I don't remember much From the years behind me. But I remember enough. Kindergarden. A year of separation anxiety And learning how to learn. I still remember The feeling of a pencil sharpener Buzzing against my hand As I helped the teacher prepare for the day ahead. First grade. A year of books And the start of my writing journey. I still remember The sound of pens Scratching on paper As the class writes the cringiest things known to humanity. Second grade. A year of friendship And unexpected plot twists. I still remember The day the teacher announced That school, from that point on, Would be online, as opposed to in the classroom. Third grade. A year of computers And YouTube shorts. I still remember The embarrassment I felt When the teacher called on me, But I had been playing video games instead of listening. Fourth grade. A year of bullies And trauma. I still remember The eternal heartbreak Of losing a best friend, Quite possibly forever. Fifth grade. A year of redemption And hope. I still remember The feeling of safety That the teacher brought Every day, to everyone. Sixth grade. A year of corruption And self-discovery. I still remember The look of pure terror On my friend’s face as he explained That his life was at risk because of a “friend.” Seventh grade. A year of new beginnings And absolute chaos. I’ll always remember Those first few days Of uncertainty. I’ll always remember Those last few days Of excitement and joy. Eighth grade. A year we haven’t seen yet. A new adventure, As well as an end to an old one.
