The night before my first day as a senior in high school, I sat at my desk realizing that the following day would be the last "first day of school" I would ever experience. I picked up an old photo album to find a picture of my mother with me in her arms. That picture was taken on my first day of first grade. I was wearing a dress, holding a lunch box, and laughing. Realizing that this would be my last year to be a child, as well as my first year as an adult, I had to resist the urge to run downstairs and climb into my mother's lap.

In first grade, my biggest problem was whether or not I wanted hot lunch. Now, that doesn't exactly classify as a problem for me. So many changes have taken place in my life, and so many more will come in the future. A part of me wishes that I could fast forward through all the difficult times and only remember the good. I've learned that isn't what life is all about.

I like to think of life as my own little book. Only the people who are closest to me can read and understand the pages. Even in the sad, difficult, and unexciting parts of this book, I keep on reading. Some of the things I read and thought to be useless help me understand what I'm reading now.

Even when someone's book is nearing its final pages, they can't help but look back and remember the bad as well as the good times. I suppose that a part of them wishes they could go back to page one.

As I enter the next chapter of my book, I realize that no one can know everything, or do everything, or ever let go of certain objects or memories from the past. They'll never want to.

After these thoughts, I pick up that picture again and see my mother differently. To me, this picture is no longer of a mother and her child. It is of two children, both laughing and smiling. One is very easy to notice, the other is hidden by an adult body and adult responsibilities, but she is still there. I have a feeling she will be there until the last word of her book. c