What will they think of us?

200 years into our future

Long after our stories have faded,

After our lives' missions have been put to rest,

After our influence has run out,

And our desires forgotten.

After the world becomes unrecognizable,

And its people are just as foreign.

Will they think of us as primitive,

Just not knowing any better?

Will they think of us as their equal,

Doing the same as we are?

Will they pity us,

And our savagery and aggression?

Will they think of us as separate,

Will they be too advanced to even think about us in the same way?

But the possibility that scares me the most;

Will they envy us,

And our times of peace, and simplicity?

Will it get only worse from here?

Is this as good as it can get?

Why do we spend so much of our limited time making the worst of it?

Why do we assume that they can fix what we’ve already broken,

What we ourselves are unable, unwilling to fix?

Why do we think they’ll be able to put our own differences aside, when we haven’t put our ancestors’ behind us?

What will it take for us to move towards a world where they can look back on us in 200 years with pride?

Our time’s legacy being that of redemption,

One of breaking a vicious cycle that we’ve already largely fallen victim to.

I wonder…

Was this future guaranteed?

Are we hopeless in this goal of redemption?

Should we just be happy with what we have?

It can’t hurt to try.

Inside the British Museum, past the Egyptian and Near East artifacts, you will come across a room.  Room 19, to be exact. And in that room, you will encounter several perfectly fine art pieces, but in the middle, there is a statue.

She stands tall, head high and back straight, carrying more than just the weight of her marble body. She is carrying worry, loneliness, and longing. She carries these, but she is not meant to carry them alone. You see, she was not carved from a lone block of marble to stand displaying her story individually, no.

She has sisters. Five of them. For a thousand years they stood, weathering storms, wars, innovations and disease, sharing their load, both physical and emotional- if you believe that statues can feel. They were connected by sisterhood, duty, and stone, until one was wrenched away.

Officially, the obtaining of this sister was legal and fair, under then modern laws made to justify pillaging and greed. She was not stolen, but freely given, many maintain. They say she was free to take as they spent hours chipping at her marble to free her from her position.

And so, she sits alone, crying out for her sisters as they do the same, the distance between them feeling infinitely more present than the millennia they spent close.

Oh my Caryatid, how they have failed you. How they ignore your pain and aching for home, How they dismiss your sister's wishes and silent protests as you sit, alone on that northern island, like an olive tree out of place in a cold, misty moor.

You do not know how much you are missed. You are longed for, fought for, by those who have seen your plight. Your sisters have not forgotten you, Caryatid. They leave a space for you where they stand, stiff and waiting, so you have a place to come home to. you are still loved, even if it is by those a thousand miles away.

I find peace in simple things that are small. One thing that brings me peace is lying outside on the grass with my mom. We both really like to watch the clouds and tell each other the shapes or animals that we see. We could lie there for hours together. It’s the best feeling when we’re lying on the grass on a warm summer day.

Another thing that brings me peace and comfort is being alone in my kitchen while baking. No matter what type of day I might’ve had, baking helps me to feel calm and relaxed. Mixing ingredients, measuring flour, sprinkling powdered sugar, and slowly watching something turn into cookies or a cake brings me so much joy and peace. I started baking when Covid hit, because I couldn't do much else. After a while, I started loving it. Since then, I’ve never really stopped baking. I’ve made cakes, cookies, muffins, cinnamon rolls, bread, lemon curd, and pies. The list keeps on going. My favorite thing to do is make something for other people to have. I love seeing their faces when I give it to them. The best is when I give someone a cake that I made and decorated. They always act so impressed and excited. 

Peace also looks like sitting in my room at night, with all of the blankets on me, my two dogs on my bed, and coloring while watching a show. Most people think of coloring as something that kids just do when they’re bored, but for me it’s different. Sometimes I spend six hours on one page. I carefully choose the colors, add extra details, plan out where I want highlights to go, what I want the page to look like, and even how I’ll do the borders. Usually, I’ll start to color after finishing my homework because I feel stressed and overwhelmed afterwards, and coloring helps me feel more at peace and relaxed. 

