NQDYPS

The hallway was buzzing with activity. Lockers slammed. Someone was hooting by the school store. The sounds leaked into the library with every swing of the door. I liked school, but today I was glad the normal day was almost over.

Today was a meeting of the Not Quite Dead Yet Poet's Society. I had a poem I had written during math and I wanted to share it. It was dark, of course. I couldn't wait to hear what they thought. What would they bring? What would we read? What game would we play. In that space language was alive.

It was my senior year and this group filled a strange, satisfying space for me. It was the creation of a myself and few others from my English class. People who could love words, liked a clever turn of phrase, could connect through Shakespeare. I recognize they were English nerds now, but then they were just a group with this odd enjoyment, which I thought I had alone. Suddenly, these people, who I didn't know before, were friends. The feeling of depth was amazing and refreshing.

I'm the first to Mr. Seeman's room. I grabbed my chair and pulled out the crumpled paper with my writing on it. Soon most of the group is there, Kristen, Kristy, Andy, James, Justin and Justin. They are there for the same reason, a celebration of words. A chance to be exposed, but not at risk. There is tension and joy, exhilaration and contemplation. When we talk about a sonnets meaning, we share how we see the world. We understand each other in a way high school kids rarely do. This is something special.

The time flies. It is a sea of mini-epiphanies and expressions. We are artists and critics and strange friends. We feel like some great collection of writers or intellects. We are onto something important, which is just outside the grasp of our outstretched hands.

When the days are done, we scatter to the winds. Colleges and jobs get us at the end of the year. Life kept us after that. This group is gone, held only in the minds of those few who were there. A photograph of a building torn down.

I'm happy to say I was there, I was part of that, but it is so hard to really express what it was. It feels unique, in both time and experience. These people could never really make this group again, there is a critical naiveness missing, but I wonder if they long to, like I do. I wonder if they see those days in the same special light I do. I hope so.