Category: Current Issue Writing

Noah Kim ’25

            As I entered the house after football practice, I found my parents sitting in front of the television, their faces pale and solemn. Then I saw the breaking news. My thoughts went immediately to Taylor. I pulled up “Tay Tay” from my contacts and pressed call. The phone rang once with no response. As it rang again, I began to shake, and my throat became dry as six years of memories bolted through my mind. On the third ring, I heard a faint “What’s up?” Hearing his familiar voice brought a sense of relief like no other. It is a voice I have known since sixth grade. Yet this time hearing his voice meant he was safe.

            It was a dreary September afternoon. This dull vibe was not a product of the weather but rather a result of the haunting deadline that had been looming over my head for months. November first had consumed my mind every waking moment. You would think since this singular date had caused me so much distress I would be prepared, but I was the furthest thing from it. As I opened my laptop to begin my common app personal statement just a week before the deadline, I did not know what to think.

            I learned from Taylor that a 17-year-old student at Garfield High School named Amarr Murphy-Paine was shot and killed trying to break up a fight during lunch. My biggest dilemma at lunch is whether I have time to get seconds before the bell rings. How can three 17-year-olds experience life so differently within a few miles of one another? Why do I pull up each morning into a nurturing and safe oasis while Taylor enters a proverbial war zone and Amarr becomes a casualty? As I grappled with these questions, it dawned on me that my life of relative privilege has insulated me from the realities that Taylor and the other students at Garfield High School encounter daily. People say there are some things you can’t unsee. I can no longer unsee Amarr and the tragedy of his death.

            How could I convey who I am through a measly 650-word essay? I envisioned the admissions officer skimming through my work and getting a completely wrong idea of me as a person. I clearly remember sitting at my desk cursing the college application process. It does not make sense to me how a singular person can alter your future by assessing you through a jumble of meaningless numbers and confined essays. I knew the school you go to does not define you, but I was so caught up in getting a letter of acceptance that my judgment was clouded. Taking the plethora of emotions that I had built up, I attempted to channel this energy into executing the topic of my essay flawlessly.

            Living in the greater Seattle area, I was not ignorant of the many problems plaguing our city, like gun violence. However, I live in a bubble cushioned by private education, loving parents, and a community full of supportive teachers and coaches. Although Garfield High School is a mere seven minutes from my house, it seemed alien to me. Busy with school, sports, and friends, the issues confronting Garfield never penetrated my consciousness. This incident burst the bubble. Would it have been easier to continue with the comfort of my privileged life? Perhaps, but I see it as a watershed moment.

            Slowly drafting and sculpting the piece of writing that I thought would define me brought immense pressure. Often, I could not even focus on the substance of my words as thoughts of getting rejected from every college raced through my mind. I was so consumed by my negative thoughts that I completely disregarded the importance of my topic. Blinded by the stress about my future, I was deliberately sabotaging my ability to illustrate an important issue by prioritizing my own selfish intentions. I scrutinized every character on my Google doc, trying to imagine how the admissions officer reading it would react. Not once did the real reason I was writing about this topic cross my mind.

Seeing the days pass on and the deadline getting closer and closer, I threw away the passion I had towards creating change and instead substituted a rushed, closed mindset for it. After countless hours of work and miniscule hours of sleep, I finished. But something was off.

            A cocoon of safety has shielded me from the dangers of the outside world at large but also those close to home. My peers at Garfield have no choice but to return to the very building where Amarr was gunned down. How can they focus on academics when their sense of safety has been shattered? This immense disparity not only confuses but angers me. Safety in school should not be a privilege but a given, whether the institution is public or private.

Following the shooting, I have a newfound desire to challenge the status quo. The only thing a student should worry about when in a learning environment is expressing their intellectual ability without fear of violence and even death. I realize now that safety must seem a privilege to students at Garfield. This is unacceptable.

            As an eighteen-year-old looking at the complexities of this issue, I do not presume to have the answers, but I also can no longer say I am not aware. Amarr’s death has enlightened me to the frightening truths facing Taylor and others at Garfield. As I enter college and leave behind the insular world of Seattle Prep, I am ever firmer in my belief that safety in school must be a right, not a privilege. Amarr should have had the opportunity to write a college essay like I do now, anticipating stepping into adulthood.

