It’s hard to imagine that I struggle writing this letter. I write 40-minute surprise essays on a weekly basis in AP Lit, and I’ve been writing for the Post for four years. I’ve written my grad quote and my convocation intro already, so surely, I must be able to write.
It’s also hard to imagine that I’m saying goodbye, again. This isn’t the first, or even the last goodbye I’ll be saying this year, yet I am emotional all the same.
Senior year is an exciting one: you’re the top d06s of the school, (or at least I am — shoutout class of ‘24), most people can drive, and you’re living in your best and final moments with the community that’s seen you grow. It’s sentimental and fast-paced, melancholic and reminiscent, exciting and fleeting and heartbreaking all at once.
What no one tells you, though, is that senior year is one of “goodbyes,” and worst of all, it’s a year of Lasts.
My first ‘Last’ of the year was with the swim team, whom I’ve called my family since I was a starry-eyed rookie who qualified for her first provincials in grade 8. In November, I raced for the last time, leading a cheer just moments before, and came out of the water with tears running into the droplets already coating my face. I cried a lot that day. The girls lost their banner and the boys won theirs. It was like 2019 all over again. I swam a best time. Read looked at me and said, “I’m proud of you, Captain.” I cried a little more.
I seem to cry a lot this year. Tears often accompany the Lasts. This edition, #34, is the last one I will edit for the Wolfington Post. Ever. You can’t tell, but I’m crying right now. It’s 11:39pm and I’m in bed because I decided I should sleep after giving up on studying for my finals, but instead, I’m editing, with Coppelia’s Act I Valse blaring through my supposedly noise-cancelling headphones on a loop. It’s the perfect soundtrack: delicate and fluttery, mirroring the fragile emotions that threaten to overflow.
It shouldn’t be this big of a deal, logically, I know that. I’m only cutting a few phrases here and there, correcting grammar and changing punctuation. But look at my writers! And look at all they’ve done! They’re young and passionate and they’re the bright future of not only this newspaper, but the school. They’re driven and intelligent and such wonderful people –it’s been a pleasure to mentor them this year. I’ll miss reading their articles and hearing their pitches, eyes bright and voices quivering with excitement. I’ll miss this connection, I think, where I gain a glimpse of their interests, of their passions that are hidden from the typical conversations at school. Simply put, I’ll miss them. Editing is a pain –I make this abundantly clear on the Instagram page– but I love reading their work and I dread for this to be yet another Last.
The most emotional of the Lasts, I find, are the ones where you haven’t realized it was a Last until the moment is long passed. You can’t sit and wallow, nor can you admire and cherish the moment as it so rightly deserves, because you don’t know that it warrants that kind of attention yet. Almost in reflection, Coppelia has transitioned into the Act II Scene, low and brooding, though it steadily crescendos before letting itself fall.
Looking back on the months that have passed, I find that the Lasts are often sprinkled in with Firsts, providing a bittersweet contrast that lingers on the tongue. The first drive once you’ve passed your N after failing three times, because it happens to the best of us. The first grad drop, celebrating the 13 long years it’s taken to get to this point. The first feature on Lu’s blog, and the first acceptance to a potential future. The Firsts accompany the heavy Lasts, introducing a lightness and excitement that can only come from finally experiencing an anticipated unknown.
Act III’s Valse des heures pulses steadily, mapping out steps to be followed in a partnered dance. I think of the ordinary, everyday experiences I’ve indulged in this year, and I find that these are perhaps the memories I cherish the most –they are the most simple, the most human, and they consist of the little interactions that define my days. At lunch, Emily begs me to walk her to Little Umbrella to get a matcha, but we come back with ice cream from the gas station instead. Amirali and I seem to annoy Mr. Bohnen with our affinity for “organized sport,” as he calls it, shouting at each other from across the Chem lab about the most recent Barça match, and How could they lose to PSG on their home turf?! As if that’s not bad enough, I turn right around in my seat and ask Rachel if she’s seen the latest F1 race, and What’s going to happen to Carlos Sainz and Adrian Newey?, and Anderson yells his response from the front of the class. Just as I’ve managed to derail the entirety of AP Chem, Edward will walk in 20 minutes late, or Rohan, out of uniform. Thomas returns from his double snack run, and just like that, we’re back on track.
