Young Writers Project is a creative, online community of teen writers and visual artists that started in Burlington in 2006. Each week, VTDigger publishes the writing and art of young Vermonters who post their work on youngwritersproject.org, a free, interactive website for youth, ages 13-19. To find out more, please go to youngwritersproject.org or contact Executive Director Susan Reid at sreid@youngwritersproject.org; (802) 324-9538.
Whether apartment unit, mobile home, camper van or the more traditional fixed-address house, our homes can come to take on personalities all their own. With that understanding, we sometimes hold affection for them, and other times exasperation (is that the roof leaking again?) — but either way, we’re bound to feel a heavy sense of grief after our final departure from them, and from every setting of true significance to us. This week’s featured poet, Adele Freebern of Richmond, meditates on this topic further as it relates to the unconventional home of her old school bus, just as she prepares to offer one last silent farewell.
June 10
Adele Freebern, 13, Richmond
My last time
walking down the steps
of a rickety, yellow home,
leaving shouts and laughter
behind me.
My last time
walking down the steps
of a home I hated every afternoon,
leaving uncomfortable gray seats
and small children standing up,
jumping at the one bump in the road
as the bus glides over,
getting closer and closer to my other home.
My last time
arriving at my street,
children moving out of aisles
for friends and family to slither by.
My last time
saying, “Thank you,”
to the old man or woman
who yell at misbehaving fourth-graders —
who have hearts of greater strength
and courage than anybody else,
to be a bus driver for loud, young kids.
My last time
walking down the steps
of a rickety, yellow home
that I hated, every Tuesday and Friday.
My last time
having a sigh escape my lips
as cold wind blows over me
and I’m left standing alone,
as a rickety, yellow home
rides away.
My last time
taking steps,
ten more, counted breaths.
My last time
walking to my real home
with sweat dripping down my forehead
and the sound of those walls
holding me closer.
My last time.
I don’t want to have to say goodbye.