Change 

is the hardest part of growing up.  

My senior year began with anxieties 

and profound sadness

over a falling out 

with my close friends 

who lived thousands of miles across the sea.  

I dragged myself through long, 

repetitive days,

finding class meaningless,  

disconnected from my life,

unable to forget the events that left me feeling

so alone 

by summer’s end.

One English class began with a new poem. 

“Remembrance” in black, bold letters. 

It began in the style of a traditional lament

for a lost love who died many years before,

but as I read on,

I saw myself

in the poet’s inability to move on from her

loss.  

The line

“then did I check the tears of useless passion”

caused my own tears to fall.  

I hadn’t suffered the death of a loved one,

but I had lost someone 

and wasted so much time wishing 

I had done things differently, 

missing what I had.  

The poet, one tragic Emily Brontë, 

could never forget what she lost 

and knew that her life would never again 

be the same, 

but she knew that she couldn’t let this consume her thoughts 

so she could save her own life.

Change is hard, 

but it’s inevitable.  

“How could I seek the empty world again?” 

I didn’t know, 

but I had to try.