Closure

She walked out of her classroom, eyes scanning the walls. 

The desks, the hallways, the music room, the library. 

To some, these are just rooms or furniture. 

To her, they are everything. 

How many stories were told at those desks when they were supposed to be working? 

How many inside jokes were made when they were supposed to be paying attention? 

How many laughs were shared and friendships built? 

How many memories were created in these rooms? 

"Will I remember this when I'm old?" she ponders, 

"Will I tell my family stories about the time spent here? The stories told? The secrets shared?" 

"Will I remember the people who have brought me some of the most joy I've ever felt?" 

She's learned so much here.  

Not only the powerhouse of a cell and the history of the U.S., but how to be a better version of herself. How to be the girl she's always wanted to be. 

She zones back in, her eyes falling on the doors in front of her. 

She takes in a breath, letting it out slowly. 

And with that, she steps out of the school. 

Once she's gotten about thirty yards away, she looks over her shoulder. 

The brick building is blurry with the tears in her eyes.  

She whispers, "Goodbye," and walks to her car, tears fully streaming down her face now. 

This is closure. 

This is goodbye. 

And because of one look over the shoulder, a brick building made her cry.