Tag: Portfolio
On Time
by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on October 2, 2025
Portfolio
I’ve gotten so used to digital clocks it often takes me a few seconds to read an analog clock on a wall. And by the time I’ve read it, the time I was trying to tell has passed, and now I am stuck trying to tell how much time has passed from then until now, instead of telling the time it is now.
How many days do you think there are in the lifetime of an average human? I do not think I care to know. Well, I do, but doing the math would burn up time in the day, which would leave me with much less day than I originally accounted for when I woke up.
In my 20 years on earth, I can’t think of a single second that I have not wasted. It’s far beyond procrastination at this point—it’s more like fear. Or terror. Or dread. I am paralyzed by time. I am not sure what I am stalling for, but you’ll be the first to find out. I am playing chicken with time, and I think I might win.
I don’t know how much longer I can wait. I am done with this waiting game. Can you even be waiting for something if you don’t know why you are waiting, what you are waiting for, and how long you will wait? I think I can wait; it’s not like I have anywhere to be. I think I did once upon a time. I think I had someplace I had to be, and some place I wanted to go. I had a sense of purpose. But that was so long ago. That was before time caught up to me.
In my dreams time stretches out in front of me, and I can see everything that was and everything that will be. In those dreams I have all the time in the world. In those dreams I am weightless, and my heart is steady, and there is no longer a dull ache in my temples. I am free from the hourglass where the sand silently swallows me. I am no longer stuck in the waiting room. But my unconsciousness is also on a timer, and despite my screams, the timeless world I seek refuge in dissolves. And the silence of my dreams is replaced by the piercing chime of my digital alarm clock. It is 8:41 a.m. and I am already late. Oh, how I waste my days.
Forever In The Yard
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 2, 2025
Portfolio
A breeze formulating,
as soft as a cloth,
you wipe away my tears,
you settle my shaking bones.
Out in the sun,
ice cold sips of water,
your hand warms my skin
just the same.
Laughter prances across the yard,
we share the same smile.
The grass beneath my bare feet;
I’ll be home forever.
Until a brisk night falls,
we’ll share the shiny stories,
the dim stories too,
lanterns will keep them lit.
Never let me go.
My father’s eyes are proud.
My mother dresses up,
You’ll never be worn down.
When the summer kisses
and melts
my skin, next year,
you’ll be much more than a mere memory.
Love Soft Like Satin & Sounds Like Sisterhood
by Riley Londraville ’27 on October 2, 2025
Portfolio
Ryan and I step into the elevator up to the rooftop, and I look into the mirror of lustrous metal. I admire his cleanly shaven face and the jeans he’s put on for the occasion. We’re hand in hand, my green and white satin dress gliding over my oiled legs, and I can’t help but smile at the moment, and everything that led me here.
My roommates had just stood over me in the wooden desk chair they dragged in front of our double sink vanity. I meticulously painted my lashes, pulling my eyelids to the side for a sharp wing, as my breath fogged up my reflection.
Six years is big; it deserves the fuss, the wing, the satin, and more. Gio powdered my face while Katie twirled my hair in her hands after passing it through with the hot brush. I ran my hands through silk while Gio told me to look up, pressing away the trenches that had carved their way under my eyes. My legs shone thanks to Gio’s shaving oil, yet another thing I had borrowed in preparation for tonight. I used her oil, her bronzer, her concealer, and Katie wasn’t safe from my sticky fingers either; my hair is smooth and straight thanks to her hot brush, and my lips glimmer from the gloss that she stuck in my purse to bring with me to the rooftop.
It was a team effort slipping on Gio’s green and white satin dress, although it didn’t have to be. It was endearing to pretend I couldn’t reach the zipper, lifting my velvety hair up while Katie’s delicate hands pulled the clasp closed. Gio flashed her camera, capturing these moments in time—photos I’ll obsess over in weeks to come.
Now, Ryan bends down to kiss me on the cheek, making me glow like the sunset of the wildflower petals he gifted me earlier.
As the elevator doors to the rooftop open, I feel overwhelmed—no, pampered—with love.
Night of the Connecticut Swallows
by Andrew Auclair ’29 on September 25, 2025
Portfolio
The young swallows fly
like black ashes in the sky.
Take no time for rest,
for the skies they must infest.
The birds fly into the evening.
Dark clouds of dots dance
on the horizon, they romance.
The red sky retires,
the night put out the fire.
Of swallows I was dreaming.
Glow
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 25, 2025
Portfolio
A curve, a dip, a slope
You are full of light, more than you truly know
You may not look full, you may encompass darkness
Yet you provide immense light
You have a uniqueness, a dimness, that glows in a way no full moon could ever beam
Someone could sit if they needed a rest
Like a head leaning on a shoulder, falling asleep within the bend
The slumber will feel like a glow
A glowing vacancy
Water Color Heart
by Clara Johnson ’26 on September 25, 2025
Portfolio
Rendered in colors blue and gold and sage
Of water color, my fragile heart was made.
Its pigments spread onto the ancient page
Made from the sturdy bark which aspens gave.
It shifts, it changes every time it rains.
The colors bleed and intertwine within.
And when I weep, it further seeps and stains.
Mostly it spreads. Grows wide, but it thins.
