Reflect and Grow by Ari McKellin
Photography
Losing in the Face of Change by Elise LeBlanc
Nonfiction
Training Wheels
I wasn’t born there, but I might as well have been. Living in the same house on the same street in the same flawless neighborhood since before I could even stand. I learned to ride my bike on that sidewalk.
On the warm cement that guided my spinning wheels. I had four. Four wheels
on my sleek, purple bike. Two big, two small, two very confident feet that pedaled me back and forth across the pavement.
Then one day, there were only three wheels. I was growing up. Then two. I had to be brave. All of a sudden, my feet became less sure. And I wobbled, and teetered and tottered. Because I’d lost the only two things that kept me from hugging the sidewalk good and hard. But I didn’t fall.
No, I flew.
High on elation, numb with excitement. My parents couldn’t keep up, but they cheered anyway. And it was the bestest feeling ever.
I soared all the way to the end of the road before turning around to come
back. By the time I made it home, my cheeks ached from a splitting grin and my body couldn’t contain the excitement. I made it. I did it. All on two wheels. And for the first time to remember, I felt very much grown up.
Nice to Meet You
She had little feet, big shoes, and crooked glasses. Wild hair. Hair that spun around and around in dizzying circles and bounced off her head like springs. Her eyes trained on her hands.
She must have only moved in, because her face was unfamiliar. Her expression was indifferent. Respectable.
Leaned against the window, slouched. Smearing the fog from the glass with the coarse sweater on her shoulders. Her seat, the only open one on the bus. Not truly inviting, but more so than the remaining crammed benches that lined the aisle.
Surprise, when she was no longer alone.
The loss of an empty position. But maybe loss wasn't so bad.
The girl didn’t talk much, but she was clever. Brevity, the soul of her wit. Her
eyes, like rain, they danced. Her laugh, like ringing bells. She was eager to share the things she had designed, eager to learn, to meet, to smile, revealing an exciting personality as wild as her mane.
She fit right in, because of that. The other girl with shiny black hair and small eyes took a liking to her immediately. She made three, and she made laughter. She made everything perfect. Maybe loss wasn’t so bad. BFFs, she grinned, bumping my outstretched fist with her own. BFFs forever.
Three (third person)
Three little girls, growing up so fast. They played together. They laughed
together. And they were supposed to grow old together. That was the plan. They planned to hold on to this friendship, and never let their changing lives rip it away. But they didn’t control their journeys—not really. They were young—too young, and speaking so fast they barely had time to breathe. As if they didn't have all the time in the world. As if they wouldn’t last for ages.
Then the school bell rang, and they left the classroom like they always did,
grinning madly and chasing each other down the halls, to the glinting yellow buses that would take them off to summer. Their goodbyes were hasty because they were only too excited to begin their fun. Two went one direction. The third, off on her own. And they parted ways. Three pieces of a once-perfect whole, shattered. Broken.
The two, they remained together, as far as the third girl knows. They went to
their new school together (the school they had all three of them planned to brave together). Maybe they grew old together. And maybe they waited for the third one to come home. Only, they shouldn’t wait. They can’t wait. Can’t afford to wait and wait forever on something they will never have. Third grade. So young.
We’ll always be friends, won’t we? (If only they’d recognized the desperation in her voice.)
Always.
I’ll see you soon.
So confident, weren’t they? But soon turned into later. And later turned to
years. Years that slipped. Slipped. Slipped away. Gone. Lost. Years they will never get back.
But if they learned to grow out of the silly, childhood fantasies, if they
learned to be prepared and adapt and change and move on, they’ll be okay. The clock is ticking, and they don’t have forever and ever. They don’t have time to wait. They can’t look back. If they do, they’ll long for the piece that fits just right, the star that brightens one darkness in their sky. They’ll forget what they have, and long for what they lost. They’ll overlook the good.
And in a world so far from perfect, good is hard to come by. Waiting for perfect will make them reject all the real things, and they can’t do that, can’t wait.
But sometimes, selfishly, I hope they remember.
Walls
Boxes everywhere. Plastic. Paper. Trash bags.
No, don’t take it, please. It’s a memory. It should stay. All of it should stay.
