;

at the end of creative writing 1, nelson asked us to write how we found paris.

i honestly believed that i hadn't found it yet, because my storybook was only halfway full

but i've learned that paris is not just a one line you can trust:

paris was each thing that awoke me;

that opened my eyes to ideas outside of number 2 pencils, composition notebooks and fluorescent lighting --

paris was timing my breaths to your poetry

paris was blue bucket of gold by sufjan stevens

paris was learning that i can actually make art, & that i'm a pretty decent dancer when i want to be

paris was writing poems about my mom i was scared she would read, & writing poems about my dad that i knew he never would

paris was long drives & short conversations

paris was the way nelson always thanks us after reading his poems

paris was a million different ideas that i still haven't finished

paris was the 3 notes in a song we all know so well

paris was asking cute boys out via poem

paris was being proud of rough-draft poetry & overthinking final publishes

paris was papercutted journal pages

and healing fingers

paris was convincing people with beautiful poetry that it's worth sharing

paris was my tears after listening to michael melendez's story

paris was learning to love myself and being okay with that

paris was writing lyrics for no one

paris was that song over, and over, and over, and over

paris was telling sol she is brave,

telling isabel she is lovely,

telling alysia, izzy, and amber 'thank you'

paris was late-night comments,

resurrections,

rebirths,

and renewals

paris was astronomical metaphors

& reading from treetops

paris was accepting that my steering wheel had known more tears than my journal pages

paris was making words, photos, drawings, collages, and ideas that belonged to my mind, and allowing all interpretations to belong to you

paris was trying to remind myself of my drugstore father

paris was famous last words

paris was being on my own endangered species list

paris was the passengers seat in boys' cars

paris was finding 37 ways to say i love you,

and saying them all.

paris was learning that even with a twisted spine, i could still feel like the tallest one in the room

paris was remembering when i would come home & my clothes would still smell like you

paris was sleeping with the lights on

paris was remembering my father's curly hair,

wearing his leather jacket when it got especially cold,

& missing the 3-minute long voicemails he would sometimes leave me on accident

paris was accepting that it's okay to not always understand, because art always has a deeper meaning

paris was becoming minimalist

paris was forgetting what my brother looked like when he was sad

paris was eventually learning to stop envying the photos in the obituaries

paris was praying out the window

paris was kissing at red lights

paris was diving in feet first, finally submerging after one final breath;

at the start of a poem,

between a phrase,

& not always at the end

paris was having a messy room & messier hair

paris was learning how to be content and still write good poetry

paris was the pulse in my bottom lip before reading an honest poem to a crowded room

paris was the last real moment before swallowing fear,

judgement,

and nervousy

paris was looking everywhere but the pages

paris was realizing that scars are like red dirt and flowers - they remind us that this world is beautiful

paris was treating poems like songs,

learning symmetry,

and achieving balance.

paris was more than a class, it is an opportunity & a blessing:

paris was teenage prayers

paris was making more mixtapes than promises

paris was "letting our hearts find more places

than the dust on our boots

& learning to occupy hallways

that are becoming

less crowded"

...

paris was

paris was

paris is.

thank you, kyle.

for not only being our favorite teacher,

but for being our friend.

as for you, & as for me,

(let us find out).

fondly and forever,

rosyln (emily) grey (moyle)