Daniel J. Raimer

Honorable Mention: Poetry

“Beyond These Walls” 
by Daniel J. Raimer
12th grade, Morristown Beard School

—

From the scratched hardwood floor,
I inhale the scents of Murphy’s Oil and Lemon Fresh Pledge.
Tucked in the crevices are piles of cozy crimson sweatshirts
and old toys that were never mine.
I reside with the last of the Fisher-Price Little People, inspired by the community heroes collection.
The soot-faced toddler emerges from the fireplace
after another failed search for Santa Claus. 

Dark brown grain, smooth overflowing bookcases line the walls of my room. 
Three five-shelf units have been lovingly constructed with 
an Allen key and a Swedish instruction pamphlet.
Endless stacks of books fill the closets where clothes should be.
Rick Riordan, Alan Gratz, Robert H. March, Suzanne Collins, Madeline Miller, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Philip Roth, William Faulkner, and Walt Whitman—
their stories allow me to travel through time, experience alternate realities, 
see the world, and explore nature.

An ever-growing guitar collection 
that I’m not allowed to touch sits idly by, 
accompanied by warped vintage records of bygone eras.
I remember when I was small enough to 
rest in the cavern of the baby grand piano,
nestled comfortably among the keys.
Among the musical instruments sit bins of tear-stained photographs
with smeared faces of the family lost too soon.
Resting on the bins are tall stacks of sheet music that collect dust in a
dark room where my cambiata voice
might have been the only light.

Characters from the Big Bang Theory and Seinfeld 
who once kept me company on the worn, velvet couch 
are replaced by Barry Allen, Ted Mosby, and Dr. Meredith Grey.
Leisurely weekend pancakes sizzle on the griddle,
and rushed, weekday bananas fill my belly like concrete.
The table that was once set for four
only has three now. 

In the hallway mirror I see the light hair of the Irish Blue Angel
and the hazel eyes of the Soviet refugee.
What smiles back at me is the resilience of the proud Marine, my namesake.
When I stop and see him there, I remember who all of this was for.

The street outside is barren with cracked pavement.
A worn net and hoop beg for more regular use.
The rotted wooden playset with the emerald green slide, 
powdered with pollen, sits under a canopy of trees.
I have outgrown the underbelly of the big, blue spruce.
It is repurposed as a refuge for forgotten frisbees and dirty baseballs.

I sit alone at the dining room table, no longer a place for holiday celebrations or family gatherings.
An avalanche of biology notes and calculus theorems bury the polished wood.
Its once-pristine wood grain is mercilessly marred by frantic scribbles of differential equations,
etched with the pressure of graphite and stress.
The indentations in the table have been worn deeper by each late night spent studying, 
and now cradle ghosts of candy wrappers soaked in ambition and caffeine.
Books with bold-lettered spines (Barron, Princeton Review, and the Fiske Guide) 
have taken residence as the new centerpiece. 
This room serves as a shrine of endurance and discipline.

My backpack peeks from under the table, out of sight, out of mind.
But now I see it for what it is: a record of who I am.
When the books and papers are removed,
what remains are mementos that define my high school years. 
Gum, for the moments when I didn’t know how to start a conversation.
Assorted sizes of Band-Aids, for the times I lent a hand to patch up more than just myself.
Coffee beans, a gift from a former coach, reminding me that I can 
transform my environment, rather than letting it transform me.
A frayed red ribbon, placed lovingly by my mother, a protective talisman, 
her symbol of faith, strength, and connection, 
or other outer worldly powers I could not explain.

Of all the souvenirs of my youth 
that red ribbon remains unmistakably bright, 
a vestige of my past that will undoubtedly travel with me 
to the world beyond these walls.