This house will be empty without good things to fill it, lonely without laughter to bounce off its walls. Its powerful walls. Covered in neutral shades and handprints and wispy dustings of graphite. Its lovely walls. That protected and watched over and kept safe. These walls, that belong in a home.
Only, it isn’t home anymore, is it? Homes aren’t abandoned, yet it’s being left behind. It doesn’t belong in a box.
But where is everything to go? It can’t stay. It can’t stay. It needs to be taken
away. It needs to leave and go to a new house, maybe a home. Maybe it will make a home. It will fill other walls.
But the losing—the losing of these walls—it hurts and hurts and makes pain. Because it’s not just the walls that are saying goodbye. It’s our people. The connections that have been made. The hearts that have been touched. The lives that have been Changed.
Changed.
Changed.
Hold On, Hold On
Seasons change, we say. The earth turns, and our world drifts from one year to another, minute by minute, season by season.
Breath by fragile breath.
Time doesn’t stop for those who didn’t design it. The seasons still change. They never stay long.
We accepted winter with joy. Because if we had a winter, that meant someone
else could feel the sun. Winter is a together-season. When you pull everyone close, if only to stay warm, if only to feel love. Winter is cold; sometimes it’s too cold, but we don’t mind. Cold reminds us to be thankful for the heat. To never let go.
We held on, as winter ended.
In spring, the flowers bloomed, brilliant colors that sigh and laugh and tickle
your nose. The sun danced between the clouds. Playful. Warm. Butterflies and wind-soft kisses. Spring is sweet. Spring is alive.
Touching the dead ground. We thought, maybe, maybe, maybe.
In spring, we were alive.
And then the rains came, and the seasons changed.
When the sky dried up, the earth grew hot. Summer is hot, as if it could not
recall the cold nights, when we laughed and held each other close. Summer is freedom, and long days. Distance. A wedge that we drove between us. We said it was wrong, wrong to go. But this space only grew. We lied to each other. We said we were fine. But we were not fine. Oh no, indeed.
What does it matter that the seasons go so quickly? When they come again each year?
Because the next year doesn’t come for everyone. It didn’t come for us.
The sun abandoned it’s gentle caress, and left us out to dry, to grow apart.
We never really said goodbye.
Then summer bleeds to autumn, and we find we miss the warmth. The glare
of the sun. The grass that wilts under our feet.
Autumn is the start of bad things. Autumn is when life hides in the ground and holds close—out of fear. Because if life doesn’t hide, then the cold nights find it, and life is no longer alive.
We didn’t hide fast enough.
Autumn is also called Fall. Awarded the name because the trees have no shelter to take from Autumn’s snarling winds, and they were once alive. They used to be. But Autumn comes, like a disease across the ground, and the trees begin to die in a beautiful array of color. So vibrant. So rich and glorious. Not soft in the shades of spring, but grand, and dramatic, like fire of the sun on Earth.
Each leaf, a dying flame, a burning signal that testifies. Good-things come to an end.
Even the stars lose their light, and the sky darkens faster each night.
When the truth came out, we were scared. It was easier to be scared than to hope. Our time of hope had passed, anyway.
Spring was gone. Gone with the sweet smells and gentle breeze. Now, the
wind bites, and the only scent to fill our heads is pumpkin spice. Summer is gone. Gone with the pounding heat and heavy rains. Now, we only wish to be warm; we only wish it would rain. Because if it rains, it doesn’t snow. And snow, as soft and graceful as it may seem is deadly to the touch.
With snow, winter is not far behind. Winter is supposed to be a together-season, but this time, we had no one to hold on to. We had broken too many promises. We had let go.
Autumn. A warning. Gather together, before it’s too late to love, or you will lose this chance.
But we all fall in the end, isn’t that it? We all, like leaves—that are beautiful as they go—we go, drift to the dead earth without a breath of a sound. And the trees that are left, what can they do but stand? Bare, abandoned, empty. Dead arms stretched open to the sky. Lifeless without their fire. Waiting for the blanket of white to smother their limbs and trap us in.
Only not now. Now, some stars have not gone out. They cling, even though they will not hold on for long. We will tire eventually.
We lost: truth. Things aren’t as they used to be, but the world spins on without us. Time never stopped, never waited. So here we are now. Breathless, aching, tired. Not ready for things to be gone forever.