It is too late for Amarr, but his death’s tragedy must matter. It would be hubris for me to put forth solutions. That said, I wish to be part of the solution so that schools can once again be where the future is open and available to each student.

            Following the messy process of writing my personal statement, I was honestly not satisfied. This lack of satisfaction was not due to the quality of my work, but rather the feeling that I frantically wrote a story about the tragedy of a boy I never knew. As I was relieved of the pressure of my deadlines, my consciousness returned, and I had a lot of self-reflection on the true importance of my topic.

I thought about the edits that I made to the essay, such as getting rid of context and trying to be as concise as possible. These may seem like perfectly normal things to do when editing a piece of writing, but these changes brought me immense guilt. Why must Amarr’s story be concise? I felt as if using the pain that Amarr and his loved ones experienced for my college applications was selfish. Despite my story being completely true I felt as if I was undermining his story by morphing it into a reason why someone should let me into college. I saw the essay as a way of adding on to the privilege that I was trying to move away from. What gives me the right to talk about an issue that I will never truly experience?

            While I repetitively thought about Amarr, Taylor, and the students at Garfield, I finally came to peace with the fact that I was not a bad person for using their stories. I concluded that I would not be jeopardizing the experiences of Garfield students if I simply gave all my effort into making others aware through my writing. My original purpose for choosing this topic was because I wanted to see development in school safety and spread awareness for kids like Amarr. Mass acts of violence within schools are often displayed on news sources across the country, but what about smaller, more local cases like Amarr’s? Using the blessed opportunities I have like going to college, I can help spread these stories and turn them into something positive. My guilt is only justified if I do not act with what I have learned through my experiences and strive to create change like I said I would. If I do not back up my statements with action, then I am truly ignoring the deaths of Amarr and every other victim of violence within education.

Nadia Schimmelman ’25

My eyes burn—

a single patch of snow travels,

chasing an orange ball.

I find my certainty to see the flash of snow running towards me is my dog, Sage—camouflaged, far away—she is as white as milk, proximally the shade of eggnog. Squinting, my dad tells me that blue eyes are more susceptible to being blinded by snow and everything white.

In all I am made up of, I am often consumed by this moment, inadequately grasping onto a reality of a blanket of snow covering everything for miles, and my childhood dog above ground.

Almost every day, I pass this park which I know Sage has imprinted her paws on—every square inch of snowy grass—now melted.

It was hard to distinguish her from the snow, inaccurate now—both because she is not green and not living.

“When is it going to snow in Seattle this year,” I type into my browser while sitting in AP Environmental Science class. Instantaneously yearning, eyes wide open and fingers hovering over the keypad in anticipation. My finger sets down and I am met with the weather forecast: rain. The weight of constant rain on the top of my head, seeping into my thoughts for the next ten days. Disappointment rests on my face as I just learned it is a La Nina year, a colder, wetter year, theoretically meaning more snow.

“Maybe around my birthday in February there will be a greater chance,” I say naively to my seat partner as the boys across from me are tossing M&Ms in each other’s mouths, their laughter breaking my silence.

Insensible to our new set existence.

I now see, when she died last February, we didn’t have a singular snow day that winter.

She was stripped of the chance to hobble to that park one last time, as I clutched my sled in one hand, her leash in the other.

Regardless of what some deem as “fake”, we all are—

repercussions of our own actions.

***

Ten calls to voicemail. I dial again—

My mom’s pacing shadows the carpet, footprints leaving indents back and forth each time she stretches the length of the room.

I switch screens—messages—find my friends. My sister’s location is stagnant at her office in West Hollywood. A red rectangle of inferno displayed ten feet from my face, a white message hovering below: “Southern California Fire, The Worst is Yet to Come.”

People cry.

Animals die.

Thousands of fire hydrants are sucked dry.

In the teeth of the parallel existence where tons of gallons of water flood into silence—where life prospers, despite tons of micro shards of murderous material—land is sweltering with rage.

Palm trees appear to be flame-throwing, one single ember ruining thousands of souls.

***

They are blind to the devastation of life we were given to for free—

like my blue-eyed 10-year-old self,

wanting to play in the snow.

Mackenzie Leith ’25

I remember my first concert without my parents. I went to see Carrie Underwood at Climate Pledge Arena with my best friend from middle school. I remember feeling nervous without my parents beside me. I felt so small in such a large place with thousands of people.

