Packing Up One More Time

I learned early

that goodbye is a language

spoken quietly in parking lots,

in driveways full of cardboard boxes,

in hallways where lockers close

for the last time.

Being a military kid

means you grow up measuring life

in school years and duty stations,

friends who stay for two years,

sometimes one,

sometimes just long enough

to learn their favorite song

before they disappear on a new map.

But this year feels different.

Senior year sits heavy in my hands,

like a suitcase that isn’t packed yet.

For once, everyone else is leaving too,

not just me.

The hallways feel smaller now,

like they know we’re almost gone.

Teachers say things like

“good luck out there,”

as if the world

has been waiting behind the doors.

And maybe I’m more ready

than most people think.

Because moving taught me

how to walk into a room alone

and still find a place to stand.

It taught me how to build a life

from scratch

with nothing but courage

and a new introduction.

Senior year isn’t the end.

It’s just another transfer,

another beginning.

And somewhere out there

is a place I haven’t lived yet,

waiting for me

to call it home.