Young Writers Project is a creative online community of teen writers, photographers, and artists, based in Vermont since 2006. Each week, VTDigger features the writing and art of young Vermonters who publish their work on youngwritersproject.org, a free, interactive website for youth 12-18 years old. To find out more, visit youngwritersproject.org, or contact Executive Director Susan Reid at sreid@youngwritersproject.org; 802-324-9538.
Nostalgia: The word may have a proper Merriam-Webster definition, but we would all describe it differently to a small child asking us to explain the concept. This week’s featured writer, Hailey Hem of St. George, transports us to a diner frozen in time as seen and felt through the eyes of a narrator down on his luck, reminiscing about the simpler days of his past.
A special diner
By Hailey Hem, 13, of St. George
I walked into the nearly empty diner and was hit by the strong smell of Windex burning the inside of my nose. My face furrowed at the familiar chemical-y scent brought on by the vibrant blue cleaner drenching the windows.
White lights beamed down from the long, flickering fixtures up above, hanging onto the grease-stained ceiling. Wisps of timeless jazz seemed to trickle from the vintage jukebox in the corner. No one was to be seen in the front, and rows of empty, bright-red booths lined the ceramic, checkered floor of the diner. Only a shell of the diner I once spent time in, trying to conceal myself from the scorching summers, ordering milkshakes and sundaes to cool off, away from the blazing sun. The diner I’d curled up in during frigid winters, always asking for a warm cup of hot chocolate with exactly five marshmallows bobbing around in the mug.
But those now are only memories I hold close to my heart. I’m much too old to be participating in the activities I enjoyed many years ago.
I walked toward a booth down at the far end of the room, next to a window. The rain struck the glass panels, pattering against the cold surface. The seats were as vibrant and springy as ever, somehow one of the only things to have not changed over the years.
Faint steps hit the ceramic tiles and gradually made their way toward my table. I looked up, and a seemingly middle-aged lady stood with a pen and notepad in hand.
“What can I get you tonight, sir?” she asked as her lips curled into a slight smile.
“Just a vanilla milkshake, please.”
She gave a small nod and then made her way back to the kitchen. Even with the obvious rundown quality of the whole place, I couldn’t help but feel so comforted by it. I guess that was all I had now, the only place I could really feel vulnerable in. What else could I hold on to? The ones I cared for the most left too soon, leaving me behind.
There wasn’t much I could do now, could I?
The waitress’s shoes clicked along the floor, now carrying a half-foot-long glass in one hand and a bill in the other.
“Here’s your drink, sir, hope you enjoy,” she expressed softly, again smiling, before heading back into the kitchen. I looked out the night-filled window slightly reeking of Windex while sipping from a bright-red straw, tasting my bittersweet memories of the past.