The leaves should have been opening. The bare branches would have been reaching, curling, twisting, ghastly all winter long. But now they should have had buds with the promise of a fuller silhoutte coming soon. A symbol of spring, times to come. When the buds came, I knew summer was soon to follow.
The unfurling leaves on the bare branches spiraling inot the sky did not just symbolize the coming of a season. The trees, so big you couldn't hug one and grab your hands on the other side, were ancient in my eyes. Surely they held secrets about the past, eras they had grown through. If they had a voice, what stories would they share?
I cannot help but wonder who took and ax to the first tree and who planted those trees and all the time in-between.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Don't ask, don't tell. That is the unspoken rule of ACT scores. I have discovered through conversation in the last year that it is not proper to discuss ACT scores in polite conversation. People get tense, defensive and quiet. I do not understand why.
Perhaps this is because I don't think it's that important. Sure, your college future can be swayed by it. But in life, it's just another number, like your weight. It does not define you. I do not think the ACT defines real intelligence. Some of the strongest, smartest, kindest people I know simply cannot score well on the ACT. I also know brilliant, funny, nice people who scored very well on their first try. I don't see the difference between these people. The trick to the ACT: good guessing.

Keys to Nowhere

My purse was organized. Once. Now it holds everything I might happen to need in an emergency including bandaids, important papers that I lose often, and chapstick. Recently, when digging for who knows what, I reached in and pulled out a set of two keys, with a label. 

Normal people would not carry keys like these around with them, but when my mom was about to throw them out, I stopped her and put them in my purse. I do not know why I keep them or why they are in my purse, I just cannot stand the thought of throwing them away. So they stay hidden in the depths of a magenta purse, keys to nowhere. 

You see, the doors that belong to this set of keys are gone. Destroyed in a landfill or maybe lying in a pile of rubble on in the doorway where they once hung. 

Panera Changed My Life

I continue to live in the dark ages where dial-up internet connection sometimes causes me to take random photobooth pictures, reorganize the folders on my laptop, and make unending to-do lists while I wait for something to load. So I end up with a drink and a friend at a sunny table in Panera. Recently I have found myself drawn there, to the hum of business, the smell of bread, the world at my finger tips with free wifi and a good friend. 

There is nothing better than the luxury of unplanned time at Panera. Researching colleges usually gets me stressed and afraid and excited, but if I have a friend across the table ready to rehash the days happenings while thinking about major life decisions, it seems more bearable and almost relaxing. At Panera the potential for our publication is endless as we ponder possibilities for the newspaper. There is no better place to unwind, catch up with a dear friend while actually doing something productive.