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Everyday Has Meaning

Fifteen years does not seem like a lot if you count each year out finger by finger. The thumb stands proudly for the time when Mrs. Tooks, my kindergarten teacher, led me hand in hand to the girls' bathroom, for the letters of the alphabet barely had any meaning to me.

The index finger represents the first box of Girl Scout cookies I ever sold, and the middle finger cramps down for the pain from the loss of my first tooth. On and on the years have passed by, fifteen of them.

This past year, my first year being a freshman, swiftly slithered beneath my size eight feet. My freshman year, however, seems to have been a waste.

Every morning I would awake to face the fact that I had to go to school... again. And every morning I crammed for my next quiz or bantered with my friends.

Nine o'clock passed quickly, and three fifteen was on its way. In biology class, I'd stare at the clock, praying silently that its minions would scurry to the edge of the minute hand and push it forward.

When I flounced off the bus, I'd check off how many days of the week had gone by, how many days until Friday. At the end of the week, I looked forward to the completion of another week, and everything became an ongoing monotonous process.

As I look back now with a jar of seemingly endless summer time and freedom in my hands, I realize that I should not have wasted the twenty-four hours of Monday waiting for the passing of Tuesday.

I threw away my freshman year worrying about tomorrow; I made a mistake that took away ten months from my life. As I saunter down the street to the East Cobb Park, I hear blaring music from multiple cars, the constant ringing of cell phones, and the sudden beeping of the cars of frustrated drivers.

When I reach the park, I notice an elderly woman, slumped down on a newly installed bench, enjoying the sight of cumulus clouds. Cool air rushes into my mouth and my chest expands.

I squint up at the clouds as a leaf dances upon my face. This is the way time should pass. Time should pass slowly everyday, and it should be filled with compassion and gratitude for each minute one has on this earth.

Time should not run mechanically like a train on its tracks; time is too precious. One day I will be that aged woman sighing on a bench, and on that day, I will know that besides that ten months of my life, every day was spent with meaning.

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