My friend sent me a text message this morning: At home crying because end of school finally hit me.
Last night we walked on stage as they called our names. We walked on stage and received our diplomas. Diplomas that represented four years of tears, laughs, tests, sleepless nights, overdue labs, and afters school meetings. Diplomas that stored the bitter, sweet memories of four years that flew by, like the balloons that flew off during the ceremony.
I watched their faces, faces that screamed happiness, relief, freedom. I replayed memories of my freshman year and thought of the little girl who never spoke, never raised her hand, never broke her shell.
We screamed, we jumped up and we hugged each other tightly, as if to secure our friendship bond. We made it. We did it.
I watched the tearful eyes of my teachers and knew it was over.
It finally hit me.

I asked him if he was going to miss us.
I looked at the clean, white board, the walls that were empty of posters, the empty chairs, the untouched desks. I looked at his almost bare room and thought back to the first day of school when I sat, uncertain of what the year would be like. I was overwhelmed with frustration and I could not bare it.
Now, all the seats were empty while I stood there, saying good-bye. I knew I was going to miss that class, those immature, yet creative boys who took every chance at sexual innuendos. I was going to miss Chester’s imitation of D.H.T.’s “Listen to your heart”. I was going to miss Julia’s speeches as she half sat on her chair, perfectly tanned. I was going to miss John’s witty, smart aleck responses.
Many stories were told in that class. Stories of young lives in two generations. Stories that one teacher decided to tell. Stories that one teacher decided to hear. Stories that were shared, whether wanted or unwanted. Stories that weren’t written in text, but were told by kids who lived them everyday. Stories that were real in all their simplicity and honesty.
We made realities out of everyday happenings. We interpreted literature in the best way that it could be done by a class of teenagers. We wrote, and were asked to share. And he was right; we all did have something to share.
We discovered the very lives of those sitting next to us, how their parents treated them, how they got away with trouble, how they played tricks on their teachers.
I knew I was going to miss him.

My father knows which lettuce to pick out. He knows which apples are good, which ones still need time to ripen, which tomatoes are juicier. He knows where to park, where to find the best deals, the best sales.
I hold onto my father’s hand as we walk by the Potomac River. I hold on to a hand that is now wrinkled, full of scars of the past and the present. A hand that held on to his children’s hands when their mother wasn’t there to do it. A hand that carried the weight of everyday tasks when mother was gone. A hand that is still scarred by wounds, wounds that will never heal.
My father knows when to let go of my hand. He knows that I count on him for being there for me, for protecting me, for loving me.
He seldom speaks to me about himself, his life or his pains. We seldom speak. But my father and I watch out for each other and our unspoken love for one another is strong enough to keep us together.

The smell and aura of the restaurant have possessed me. The candles are lit, it’s dark and everything is in harmony; there is a balance between the diners and the restaurant. There is a special elegance about this place that I’m madly in love with.
A man smokes and I watch the smoke disappear into the air. He is enjoying his cigarette and wine. I’m enjoying his enjoyment, though I have nothing of my own except a sentence in my head.
The Moroccan waiter passes by a couple of times and we make eye contact. He cajoles with a couple and asks the woman, “you’re not getting drunk tonight?” and the woman laughs and says, “No, not tonight.”
He smokes and I like to sit with him and take a puff. I hate the smell of cigarettes, but I love to watch people hold them in their hands like they’re candy, or a sweet companion. It’s a temporary, evanescent escape, but so is everything else.
Everything, like this restaurant, the feeling I have, the things I see, and the thoughts I have are all momentary…like falling in and out of love, like being kissed, like drinking wine, like every day that passes by.
We live in impermanency, in moments that cease to last, in déjà vu…The pleasure of the wine, the cigarette, the kiss, the hello and good-bye lasts for a second or two, and then it’s gone.
It’s raining outside by the time I leave and I suddenly like it…temporarily…