“Get to work” he exclaimed, “The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do” he constantly proclaimed. A stubby, middle-aged, salt and pepper-haired man, always stood at the door of the History classroom to give a handshake to every student that entered. I despised him, and the handshakes. This was the 5th grade, but one day he absurdly shouts “Live every day as if it’s your last.” That was the last lesson he taught us. I said I despised him, but as he lay in black with interlocked fingers on his stomach, I was sobbing, wishing for a handshake. 

By Abby Richardson, 10th grade

From the moment I could walk, I had one true adversary in my life. My older brother. He is three years older than me, and has an antelope-like stride. He ran faster in every single foot-race. His lungs didn’t combust into flames like mine had. I envied him to the ends of the earth. As I aged, and became faster, I relished in my new-found victories. But now, the starting line is empty. And I crave for one last rigorous sprint down our forgotten childhood street before we both must leave and there are no more races to be won. 

By Mia Zavala, 12th grade

I have never been close with the people whose funerals I attend. It’s difficult for me to lament someone I’ve met twice. But it isn’t difficult for my grandma to cry bereft of her mother. She stood over her body, pink rosary in hand, to look at her mom’s face one last time. I wept alongside my grandmother, but I was struck with guilt. I should be crying for a different woman—the woman who had unfairly departed. But instead, my tears were of empathy. My grandmother pulled me close, squeezing my hand. She didn’t need my grief. She needed me.

By Amara Mumphord, 10th grade