Echos of Hampshire Street


Image by Pixabay

The thrift store, aka the place to dump unwanted items.

You never know what you can find, whether it’s someone’s photo frame with a photo in it to your next favorite piece of clothing. Whenever I go to a thrift store, I immediately set my sights on the cd section. The cd section of a thrift store will usually have old artists that are considered “vintage” now. But the joy of running your fingers through the shelves of CDs, and hearing the sounds of the CD cases click against one another as you rummage through them hoping to find a gem is unparalleled to anything else. And in this particular outing, I stop to an album with the colors red paired with a black and white image. This particular album was by Fiona Apple and I bought the CD despite the fact I never heard Fiona Apple before. Perhaps the name Fiona Apple perked my interest and I went home and played the cd I just bought…hitting eureka.


Image by Pixabay

Highschool is place where everything you’ve wanted is right in your reach. Prom, memories, new friendships, even maybe a relationship? If so, what highschool are you attending.

They say highschool is the best time of your life. That it’s the years to truly peak in your childhood and make fun moments that are supposed to last a lifetime. However, I disagree. It feels as if my childhood had already ended. I’m thrown into the fire of scantrons where each bubble can make my points go lower or higher. A, B, C, or D, that’s all that matters. 7 hours a day, 5 days a week, 10 months a year. I will be seated in an uncomfortable seat in a super cold or super hot classroom, focusing on a single figure in the middle of the room that speaks.

Yet I’m still trying to find the golden moments that people speak of becuse the highschool I think of is a time that slowly begins to erase my already worn down childhood the older I grow.


Image by Pixabay

Going into my room after a long day, sitting down while carefully inspecting my CDS, and after a lot of thought I choose one. I open it up take take the CD out and popping open my CD player, as a I carefully set the CD in. Soon shortly, a strong, clear melody starts to play that brings deja vu.

Music has a chokehold on me. Music is one of those luxuries that I’m grateful I can cherish freely. The music that would play on the radio, to the music on the CD my mom would play in her car. I never realized when music had enveloped me or how it did so, but the songs that played as me and my mom would sing along to the lyrics as we went fast down the freeway with the window down, hair flying. It’s irreplaceable, and no logic can ever make me understand why I fell so deeply for a stranger’s voice playing behind a speaker. 


Image by Pixabay

Back in the days I was in elementary school, I had a trio friend group. But in reality, there was a duo in the trio and I didn’t make the cut to be in the duo. Wherever the duo went, I would follow. Going to the swings at recess? Okay I will too. But even then the swings were separated with 2 per bar. I remember feeling this indescribable feeling at the time knowing that my “friends” in the duo would never act or play with me like that if the other wasn’t present. They didn’t care whether or not I would hang out with them, they wouldn’t miss me. I felt as if all the kids around me were already in their friend groups which were fated to be unchangeable, a sign that I could never play with them and that my “trio” at the time was no different. 


Image by Shaleh Genel

When I was younger, I wanted to be a fashion designer (mostly because my mom was one). But I genuinely felt a passion in articles of clothing. I would spend most of my school mornings as a kid pulling multiple outfits from my drawers and laying them out on my bed to make outfits before trying each one on. As I continued to grow up, my passion for being a potential fashion designer stayed. Until I grew old enough where I was capable of forming my own opinions and communicating with ideas with thought behind it. When I told my mom about who I wanted to be when I grew up, she quickly shut down my dream. “Fashion designers don’t make money, go become a doctor” my mom said. And what a parent said goes, so the next day I told my teacher I wanted to change my answer to what I wanted to be when I grew up and I remember the feeling when she crossed out the words “fashion designer” on the paper with a bright red pen and replaced it with “doctor.”

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