Elena Eames

NMH

By Elena Eames
Dummerston Middle School, Grade 8

The home made video flashed across my screen. A guy making a slam dunk, a girl making an elaborate painting, a student with the words slanted across his shirt: You’re In!
I sat there watching it, not thinking about what it meant.
I called some friends, and told them, they clapped and cheered for me, and then said “Wait.. you're happy.. right?”
“Yeah.” I said “I'm happy.”
“Good, well I’ll see ya at school!”
School,
I thought about not seeing them everyday, about not being able to walk with them in the halls, laugh at the teachers, and talk about everything at recess. Recess, which, I wouldn’t have anymore. High school is a big step, as much as I look forward to it, I wish I could have the people that I've known for so long, and the people that have become so close to me there to make it a little easier.
And then the scholarship came. It covered almost everything and was too good to turn down. I am going, I am packing up everything and moving to a new life with 130 people in the same place that I’m in, from all over the world. I know I will meet new friends, and great people who will have a huge impact my life. I can’t wait to leave, to get away, to start over.
But then.. my friends here, everything I’ve worked for and achieved.
New opportunities vs. what is known and loved.
I’m going with new opportunities.
I cry as a write an old teacher a thank-you email for everything she's given me, I cry as I talk to a best friend on the phone. I get a surge of excitement as I mail the acceptance letter.
A great feeling of self importance and liberation comes when I tell people, “I’m going to NMH, not BUHS,” and the look that they give me, one of admiration.
I put so much time and effort into the entire process, and now it all paid off.

By Elena Eames
Dummerston Middle School, Grade 8

An old box in my attic
filled with memories
joyful and harsh times
crammed into a tiny box
sitting in my attic.

I crawled through the stuffy heat, my arms and legs sticky like honey. It sat in the center of the small attic as if it wanted me to wipe off the years of dust and pry it open. Sunlight poured through the tiny window illuminating my newly found treasure. An intricate design was cut into the red wood, an expensive old box, no doubt. I gingerly traced the carved swirls and patterns thinking of who had cherished this box before me, who had hidden their secrets inside it and who had lived and loved and packed their life in a box to be found by me.