One More Story


Adriana Rubio, Reporter

Oh, I am finally old enough to know why my parents took so long to finish their stories. Why they would ask us so many questions about how our day was at school and why they would make us get up every Sunday morning for church. 

What would I tell myself, at 14 years old? It’s okay. Sit with them. Take in the extra hour past curfew with your friend. Take the pictures that everyone found annoying at the time. One day, you will be taking your final steps off campus and you will turn the key to start your car that your dad picked for you, and you will look back over your shoulder. She will be beautiful, strengthened, and you will be, for a moment, struck by all of it.

You will think of being a sophomore and napping cramped in the tiny library that separates the band room from the choir room. You will think about how long the days felt. And how green the field was whenever you walked past it. You will think about all the people you could have lingered with. And you will wish, more than you have ever felt a wish, that the universe just gave you that – more time to linger. More time to say – see you tomorrow. I know I’m ready to leave, but I can’t help but not want to leave you. And as I write this, I am leaving a piece of my heart that lingers too. 

As this last paragraph comes to close, so does this chapter of my life. There’s one thing I’ve learned throughout my years of high school. Something that wasn’t taught on a powerpoint or an 11:59 p.m. deadline. It’s that no ones ever prepared for what comes next: you just have to do it. Time stops for no one – so here’s to one more long story.