We hope this month's post brings you some inspiring reading during your time off from school!
Gone
It could've been prevented.
If only . . .
If only you weren't stubborn.
If only you listened.
If only you went to the doctor.
If only you weren't sick.
If only you didn't always deny the fact that you
weren't feeling well.
If only you made the call.
If only you went to the hospital weeks before.
If only it wasn't too late.
If only it was a dream.
If only it didn't happen to you.
If only I could have prevented it.
If only I had forced you to see someone.
If only I could build a time machine.
If only I asked you if you were okay more often.
If only I could've been around more.
If only I dragged you to the doctor.
If only I could go back.
If only I said goodbye in time.
But it's too late . . .
You're gone.
You and your sister have the same face.
It hurts every time I see her, cause I also see
you.
I miss you.
She misses you. She's not the same since you
left.
She sees the light in life, but it's harder when
you're not there to guide her.
She's different, she's changed.
I've changed.
I'm not the same.
It's been what, four years?
Four years without you.
Four years ago cancer took you away.
You fought beautifully.
But it wasn't enough to keep you here.
It wasn't enough to save the kindest soul that
God has ever created.
If only you were here...
If only cancer didn't exist.
If only I could go on with life.
If only there wasn't a gaping hole in my heart
where you should be.
If only--
by Grace A., Grade 9
 |
| artwork by Sophie M., Grade 8 |
Growing Pains
I was a
little over one year old the first time I spoke,
And even then, even at so small, my parents knew I would be a talker,
And even then, even at so small, my parents knew I would be a talker,
A rambler,
a storyteller.
I was seven
years old the first time I dragged out the miniature keyboard I found buried in
the bonus room upstairs and began to record notes until I found an
arrangement I appreciated, to my parent's confusion and wonder.
And even
then, before I reached the fifth grade, my parents knew I would be learner,
A thinker,
a mind so malleable it was practically clay.
I was ten
years old the first time I was painfully aware of the emptiness of my lunch
table,
The first
time I realized I pushed a little more than I pulled, that the silence was as comforting
as it was empty.
And that
was the first time I realized I liked being alone, but even more, I hated being
lonely.
I was
twelve years old the first time it came clear to me that I was sad a little
more than I was happy,
The first
time it was clear that my tears flowed too freely, that I craved even a word
from a stranger.
And that
was the first time I knew I needed someone, anyone, if I wanted to escape the dark that plagued me.
I was
fourteen years old when found myself giggling for no reason, with people that
had no reason to like me but did.
That was
the first time that I realized my heart no longer crept into my throat with
jealousy every time I looked upon people that were so painfully and obviously
happy, that I knew I had the potential to finally be a full piece of a person.
And that
was the first time I knew I deserved to be happy.
by Jessica I., Grade 9
 |
| artwork by Grace S., Grade 8 |
The Roots of My Obsession: My Baseball Glove
11:43 PM. The
bright screen of the desktop illuminates my face, for it is the only light in
the house. The clicking of the mouse fills the room, and it is the only noise: Attempt number twenty-one of creating the perfect glove. Red . . . no. Navy
blue . . . closer, but still no. Then it all comes together like two pieces of
a puzzle. I furiously put in the options: the lace length, my name font, and
the webbing type. I have done it, the perfect glove, and the glove of my
dreams. It’s a Wilson A2000 size eleven-and-a-half. The baby blue and grey melt
together like a glaze on a cinnamon bun.
A baseball glove is
the most important thing for a baseball player. It catches the ball to make
outs, and if you don’t have outs then your team won’t get to bat to score runs.
And if you don’t score any runs then you can’t possibly win the game. So you
see, the key to winning all comes back to a good glove. As early as I can remember
I was always having a catch in the
backyard with my dad. Baseball was -- and still is -- a religion that I eat,
breath, and sleep.
It is the longest
three weeks of my life waiting for my beauty to arrive, like a wife waiting for
her husband to return home from the war. Every day after school I go online and
track my package like I was tracking an enemy ship. Long days pass until after
school on one seemingly ordinary day. “Ding-dong”. I become Usain Bolt and the
doorbell is my starting gun. I sprint as fast as I can down the stairs, each
thump meaning getting closer to my destiny. As I approach the door I see a man
wearing a brown UPS uniform with a glove-sized package. “Hi, I have a package
for a Mrs. Mary B.” My hope then dwindles. I take the package and close the
door.
I slam the box down
on the table as I suspect it is for my mother. I plop on the couch and think, “Wait . . . I used her credit card to buy the glove!” I stand up and I am Usain Bolt once again, darting for the package. I extend my commute to the
scissors. I grasp them with my hand shaking and pause. I take a deep breath and
slice the box down the middle and see something like never before. I delicately
open the bag with my forefingers, and a rush of leather scent flies into my
nostrils. I become a surgeon and take the glove out of the box without touching
the sides. I put the glove on my trembling hand. My hand greets the newest
member of my family with nurturing and love.
If I am at practice
or in a game, every time that glove wraps my hand in laces and leather, it feels
like the very first time. I get that rush and emotion that bubbles inside me
like hot water. I use that as fuel to
play better. This glove makes me the baseball player I am today.
And now for the recipes of the month, discovered, as always, by our editor Emily. Enjoy!
Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies
Hot Chocolate
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