To me, peace isn’t just about hearing birds in the morning or rain falling while falling asleep. It’s the simple things in my life that I love to do. Sometimes it’s alone and sometimes it’s with my friends or family. It just depends on the day, and what I think might help to make me feel relaxed. 

Convinced that their democracy 
Is the only democracy 

My brethren fall heavily into the rubble 
A reflection of my own clay, 
A memory of our shared fire. 

I miss the time when 
They were called the creative people. 
The kind people, 
The smart ones. 

Now they are resilient. 
They are brave. 
They are hopeful. 

We forget so often that
They are also human.

We forget
And we keep forgetting.

And who's fault is that?

Every spring, we throw ourselves

unceremoniously into the birthing world, abandon

all remnants of the cold dark snow. We are sun-drunk

and terribly deprived. We give little shrieks

of joy when the croci appear at the edge of the woods,

much as we did when the snowflakes first began to fall, the cyclical

nature of the world giving us just enough time to forget.

We race each other out the school doors,

tumbling out onto the bright pavement in our haste

to be the first one to see the clear blue sky.

Our jackets lay       abandoned on their hooks. The sun is out;

we are once again wild things. And everyone else

in the state, it seems, has had the same thought -

the sidewalks are blooming with children

who stare awestruck at the petals sprouting in the concrete cracks,

elders who sit on porches and wave hello

to every sort of creature passing by. The earth smells of gladness 

and rain. The birdsong in the trees is incessant; crows seem to float

in the space between the trees and the wispy white clouds;

the deep sweet freshness of the new-made air

leaves us tipsy at street corners, gulping and desperate for more. 

A poet

kneels in the grass in her rollerblades, palms up to the bright bright sky.

She knows the day is ending. She drinks in,

endlessly, the impermanence of warmth. The breeze is shifting,

bringing cooler scents to the horizon, slowing,

carrying with it always the unwanted passage of time.

But for now it is sunny, and beautiful, and blue,

and as it is every spring,

there will be another day.

Once upon a time,

there was a cabin.

It was not big,

it was not grand,

but it was ours.

Our great-grandparents built it so many years ago,

they wanted a cabin that would be passed down for generations.

It only made it to us.

Our older relatives would like to sell it soon,

we do not have much time.

It will be gone before we know it.

No more swimming in the pond, 

or fishing off the dock.

No more squeaky spring door,

or late-night kayaks.

The Cabin will be gone.

No more towels drying on the porch,

or sunsets watched from the edge of the water.

No more exploring the forest,

or calling the loons that live in the pond.

The Cabin will be gone. 

No more games of cards played on the pull-out couch,

or simply sitting on the forest floor.

No more reading in the lofts,

or family board games played when the sun has long since set.

The memories are fading fast.

Two summers ago,

we went to the Cabin for what may be the last time. 

I didn't know.

There are so many things I wish I had done,

because I didn't know that

the Cabin will be gone.

"Dear Gretchen (ctrl c, ctrl v) 

Thank you for applying to [college]. 

After careful review of your application (after skimming your test scores and seeing none), we are unable to offer you admission for Fall 2026 at this time, however, we invite you to opt into our waitlist (your application wasn't good enough, but it wasn't the worst, so you're thrown into the middle category). 

[College] receives more applications from highly qualified applicants than we can accommodate, but your application demonstrated great promise (you didn't provide numbers for us to crunch, so we don't actually know what was in your application) and, if space becomes available, we may be able to offer you admission from the waitlist (we don't want you to attend, but to soften the blow, we'll glance at your application again and let you know much too late and after you've committed to another school). 

Please be aware that opting in to the waitlist does not guarantee you will receive an offer of admission (this is your rejection letter).

For those who opt in, we will release our final decision through your Applicant Portal by the end of summer (if you're really desperate, we'll throw you a bone right when you're settled on another decision. Have fun panicking). Visit the Frequently Asked Questions page on the Applicant Portal for more information (please don't ask questions, as you are not an admitted student).

Thank you again for your application and interest in [college] (we have already forgotten who you are. Good day)."