Every year, graduating seniors on The Octagon write a final piece to say goodbye to Country Day. This is one of nine pieces by the class of ’22.
How do I begin?
The last couple of months have trained me well in the melancholy practice of reminiscing — so many moments, experiences to choose from, to write about, to say goodbye to.
So, herein lies the musings of yet another nostalgic soon-to-be high school graduate: New document. 0.13 inch indent. Two inch column. Nine point Times New Roman font. Add byline.
A blinking cursor right under my name.
I type my position and begin writing the lead to my story.
That routine has dominated my life for the past four years — of course, the bylines have changed: reporter, page editor, online A&E/Opinion Section Editor, Online Co-Editor-in-Chief. I remember how excited, hopeful I felt each time I typed in a new position, a step higher up the ladder. But now, there is no higher rung; there’s just the next ladder, college.
And as I peer down this climbed ladder, I see all the trodden steps, missed steps, crooked rungs and straight rungs — yet they all gleam in the sunlight from this angle high up. Yes, I do see the dirt and other residue, but the beaming metal underneath shines through.
In the bright metal I see my friends and my caring teachers. No matter what the day brought, my friends were always there to support and help me climb higher.
Truthfully, it has been the hardest for me to come to terms with saying goodbye to that special group of people.
I have loved our walks around the field, water bottles always in hand. I have loved our talks on the swings in the lower school playground. I’ll miss the stupid, little jokes we made
daily — daily shots of laughter and joy.
I’ll miss lounging around campus, listening to music with my friends in between classes.
I’ve known them and most of my classmates since I came to Country Day in third grade. I haven’t known any different for ten years.
And to the many students who have made my senior year — the underclassmen on the track team and Octagon staff, the juniors I’ve become so close with — you too will be dearly missed.
Hasta luego, au revoir, but never goodbye, my friends. I can say “till later” all I want but the question still bugs me: How do I end?
This has been a phenomenal, beau-
tiful high school experience. I love all of you.
“He’s alive. The stars rattle him to the
core. These lights have traveled for tens
of millions of years just to reach him at
this moment, and somewhere far away,
our own sun looks just like one of these.
How many of the stars no longer even
existed, but whose ancient light is just
reaching him now? An impression from a ghost.
An amazing, infinite time ma-
chine every night above his head that
he’s ignored for most of his life. He wants
to stop people in the street and say:
‘Isn’t this amazing? Isn’t everything
Thank you and high five!
— By Arijit Trivedi
Originally published in the May 24 issue of The Octagon.