Seasons change.
Yes, I say.
And the leaves fall.
I wasn’t born there, but I might as well have been. Living in the same house on the same street in the same flawless neighborhood since before I could even stand. I learned to ride my bike on that sidewalk.
On the warm cement that guided my spinning wheels. I had four. Four wheels
on my sleek, purple bike. Two big, two small, two very confident feet that pedaled me back and forth across the pavement.
Then one day, there were only three wheels. I was growing up. Then two. I had to be brave. All of a sudden, my feet became less sure. And I wobbled, and teetered and tottered. Because I’d lost the only two things that kept me from hugging the sidewalk good and hard. But I didn’t fall.
No, I flew.
High on elation, numb with excitement. My parents couldn’t keep up, but they cheered anyway. And it was the bestest feeling ever.
I soared all the way to the end of the road before turning around to come
back. By the time I made it home, my cheeks ached from a splitting grin and my body couldn’t contain the excitement. I made it. I did it. All on two wheels. And for the first time to remember, I felt very much grown up.
Nice to Meet You
She had little feet, big shoes, and crooked glasses. Wild hair. Hair that spun around and around in dizzying circles and bounced off her head like springs. Her eyes trained on her hands.
She must have only moved in, because her face was unfamiliar. Her expression was indifferent. Respectable.
Leaned against the window, slouched. Smearing the fog from the glass with the coarse sweater on her shoulders. Her seat, the only open one on the bus. Not truly inviting, but more so than the remaining crammed benches that lined the aisle.
Surprise, when she was no longer alone.
The loss of an empty position. But maybe loss wasn't so bad.
The girl didn’t talk much, but she was clever. Brevity, the soul of her wit. Her
eyes, like rain, they danced. Her laugh, like ringing bells. She was eager to share the things she had designed, eager to learn, to meet, to smile, revealing an exciting personality as wild as her mane.
She fit right in, because of that. The other girl with shiny black hair and small eyes took a liking to her immediately. She made three, and she made laughter. She made everything perfect. Maybe loss wasn’t so bad. BFFs, she grinned, bumping my outstretched fist with her own. BFFs forever.
Three (third person)
Three little girls, growing up so fast. They played together. They laughed
together. And they were supposed to grow old together. That was the plan. They planned to hold on to this friendship, and never let their changing lives rip it away. But they didn’t control their journeys—not really. They were young—too young, and speaking so fast they barely had time to breathe. As if they didn't have all the time in the world. As if they wouldn’t last for ages.
Then the school bell rang, and they left the classroom like they always did,
grinning madly and chasing each other down the halls, to the glinting yellow buses that would take them off to summer. Their goodbyes were hasty because they were only too excited to begin their fun. Two went one direction. The third, off on her own. And they parted ways. Three pieces of a once-perfect whole, shattered. Broken.
The two, they remained together, as far as the third girl knows. They went to
their new school together (the school they had all three of them planned to brave together). Maybe they grew old together. And maybe they waited for the third one to come home. Only, they shouldn’t wait. They can’t wait. Can’t afford to wait and wait forever on something they will never have. Third grade. So young.
We’ll always be friends, won’t we? (If only they’d recognized the desperation in her voice.)
Always.
I’ll see you soon.
So confident, weren’t they? But soon turned into later. And later turned to
years. Years that slipped. Slipped. Slipped away. Gone. Lost. Years they will never get back.
But if they learned to grow out of the silly, childhood fantasies, if they
learned to be prepared and adapt and change and move on, they’ll be okay. The clock is ticking, and they don’t have forever and ever. They don’t have time to wait. They can’t look back. If they do, they’ll long for the piece that fits just right, the star that brightens one darkness in their sky. They’ll forget what they have, and long for what they lost. They’ll overlook the good.
And in a world so far from perfect, good is hard to come by. Waiting for perfect will make them reject all the real things, and they can’t do that, can’t wait.
But sometimes, selfishly, I hope they remember.
Walls
Boxes everywhere. Plastic. Paper. Trash bags.
No, don’t take it, please. It’s a memory. It should stay. All of it should stay.
This house will be empty without good things to fill it, lonely without laughter to bounce off its walls. Its powerful walls. Covered in neutral shades and handprints and wispy dustings of graphite. Its lovely walls. That protected and watched over and kept safe. These walls, that belong in a home.
