It was the last time I walked out of the old, nostalgic building that I had called my school for most of my life; each step took me farther from the familiar, constant life I once had. I clearly recall that emotional day that caused several of my classmates along with myself great trouble; it was likely one the most momentous moments of my life. The other students had lightheartedly poured out of the school building to jump start their summer, their unavoidable return in the following months seeming distant to them. Unlike them, I was never coming back. I clutched the photo album my friends had made for me as a going off gift, and took a few seconds to look back at the school and let myself take in the details of it one last time. I was moving at the very end of my sixth grade year, and I knew that the following years of schooling would never be the same. Over the course of the next few days, my family and I loaded all of our belongings into a big truck and headed off from our suburban New York home.
The mention of moving had come up at the dinner table several months before it permanently interrupted my superb life as it was.
“I am pondering the idea of moving,” my father had said one night in a misleading tone that suggested he was asking.
It was simply a negligible idea to me at the time, no different than the rest that were brought up. But it soon made itself known to be true, against all my predictions. Stubborn as I was, I continuously reassured myself that this was…