As I headed back home, I passed my high school. I'd remembered the third year class from the religion track. 'Peace and Justice'. I hadn't appreciated it at the time. I thought about what I had written earlier, and wondered if that class still existed.
After some time had passed, she'd asked people to read their notes aloud, and took volunteers. As I'd looked down in my lap at the paper, I realized I was not ready to read aloud an expression of the sentiment I had written. I did leave it on the wall at the end, hoping it helped me follow through.
Waiting to turn and pass through the valley by the school, I wondered if they had any other students like me. I considered if the idea of an alumna talking to the students would help anyone who felt trapped, like they had no way out. It would surely come with scorn, but that was part and parcel of life. I wondered how I'd even figure out who the right person to talk to was. Thing is, I knew believing what I had written meant I'd have to figure out the answer to those questions, and I knew that at that moment, mere feet away from being able to walk in and do so, I was close, but not there yet.