Only, it isn’t home anymore, is it? Homes aren’t abandoned, yet it’s being left behind. It doesn’t belong in a box.
But where is everything to go? It can’t stay. It can’t stay. It needs to be taken
away. It needs to leave and go to a new house, maybe a home. Maybe it will make a home. It will fill other walls.
But the losing—the losing of these walls—it hurts and hurts and makes pain. Because it’s not just the walls that are saying goodbye. It’s our people. The connections that have been made. The hearts that have been touched. The lives that have been Changed.
Changed.
Changed.
Hold On, Hold On
Seasons change, we say. The earth turns, and our world drifts from one year to another, minute by minute, season by season.
Breath by fragile breath.
Time doesn’t stop for those who didn’t design it. The seasons still change. They never stay long.
We accepted winter with joy. Because if we had a winter, that meant someone
else could feel the sun. Winter is a together-season. When you pull everyone close, if only to stay warm, if only to feel love. Winter is cold; sometimes it’s too cold, but we don’t mind. Cold reminds us to be thankful for the heat. To never let go.
We held on, as winter ended.
In spring, the flowers bloomed, brilliant colors that sigh and laugh and tickle
your nose. The sun danced between the clouds. Playful. Warm. Butterflies and wind-soft kisses. Spring is sweet. Spring is alive.
Touching the dead ground. We thought, maybe, maybe, maybe.
In spring, we were alive.
And then the rains came, and the seasons changed.
When the sky dried up, the earth grew hot. Summer is hot, as if it could not
recall the cold nights, when we laughed and held each other close. Summer is freedom, and long days. Distance. A wedge that we drove between us. We said it was wrong, wrong to go. But this space only grew. We lied to each other. We said we were fine. But we were not fine. Oh no, indeed.
What does it matter that the seasons go so quickly? When they come again each year?
Because the next year doesn’t come for everyone. It didn’t come for us.
The sun abandoned it’s gentle caress, and left us out to dry, to grow apart.
We never really said goodbye.
Then summer bleeds to autumn, and we find we miss the warmth. The glare
of the sun. The grass that wilts under our feet.
Autumn is the start of bad things. Autumn is when life hides in the ground and holds close—out of fear. Because if life doesn’t hide, then the cold nights find it, and life is no longer alive.
We didn’t hide fast enough.
Autumn is also called Fall. Awarded the name because the trees have no shelter to take from Autumn’s snarling winds, and they were once alive. They used to be. But Autumn comes, like a disease across the ground, and the trees begin to die in a beautiful array of color. So vibrant. So rich and glorious. Not soft in the shades of spring, but grand, and dramatic, like fire of the sun on Earth.
Each leaf, a dying flame, a burning signal that testifies. Good-things come to an end.
Even the stars lose their light, and the sky darkens faster each night.
When the truth came out, we were scared. It was easier to be scared than to hope. Our time of hope had passed, anyway.
Spring was gone. Gone with the sweet smells and gentle breeze. Now, the
wind bites, and the only scent to fill our heads is pumpkin spice. Summer is gone. Gone with the pounding heat and heavy rains. Now, we only wish to be warm; we only wish it would rain. Because if it rains, it doesn’t snow. And snow, as soft and graceful as it may seem is deadly to the touch.
With snow, winter is not far behind. Winter is supposed to be a together-season, but this time, we had no one to hold on to. We had broken too many promises. We had let go.
Autumn. A warning. Gather together, before it’s too late to love, or you will lose this chance.
But we all fall in the end, isn’t that it? We all, like leaves—that are beautiful as they go—we go, drift to the dead earth without a breath of a sound. And the trees that are left, what can they do but stand? Bare, abandoned, empty. Dead arms stretched open to the sky. Lifeless without their fire. Waiting for the blanket of white to smother their limbs and trap us in.
Only not now. Now, some stars have not gone out. They cling, even though they will not hold on for long. We will tire eventually.
We lost: truth. Things aren’t as they used to be, but the world spins on without us. Time never stopped, never waited. So here we are now. Breathless, aching, tired. Not ready for things to be gone forever.
Seasons change.
Yes, I say.
And the leaves fall.