My water color heart, sacred and strange
Which every moment has the chance to change
Whose color seeps into the roots and veins
Of aspen bark—the blue, the gold, the sage.
A Sleepless Dream
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 18, 2025
Portfolio
Darkness all around us
We walk
Between the crevices of light
Your eyes are filled
With lucid hazels
Your words seep through your skin,
Delicate and feathery,
The night’s wind
Crisp and calming
It lulls me with each laden step.
I’m within a shallow pocket
Cushioned by the conversation
Out of my cautious body, buzzing, breaking,
I can’t believe
The soothing song
Light and sweet on my tongue
Are the words that fall out
Sliding down
The smooth crescent moon
Swaying pendulously above.
Forever it hangs
We circle
Until the strides become painful,
The rain will fall all night long
The Devil & I
by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on September 18, 2025
Portfolio
The Devil and I walk side by side into the diner. We sit down at the counter, shoulders touching. I order coffee for the two of us from the girl behind the counter. She smiles sweetly and hands me two mugs. She doesn’t address the Devil beside me.
The Devil and I go to the park. As we walk down the paved path, the Devil captures my hand a little too tightly. I try not to notice the little girl in the stroller rapidly pointing at the Devil as we pass by.
The Devil and I go up the stairs slowly. I knock once we reach Val’s door. I watch her try to subtly glance at the Devil before she lets us inside with a weak smile. People are scattered throughout the cramped rooms of her apartment. I embrace old friends and am introduced to new ones, but I don’t introduce the Devil.
The Devil and I sit on the couch and watch people mingle over empty glasses of wine. The Devil puts an arm around my shoulder, firmly locking me in place. I try my best to ignore the Devil’s iron grip and the way everyone in the room avoids the couch.
The Devil and I put on our jackets at midnight. I linger for a moment to thank Val while the Devil waits outside. She clutches my hands and pretends not to know what I am thinking. I wish I could stay, but the Devil doesn’t like to wait, so I hurry down the stairs and into the cold night.
The Devil and I walk home with our arms linked in silence. The Devil walks faster than I, but I cannot afford to slow down. The Devil leads the way into our building without even caring to look in my direction.
The Devil and I brush our teeth at the sink together. I can’t stop staring at the Devil in the mirror. I want to look away, but I am trapped in the Devil’s dreadful stare.
The Devil and I lie down and I try to hide under the covers. But like a nightmare-ridden child, the Devil finds me. The Devil whispers in my ear and I know it’s no use. The Devil wraps me in its arms as I sob quietly. I curse the Devil, I curse myself, I curse the Devil and I.
Answered
by Grace Batsie ’28 on September 18, 2025
Portfolio
You are an answered prayer.
And I’m so happy that you’re here.
I would make you paper stars
Until my fingers cramp up.
Even then, I would tie them on a little string and hang them in your room.
Because you are an answered prayer,
And I’m so happy that you’re here.
The Little Match Girl: Brave Pretender
by Sarah Klema '23 on March 3, 2023
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
‘“She wanted to warm herself,’ the people said.
No one imagined what beautiful things she had
seen, and how happily she had gone…”
—Hans Christian Andersen
On a cold winter’s evening, the last of the year, she finds herself wandering about the city barefoot, penniless. Only a handful of matches to sell. No one wants them, no one looks her way. She might as well be a ghost—invisible, dead to the world.
At the crossroads of the city, coaches and buggies mill about—those on foot brush past her as formless shadows, faces stripped of color. She calls out to each one, brandishes her meager wares, each time unnoticed. A living girl drifting in a world of dead things.
They might as well be ghosts…so…cold.
She shakes her head to clear it of the growing fear and continues on. She is searching for something: a soul to care, or perhaps a light to claim as her own.
Passing through a market street, she observes tilted faces and twisted homes and tries to find some small bright scrap of self in this, with which to fashion an image, an identity, an ideal. A shred of hope to cling to. But the lights are going out along the streets, and the darkness is so thick, swallowing her small figure in shadow.
The faint specks of light that remain are now so much harder to possess.
Still, she is unfazed—no longer hoping to sell her wares, she will use them for herself! One match struck, and a golden spark is lit—barely a flicker.
No, a flame. And in that flame a fairy dancing!
She burns through three more matches—and beholds the vision multiplied.
More golden dancers to entertain me! Ah, look—they are inviting me to be a part of their fun! The stars are kind, to have granted me the company of such dear friends in this dark. Tonight, I think I hold heaven in my hands.
Dancing through the soulless streets with matches blazing, ignoring the protests of her frozen feet, she becomes one light among many as the matches, yielding up their fire, lend their bodies to the dance. The dancers bend and break, crackle and split and sigh. They die out one by one, consumed by the ravenous night.
Match by match by match she goes along, already nothing more than a faint smudge of light wavering against the backdrop of gray houses—more spirit than girl.
Ten matches gone now, and still the cold penetrates deeper. It seeps into the hollow spaces of her spine, constricts her blood vessels to the breadth of poppy seeds. Still, her eyes burn with inner fire, celestial light. She doesn’t notice that all her wares have burned through, their charred corpses circling her fading figure in the dust of the street.
Body numb with cold, she curls up in the snow to sleep—mind aglow with flaming visions—the brightest night of her life.