Essays that Worked!

Sarah Seigle '12, Montpelier High School, Montpelier, VT

It's a Sunday morning and I love everything; the filtered light from outside complements the wooden floors of my kitchen table perfectly and there is John Mayer playing in the background.

Such are my Sundays, which I have designated "Homework Sundays." I look forward to them all week, my day of rest and productivity. I spend them in the home in which I was raised, at the same table I have eaten many a meal at; slaved many a night at, trying to conquer one math problem or another. I even broke the table once when I was younger, much to the displeasure of my parents. It is the same table the light plays across now, and I feel the years stretch out beneath me, marking time.

Sunday is the only day of the week that passes with a quiet fluidity that I can't get enough of.  My dad, whom I call "papa," is working at the kitchen counter nearby. My glass of seltzer is in front of me, disconcertingly close to the papers with which I am working. Our two parakeets, Oiseau and Pajaro (the words "bird" in French and Spanish respectively) refuse to stop chirping shrilly to one another. It's business as usual. I feel so comfortable here. Having grown up inside the sun-yellow clapboard and the red front door that characterize my house, I know everything about it, from the best hiding spot in a game of hide and seek (the top shelf of my closet) to the nuances of the sound our ancient microwave makes when it has finished heating (something between a beep and a honk). My journal is one floor up, probably in a stack that also contains my Larousse French dictionary and a plate from last night's stay-awake snack. I have everything that is familiar to me here, at my fingertips.

I have not yet changed out of my pajamas and I'm getting cold due to the draft coming in through the screen of the sliding glass door in front of me. It's autumn, after all, and Vermont autumns are nothing to be trifled with. I'd wear my slippers if I could find them, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my sister took them and is keeping them in the back of her closet. I shift my position and sigh, brushing my hair out of my face. The bun I put it in ten minutes ago is falling out but I'm too distracted by the math problem in front of me to do anything about it. I've been working through the foreign, seemingly random steps that math necessitates for about an hour now, and I'm more than ready for an English break.

Words are language I speak, and I can feel myself sinking into my center as I begin to write the sentences. I'm not a person who blushes as a general rule, but my face gets warmer when I write. There is not unpleasant tug of something else I don't want to do, no overcoming of will to get the writing done. Noise doesn't matter. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing and it's simple but it's perfect.

Not only does it content me for the moment but it's something I've never tired of: words have carried me throughout my entire life. I chronicled my childhood in Five Star notebooks; I supplemented my sister's and my Beanie Baby games with newsletters and scripts and lists. It defines my past and is all of the momentum I feel for my future.

As I've grown older my passion for words has expanded to include French and Spanish. I rarely go a day without getting a word from one of these languages stuck in my head. Today it's "faire les courses" or "to do the shopping" in French. I often find such phrases running through my head at inopportune time, and I have to physically shake my head, scattering the myriad verbs and adjectives to whichever overactive corner of my brain they came from in the first place.

I lay my pencil down when I have finished my assignment and sit back, enjoying the afterglow of being done with a task. I'd like to clean out my car before the day is over, and possibly update my scrapbook. It would be a great time to go running on the bike path behind the high school as well.

I have the entire day at my disposal.

Last Modified: Thursday, August 28, 2008 16:21