***

My mom still tells the story of her first concert without her parents. She saw Pearl Jam at the Gorge with her best friend from middle school. She felt confidently lost; she knew she wanted to be there, but didn’t know what to expect. The Gorge is a big place, and it’s easy to feel small in a crowd of thousands.

***

Since I was a little kid, my mom has fostered a love for music in me. She played a variety of songs for my brothers and I growing up, which ultimately led us to have a unique and balanced taste in music. From her, I learned the diversity of music and that each song has its own independent message or meaning. Her love for music mixed with her love for my brothers and I created fond memories associated with countless songs.

***

Her best friend, Mandy, and she began singing their hearts out. Together, they let the world melt away, taking it all in. The sounds, the scenery, the sensations. So much to see, so much to understand.

***

My mom has carried her love for Pearl Jam with her into adulthood, so when she found out they were playing in Seattle in May 2024, she knew she had to go. I was lucky enough for her to take me with her. When I asked my mom what songs I should listen to before the concert, she mentioned the song “Daughter.”

***

“Alone… listless… breakfast table in an otherwise empty room

Young girl… violence… center of her own attention

Mother reads aloud, child tries to understand it

Tries to make her proud”

***

I realized that my mom sharing this song with me was an extremely vulnerable moment for her. Although I initially fell in love with the rhythm of the song, I quickly understood the importance of the lyrics. By the time the concert came around, I could sing all the words. While they were playing it, I turned and looked at my mom who was singing along too. A sense of gratefulness washed over me. I looked at my mom and saw the person whose entire existence defines me as a daughter.

***

My mom and Mandy loved this song. Both daughters, young girls, trying to make their mothers proud as they prepared to graduate high school and move on with their lives. The truths that they could release into the open air along with a crowd of thousands. It’s comforting knowing that others feel the way you do.

***

Hearing about my mom’s first concert at the Gorge helped me see her in a different light. It reminded me that this is our parents’ first time living, too. My mom, like me, was once a 17-year-old girl who loved concerts, shopping, and spending time with her friends. From my mom, I learned the importance of listening to the lyrics of a song so that I could understand its message, rather than its rhythm. I will forever be grateful that my mom and I get to be daughters together.

Asa Desai ’25

The sustain pedal. Essentially, it elongates notes played on a piano. It can transform a happy piece into a melancholy one. It can cause authentic applause. It can make your grandmother cry. It brings humanity, soul, and softness into a piece. A piano is not complete without one, or so I thought.

I was fortunate enough to know my great-grandfather. He walked me to school when he came to visit. He loved old jazz standards, and his favorite was “Misty.” I played it for him at his nursing home when he could no longer remember anyone’s name, but he hummed along with every note, conducting from his wheelchair. That was the last time I saw him alive. His dementia worsened, and he died the next year, when I started high school.

I was asked to play at his memorial service one summer afternoon in West Virginia, the site of many happy family reunions. As I sat down and began to warm up, I came to the alarming discovery that the digital upright piano provided did not have a sustain pedal. What soulless keyboard programmer had overlooked this essential component? Fanning themselves with his memorial program, over a hundred attendees waited patiently in the sweltering heat while I struggled to navigate this foreign situation. After adjusting the controls as best I could, there was nothing left to do but start playing. As I progressed through the piece, I realized that without the predictable ease of the sustain pedal, the musician is forced to use inventive means if she is to achieve the effect it provides. I began to alter my technique by adding more force to my strokes and delaying the departure of my fingers from the keys. I had not yet learned that this experience would foreshadow another disorienting event in my life just one year later.

My hair started falling out when I was nine. I had just finished putting in pigtails for my birthday when my mom noticed a patch of hair missing from the nape of my neck. Over the next few years, despite undergoing various, sometimes painful treatments, my hair fell out, grew back, then finally fell out so much that I made the decision in the middle of my sophomore year of high school to shave my head.

Hair is expected. It frames the face. It provides an outlet for self-expression. Done well, it can make your grandmother cry and cause spontaneous applause. It’s fair to say that hair, much like a sustain pedal in a piano, seems essential in the life of a high school student.

At first I wasn’t bothered by my diagnosis of alopecia, an auto-immune condition that causes hair loss. Eventually, what did take a lot from me was the constant anxiety of never knowing whether the treatments would work. I couldn’t continue to watch strands of my hair collect at the base of the shower and on my brush. I wasn’t living as much as I was waiting. But what would happen when I showed up to school with a wig? How would my teammates and friends react when they inevitably saw my bald head? As hard as I tried to avoid the decision, in the end I knew it could only be mine to make. 

