In Flux

By Daleelah Saleh

Share:

Senior year has been full of moments when it’s hit me that I’m growing up, which is both exciting and terrifying. I wanted to capture how it feels to be in this transitional period.

You pop a Cry Baby in your mouth and immediately your tongue is tingling. It tastes like the dusty corner store with the red awning that the big yellow bus would drop you off next to in middle school. As the sour lemon dissolves into sweet, you smile softly to yourself. Back then, the one and a half blocks to your house felt miles long. You would walk as slowly as possible, savoring every minute of independence. Eleven-year-old you would’ve marveled at the fact that you can now walk around Astoria and even Manhattan pretty much whenever you want. You’ve even boarded a plane to California all by yourself.

You stand as still as possible, afraid that if you move around too much the heavy blue cap on your head will fall off. A whit flash goes off in the corner of your eye as your friend gets her senior portrait taken. She is poised and her smile is bright. In a few months you’ll be walking across a stage in the Queens Theatre, the same awkward cap on your head and silky gown draped around your shoulders, as you accept your high school diploma. And a few months after that, you’ll have your first day of school. But instead of seeing the same classmates you’ve known since sev-
enth grade, you’ll be greeted by a professor in a lecture hall full of unfamiliar people. Your heart aches with preemptive nostalgia. You’re somewhere between ready to move on and scared of losing touch with the people that you’ve grown up with.

You’re drawn to the kitchen by the strong aroma of coffee wafting through the house. “You’re just in time for breakfast,” your mom says. “Do you want coffee?” You’re taken aback. Ever since you were twelve, you’ve campaigned for your mom to let you drink coffee, but until recently, it remained forbidden. “You’re too young for caffeine,” she’d say, which, of course, made you want it more. To the casual observer this would be a typical morning breakfast scene, but to you this is a rite of passage.

Your body sways back and forth, and the guitarist is so loud that you can feel the music in your bones. The lights reflecting off the disco ball make it look like there are stars on the ceiling. Your best friend slips her hand into yours, and you look over at her. This is our song, she mouths. You squeeze her hand and close your eyes, trying to etch this moment into your memory. You used to dream about what it would be like to go to concerts, and now you can’t imagine your life without them.

Your legs are shaky as you walk up to the stage. This isn’t your first time reading in front of an audience, but it still feels exciting and nerve-wracking. After introducing yourself, you take a deep breath and read your poem. When you finish you’re met with re-sounding applause. Your face breaks into a grin as pride course through you. You’ve wanted to be a writer ever since you discovered the Harry Potter series in first grade. Now, at just seventeen, you can say that you’ve had your work published, won awards for your writing, and been chosen as a New York City Youth Poet
Laureate finalist. You are slowly becoming the person you always wanted to be.

You repeat the name of your future college to yourself like a mantra, like if your tongue becomes familiarized with it your brain will too. Maybe then the thought of leaving behind the city and the people you love in exchange for ski slopes and late-night study sessions in the library won’t feel so terrifying.

Falling is the last thing on your mind as you leave the house this morning. You’re too busy worrying about your unfinished homework and upcoming assessments and how will you get to the concert on time later? So when your thick two-inch heel gets stuck and you tumble down your front steps, you’re taken completely by surprise. You know you should be getting up because you’ve already been late twice this week but all you can manage to do is sit there and cry. Your mom soon comes to your rescue, flying down the stairs and kneeling by your side. Her voice is soothing
while she asks, “Are you okay? What happened?” As you explain to her, she reaches her arm out and pulls you up, then leads you up the stairs despite your protests. She washes the cuts on your hand at the sink, then sits with you on the couch, assuring you that you’ll be okay, it’s just a few scrapes, it’ll stop hurting soon. Sud-
denly it’s like you’re eight years old again and you fell off your bike and your mom is taking care of you. It occurs to you that this time next year you’ll have to take care of yourself when you get hurt, because you’ll be in college, five hours away from home.
This makes you cry harder, and your mom just hugs you tighter.