mar 26, 2020

I have walked this path 657 times
Everyday, twice a day. 

Getting on and off the bus. 
For 16 months. One year and 8 months. 
Long enough to feel like forever, but too short to be forever
It takes around 3 minutes to walk  
From the bus stop
Next to the towering hill
And up the cracked sidewalk full of plants breaking through, like prisoners escaping, thirsty for sun and for life
And past the abandoned structures in the grassy field, standing attentive and silent in cold air in the winter and brazenly struck in the heat
And through the trees that border the car park, a blend of nature and mechanics, where there's a little hollow I've stood under when it rains, sheltered by the thick canopy of pine needles. 

This path has seen me become someone new, has seen my tears after breakups of friends and loved ones, has seen my anger crashing like waves in my chest as the boys yell at me and jeer, has seen my laughter between friends and has seen my quiet solitude when all that I have is my backpack and breath.  

I'm not the same person I am the first day I walked down that hill, excited to be in a new school with new friends, nor the girl who walked up that path for what might be last time in a long time, unaware about how much she'd miss the weight of her backpack, the feeling of arriving to the bus for another routine of normality. 

The girl I am now hasn't walked that path for 9 days and she won't walk it for another 29, maybe more. And she wants it back. All the silent tears listening to podcasts, the 7:50 Spanish homework cramming, the saccarine smiles between people we pretend to be friends with, the sky, the air, the breeze

the path.