  As I played the last notes of my great-grandfather’s favorite song, I was startled by the roar of applause that followed. I turned around to see a “Misty”-eyed audience, captivated by my performance. In that moment and countless others, I have come to understand that sometimes the struggle created by the absence of something seemingly essential allows for more self-expression and human connection. I know what it’s like to go through an experience that completely disorients you and forces you to start from scratch.

Everyone has their sustain pedal. It’s how they move forward without it that matters.

Reese Pedersen ‘25

1. On a random Thursday, when the sky was mostly clear with a red sunset peeking through the clouds, I felt an urge to swim, to heck with homework. The thought of ice water against my skin was my top focus. I crossed the street, up the driveway to my cousin’s house, and down the road that winded to my grandma’s house. Her door was cracked as it always is, the aroma of freshly cooked soup seeping into the air. Stepping down her wide staircase, I heard her call, asking who it was, and I responded, “Hi, Mamie.” I was offered some soup, accepted, and sat down staring out at the Puget Sound and Olympic Mountains, waiting for her hot tub to heat up. The mountains stood like sentinels, watching the water continuously wave hello.
2. In a rebellious tone, she said to me, “I was never good at school like my siblings.” On her 11th birthday, mid-school year, her parents had enough of her perennial pleas for a horse. They gave her an option: stay at Forest Ridge Academy, a school she vocally loathed, or transfer to Denny public school and receive the horse of her dreams. Of course, she chose the horse. “Big, red, handsome, and bull-headed as could be,” she called him Copper. She rode him down the streets of Seattle, listening to the clip-clop of the hooves mixed with the melody of 1950s Elvis Presley buzzing through the radio. Copper finally learned an escape route out of his hay-strewn stable, mastering the way to wander solo through the city. Calls to retrieve him from miles away replaced the homework accumulating on her desk. After Seattle Fire Department returned the horse for the third time, her parents had had enough. She said goodbye to that mahogany-colored beast and returned to Forest Ridge.
3. “Do you have any homework?” she asked, somewhat teasing me. I told her I had some, but would finish it up later. She laughed and said that’s exactly what she used to say. One of her three dogs came up to me and pressed a paw against my leg, signaling for me to pet her. My fingers grazed her rough fur while her comforting old dog breath released into the kitchen. The oily residue clung to my hands. Emily in Paris played in the background and blended into the rhythm of our conversation. Our soup turned into fragments of mixed spices. “Are you going to plunge in the Puget Sound?” she wondered. Responding with “Duh,” I briskly changed into my red bikini. Following her three dogs, we walked onto the beach while she told me of the exotic waters she’d once submerged in, the cold sand seeping between and chilling our toes. “Three, two, one,” and I descended into the frigid Puget Sound.
4. “I wanted to travel the world,” she told me in a nostalgic voice. As soon as she turned 20, she became a flight attendant for United Airlines. “The stewardess of the sky,” she called herself. Over the years, she toured 55 countries and all seven continents. But in the 1960s United Airlines asserted married women couldn’t fly anymore. She had two options: her career or her love for my grandpa. Betrayed by a job she adored, she left United Airlines. Together, she and my grandpa made life an adventure. Working as a travel agent and in my grandpa’s lumber company, she set foot in Bangkok, went to Tonga, Paris, and Japan. They saw it all. Then one day, 17 years later, United Airlines rang her line. She said yes.
5. After my plunge, I sank into the hot tub, feeling that tingle underneath my skin. “Mamie,” I asked, “where are we exploring next?” When I was a bright-eyed toddler, my grandma took my family and me to Africa. The herbaceous grass never stopped stinging my nose, the scream of the hyenas still rings in my ears, and the curiosity about the earth has lasted a lifetime. After taking me on expeditions to 35 countries, she said with a smile that it was my decision this time. Sitting there, I reflected on where my spirit for adventure and zest for life sparked from. But the answer wasn’t far away. It was from the woman reading in the kitchen—her stories, her choices, her never-ending spirit. Next time you wonder how you came to be, where you came from, or who you are, just take a look at the people around you. For me, I stemmed from her. She was the origin of my own wanderlust and vitality.

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.  

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. 

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