There’s something comforting in a routine, in the predictability of other people. I’ll walk Ava down to the caf to grab lunch, only to wait for her outside because I know I only have $5.45 on my card and probably can’t afford anything without succumbing to crippling debt. It’s been this way since March, and I have no intention of changing. Grads will park in the view lot, despite the numerous warnings, and drive up the hill from PE because we simply can’t be asked to walk anymore. Bella will pass four perfectly good spots at Trimble before pulling into one miles away because she can’t be asked to parallel park. We fly over speedbumps blasting the Frozen soundtrack –because that’s the only CD she has in her 2004 Acura– and I decide I like this ‘normal.’
In a year defined by Lasts, I’ve learned to appreciate the everyday pleasures. It’s the only way you can savour the moments. I don’t want to repeat the advice given by every senior preceding us, the advice that the seniors after us will recite –“cherish the moments.” I hope you do, of course, but this is not advice that can be passed; it’s a lesson that can only be learned through experience. So instead, I’ll offer different advice: appreciate the mundane.
It may seem far away now, but before you know it, your own graduation will be looming before you, and you’ll wonder where all the time has gone. You’ll revel in the lunchtime chatter, the perpetual chaos weaving in and out of Lu’s Lab, and the futile attempts of wearing your sweats under your skirt, only to be inevitably caught by Ms. White. You’ll miss your grade 9 Outdoor Ed trip and the simplicity of the earlier years. I wish I’d known sooner how much I’d come to value the ordinary, now that I’m about to leave it all behind. Soon enough, we’ll all be dispersed. I may forget things, like integration and derivatives, but it’ll be the mundane that sticks. Ask me 10 years from now to count to 10 in German, and I’ll be able to do it, thinking fondly of Ms. Manning’s Pre-Calc 12 class. I’ll even throw in some extra words to show off: bleistift –pencil– and hausaufgaben –homework.
It’s the little things that make us: the people we surround ourselves with, the hobbies and habits we pick up. We’re all individual mosaics, made up of chipped tiles from others, piecing together a perfect puzzle.
Will I ever crave gas station ice cream? Probably not, but I’ll miss walking with Emily. I’ll find other people to talk to about soccer and F1, but it’s not the same as actively avoiding learning with my Chem class. I’ll meet other people with far better cars, but I’ll miss Bella’s “hunk of junk,” named ‘My Car [Michael] Bublé’ as she drives a solid 15 km/hr up the hill, precariously rolling backwards every time she completes a full 3-second stop. These are not particularly special moments at all, in fact, they’re the easily-forgotten constants in my life that will one day be no more, so I must appreciate them.
To all the grad classes after us, here’s my advice: don’t cherish the moments. You’ll get lost in them too easily, mourning them before their time. Instead, live in them. Really live. Breathe them in and learn to appreciate the mundane, because the best days are the slow-rolling ones that yawn and stretch and settle just beneath your ribs. Stop counting the years and instead make the years count.
Now that I’ve listened to the entire ballet Coppelia, let’s switch things up and quote my favourite philosophers instead: “Life is not a waste of time, and time is not a waste of life. So let’s not waste any time, [redacted because this is sentimental and school-appropriate], and have the time of our lives.” If that sounds familiar, that’s because it’s Pitbull. Dalé.
So, here’s the TLDNR: There will be Lasts. And there will be Firsts. There will be memories and slow, forgotten days, though those are the best ones. Appreciate the mundane. (Get your licence!!) Slow down, don’t rush. “Cherish the moment.” And just breathe.
I often say “love you always,” when saying goodbye, because I will. Love you, always. I’ve been surrounded by the comfort of this familiar community for 13 years, and I’ve felt it change and grow alongside me. It’s hard to imagine that this time is rapidly coming to an end as I’ll soon venture out into the unfamiliar. WPGA has always been an immovable constant in my life and has provided me with experiences I know I’ll come to cherish even more over time. I’ve found my people —people who have taught me what it means to be the best version of myself. My experience here would not be the same without you all, so to everyone, thank you.
It’s been a long road, full of twists and turns and those little unpaved potholes, but we’ve finally reached our destination, and eventually, all journeys must come to an end.
So. Here’s goodbye.
Love you always,
Emma