My grandparents played a pivotal role in my education. My best memories of starting out reading was with the classics that my grandmother would introduced me to. Titles like Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, The Wizard of Oz there was an extra level of fun we had when we could discuss these stories together. Then they took me to Disneyland so I could experience the plot settings of these books firsthand. This zest for story telling kept me intrigued as I entered middle school and explored even more classics.
Their involvement extended further by giving me so much encouragement at my concerts. They did not receive much morale-boosting performing music growing up so they passed it on to my brother and I every chance they could. I go back to Eckstein Middle School’s hallways frequently to reflect on these memories and how they enfold me.
These
words I recall
still echoing this hall.
Dreaming of what I could be.
As I start branching out from my tree.
Though my performance at times was fair
to cheer a developing mind the reason is laid bare.
The majesty of The Olympic Mountains
tower over the Seattle cityscapes
alongside the diverse architecture it juxtaposes
what an awe-inspiring view!
It dual serves as my middle school’s backdrop
which somehow I forgot all about.
Next to all nature’s grander
the school has a more humble beauty.
The weatherworn yellow colored paint
broken out windows and deeply tread on stairwells
It has been relinquished of much needed care.
The rest of Seattle is different
a greatly expanding city
expensive corporate buildings arise
giant sky-rises of splendor that sprout up.
Marvels with unique slants, angles, spheres.
Something is always being being reconstructed
to a once medium sized city.
Yet there is something lacking to those buildings
a critical component absent their substrate.
A character and a heart are gone.
At this school students that have graduated
want to come back and visit again
I discover when attending a musical.
Sitting in the auditorium I listen to a play
As one boy starts a solo alone
no classmates to back him up
it is a brave role on his part to take on.
The spotlight narrows on him
he does a commendable job but then
transferring from one note to the next
his voice cracks and I felt pity
but no one who laughed.
That did something to my mind.
A familiar foible
it brought me back to this stage
how your voice changes.
All the ways you grow.
This crack in his voice
started a crack in dam of my memory.
Each fracture splitting one off to another
until it could no longer hold back
and burst to a flood.
Pieces split apart
as other memories came together.
Walking into the show
the school looked so different
a half past six
a time I would have rarely been there
the way the orange bricks and the yellow doors
looked at the golden hour of day
I never saw it in this light before
this beautiful glowing amber ablaze.
Perhaps what I said before was wrong?
Maybe the school isn’t lowly.
Revelations talks about a street of gold
while I don’t understand what that Heaven is
I have experienced it right here
right inside these walls of gold on some school days.
