What's it been, now: 12 years, 92 teachers, 49 Mead notebooks, 31 G2 pens, 12 new pairs of shoes, 2300 recesses, 3 Trapper Keepers, 6 lunchboxes, and 14 backpacks.
This was just a class. Just another class.
There were 480 trips to the bathroom, 6 trips to the nurse's office, 38 days you called in sick, 4 broken hearts, 219 pizza slices, 800 drinks from the drinking fountain, and 44 hours on a school bus.
Your time is running out. They're already printing diplomas for next year's seniors. They're already assigning them lockers and planning school dances. The sophomores have begun planning their senior prom and the freshman have their outfits already picked out for the senior dinner dance.
My 5th grader's working on his senior prank, and my 3rd grader is home sick with senioritis. My daughter cried last night because she didn't get in to Stanford. None of us knows what we want to do with our lives, but you're the one that's running out of time.
You're the one who's getting your 52nd report card out of 54, and you're the one who's pretending to hate everything even though you're already starting to miss it. You're the one who's doing everything for the last time.
That's over 2500 school days, which means that's over 2500 nights of thinking about tomorrow, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about tomorrow.
And here I am talking about yesterday, when all you can think about is tomorrow.
I guess I just want you to think about today.
This moment right now. Here in the little theater. With the dark lights and the bell about to ring and your shoes that you have on right now.
Because not even the magicians can hold a moment in their hands.