikTok, Instagram, YouTube now replaced the names of individuals I would see in person. Without anything else to do, I scrolled, opening the Pandora’s box of opinions, many unwanted and unwarranted. Scrolling through the various videos— “how to make,” “how to be more…,” “this is how I’m feeling” —I was stuck watching others describe what they hope to do in the future, drowning out my own thoughts. I was told: this is who you are now, this is who you should be, how you should live.  

           “There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.” 

           Beth, the third sister, is a gentle and selfless individual, often described as the heart or “glue” to the March family. She finds joy in the simple things in life: love, kindness, etc. Beth, being quiet and introspective, is often overlooked, and her storyline is not as highlighted as others. Although her life was short, she found purpose in quiet little lights, and impacting those around her. Sometimes the greatest form of meaning in life is derived from our connections with others and a quiet life. 
 

           I am fifteen, writing papers and taking tests that somehow define the path of my future. Satisfaction comes in the form of a number; happiness comes from success. Social groups seem to matter too, though there is an unspoken vow to ignore how much they impact our lives. Navigating this maze, friendships form and fracture under the weight of all around us. The system we live in tells us we need to know who we want to be and pushes us to unspeakable lengths to achieve that “greatness.” 

           “I want to be great or nothing.” 

           Amy, the youngest, is bold and forward in her desire for both love and greatness in all areas. Beauty, ambition, success, and love were all areas she sought to thrive in. Despite her dreams, she also had an integral understanding of the reality of the world around her, especially for the role of women in society. Her character is often misconstrued as whiny, when in actuality she has a hunger for meaning and is a picture of resilience and passion. 
 

           At seventeen I sit with the voices of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy, an intertwining cacophony of desires and life paths, and am suddenly at peace with my unknowingness. Their stories assure me that there is no singular path to fulfillment. I am oblivious to what the future will hold, but what I do know is that no matter the path, or life I make for myself, it is worthy not because it’s deemed so by the rest of the world, but because I allow it to have meaning. Similar to how the March sisters found meaning in their unique ways, I embrace the narrative that purpose isn’t bound to set definitions, it is a personal and ever-evolving path for everyone.  

Ace MacLean-Cury ‘27

The smell of a Turkey

The sound of laughter

A gathering of your family in one place for a celebration

Being a kid

Playing with cousins

A time much sweeter than now

A dim thought

Angry Faces

What happens at this celebration now

A reason to fight

A Day of arguing

A once sweet memory turned into one not of glee

A fading dream

Never to return

Like the laughter that was once heard

Politics and Greed

Money and Views

A web of selfishness woven in desire

Anger and Crying

Over so quick

What was once a kind time turned out not to be

To next year, they say

Ace MacLean-Cury ‘27

Crisp

A crisp sweet apple or smell of cinnamon;

An autumn tone woven into the air.

A smell as somber as it is not.

Often spring-smelled, but now not.

A mark of new and end alike,

Beginning and end of life as we know—

As one brings about greens and sweets, the other brings dark and rot.

The end of sun and the start of moon—

The marker of times.

A crisp that accompanies a crunch—

A Crunch…

The crunch of a chip or of a fresh bone,

The sallow color of sickness;

The crunch of Crackers and the warmth of soup;

An uneven feeling of dread and bliss;

A miss of warmth, but promises of cold.

To sow the ground for new growth, but baring the ground for the old—

A Crunch of leaves as orange as a dye,

Running through forests as bare as they are full.

Leaves falling like trees in the night.

A crunch of time where people try to get the most,

But everyone leaves with the least.

The joy of Jumping into leaves;

The sadness of bareness;

The autumn crunches and crispies,

Forever to be one with each other.

Addy Masterson ‘28

Scattered

Broken

All the pieces of the puzzle

Piecing me together

Bit by bit

Who am I

Where am I

What am I

All the missing pieces

Form as one

Every piece a different shape

Color

Feeling

All of the pieces and yet I don’t feel whole

Rearranging

Pieces scattered

Lost

Hopeless

But yet people find them

Put me back together

Piecing me together

I am whole

Like a finished puzzle

Scattered pieces now as one

I have been constructed

Now I construct

Those whose pieces are scattered

Those who took apart my puzzle

I help make whole

Scattered Pieces

Now as one

Addy Masterson ‘28

I sat down at that table and heard the words I now dread

“We have something to tell you.”

She’s fine, they said it will be okay

They said

But how will it be okay when I have to watch the person I love the most hurt that much

I will watch as her hair falls to the ground I will watch how she says she’s okay

But how will it be okay when I have to question every day is this is the last day I will see her or just another school day

How is Mom?

Is the new question I ask every time I need to fill the air

She’s tired

She’s tired

She’s tired Well I’m tired

I’m tired of living a life constantly questioning

Questioning if she’s really as strong as they say she is

But here we are almost to the finish line and she’s the strongest person I know

My whole life is now tied up with a shining crossed pink ribbon

The first half of my life was tied with a ribbon

Sending hearts in the mail to my uncle

And now it’s in my mailbox

The ribbon danced across my family tree

But I’m almost free

Free of the pain and worry

Free of the “It will be okay”

Free from the meals that show up every Tuesday and Thursday at six

But I will never be free

Free from the constant reminder that she had to go through that

How will I ever be free

When the ribbon is constantly shining and staring right in my face