Anonymous
Hello, students.
This place is haunted. Not in the traditional sense, though - no poltergeists, no sudden shivers of cold, no phantom touches of bony fingers on your shoulder, a half-lit face in the bathroom mirror that vanishes when you turn around.
What exists here are ghosts. Ghosts of laughter and conversation, of quiet afternoons lazing on the beanbags in the commons after lunch as the sunlight shines gold through the windows. Ghosts of shifting chairs and rattling keyboards, of wet shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor after a spray of drops from a rain soaked umbrella rescued from a thundering downpour.
You may find a student chatting with a teacher, whiteboard filled with scribbles of marker, an investigation ever ongoing, just about finished, one more line, one more deduction, one more equation solved until a conclusion. You may find a group of friends messing about in the hallway, kicking a wad of paper amongst themselves, skittering along the ground, crackling and bunching up on a rebound from the wall, back and forth, up and down, on and on and on, ceaseless, crinkling and folding. You may find a table of kids hunched together in the library, cards held tight in restless hands, a snake of red, yellow, green, and blue growing as one card is placed, and another, and another, growing and growing, until it’s long enough to start squeezing the breath out of its players, the word ‘Uno’ inching closer and closer from the backs of the throats to the tips of the tongues.
But come again, take another look - the whiteboard is spotless, markers capped and erasers clean in their holders. The hall is empty, lockers shut and locked along the sides. The table is sterile, collecting dust until the next round of cleaning comes through, and the pack of Uno cards sits untouched on the shelf with the other games. No conclusions drawn, no paper ball bounced, no ‘Uno’ yelled.
They’re gone now, the ones before you, the ones who shared your seats and your anxieties and your excitement, those who breathed the air of years gone by, each moment shedding echoes like ripples from a stone dropped into a pond. In their place, they remain. The ghosts were here, are here, will always be here. Alive, breathing, cheeks flush with the colour of memory. Ask their names, learn their stories. In due time you too will leave your ghosts, every phantom borne with every move you make, into the past, into the future, a legacy of snapshots in time with no seam between one and the next.
Live, then, and fill your reel with gold. This film records only once.
Welcome, students, and goodbye.
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