by E.H. (12th Grade)

In seventh grade, my class of two began an in-depth study of the life and works of Shakespeare, and I solemnly swore never to read a poem ever again. In eighth grade, I became a poet. Heavily influenced by my teacher’s decision to require all homework to be handwritten, I became something of a pen and paper warrior. My backpack stocked with an A5 notebook and a handful of Pilot G-2 pens, I was fully prepared for any on-the-go poems. The pages filled with cherry picking in mid-July, road trips with my dad, hating on my art. By being conscious of even the miniscule details in life, I learned to cherish all the little things that would otherwise go unnoticed. 

After my family moved to Bulgaria in 2015, I spent my summers picking from public cherry trees growing all over the capital. Once school was over, I was outside in the early morning watching the sun peak through heavy branches, balanced on our rickety old step stool, cherry juice dripping down my arms and staining my sleeves. With red five-gallon buckets in either hand and the ladder tucked under my arm, I waddled back with a real harvest. The coming days were spent pitting, cooking, and canning, a process accompanied with hours of The Lazy Genius podcast, courtesy of my mom. While the ensuing pies and cobblers were fabulous, I later wrote that I much prefer, 

“cherry jam in January, 

spitting out a pit or two

to remind me where it all began.”

Road trips with my dad are awarded their own niche of delight: downing beef jerky and fountain sodas while 90s alternative and grunge blares from the car speakers. “Not too much sugar!” my mom would cry, pulling out carrot sticks (a lost cause). Stuck in the car with my siblings for hours, 

“bickering until the sun set

and then some more,

blankets tucked under seat belts

as we drove into the night.” 

Droopy eyes fixated on the stars just to stay awake, I watched the raindrops race their way down backseat windows. To this day, Smashing Pumpkins still puts me to sleep. Although my family hasn’t owned a car for nearly a decade, public transportation becoming our personal chauffeur, I always look forward to the odd rental excursion that rekindles this treasured tradition. 

Although I will always love cherry picking and road trips simply by their transient nature, some things take more time, more intentionality. Ever since I was little, I’ve had a passion for the arts, anything from paints to ballet to taxidermy, but these days I gravitate toward fiber arts. My backpack is chock-full of yarn and crochet hooks, embroidery floss and needles, so much so that the zipper is likely splitting at this very moment. However, only in the last couple of years have I felt comfortable with anyone seeing my craft. Crochet hats got shoved in drawers, sewn dresses left on the hanger. But now I say art is always better in the sun, so I started taking my designs for strolls. They shone with all the glory I’d envisioned while creating them, and I realized 

“I’ve made room now: 

 a shelf in my closet, 

a nook in my heart.” 

My confidence renewed, I stock my backpack with mismatched buttons and colorful scissors, crochet keychains adorning the outside with pride.

These simple poems have become an outlet for me to explore my own life, uneventful as it feels at times, rather than live someone else’s spectacular story. They give me space to fall in love with the life I never saw: all its routines and monotony finding their place at the forefront of my delight. My poetry transforms my life, not in a sudden swooping-in-and-saving-the-day kind of way, but instead by slowly turning my day-to-day into something worth loving. Or perhaps by highlighting the life that was worth loving all along.