The Vision 2024

The HACKLEY SCHOOL • THE VISION 2024 • VOLUME XXXV

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Dear Reader, Thank you for lending The Vision your unyielding support.

Throughout the year, us at The Vision have been joyously inundated with your contributions in all genres of creative work.

We cannot imagine the magazine without our dedicated and artistic readers — indeed, you are our backbone, our bloodstream, and our heart. Without you, reader, Hackley would have no Vision.

Every year we have strived to showcase the best of what Hackley has to offer in terms of artistic merit, talent, and effort. This year is no different; the work gathered here is at the summit of our class’s output, portraying your eclectic thoughts and unspoken dreams on every page.

As you give your undivided attention to read this magazine, know that The Vision stands proudly with and for you.

Joshua Lee, Kylie Oh, & The Vision Staff

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table of contents “The Road Less Traveled” by Nkechi Ude Photography by Annabel Hardart...............................................................................page 6 “I remember” by Lara McComiskey Painting by Elyse Wang.................................................................................................page 8 “The moon is a beautiful peacekeeper” by Lilo Haidara Photography by Annabel Hardart.............................................................................page 10 “August” by Arri Bentsi-Addison Posey Photography by Enrique Ramirez.............................................................................page 12 “Fruits of her Labor” by Nkechi Ude Collage by Elyse Wang................................................................................................page 14 “Trace” by Rowan Pedraza Drawing by Fiona Pedraza.........................................................................................page 16 “The Moment When” by Allison Chin Drawing by Hailey Won..............................................................................................page 18 “A year too soon, too late” by Anonymous Photography by Charlie Perlman...............................................................................page 20 “Compromise” by Anonymous Photography by Mika Nuzum....................................................................................page 22 “See Me, Feel Me” by Cassandra Stand Drawings by Reagan Begley........................................................................................page 24 “The Old Toy Van” by Anonymous Drawing by Gabrielle Hogrefe...................................................................................page 26 “I want to retrieve you from the crinkled paper prints” by Anonymous Photography by Kalin Huang.....................................................................................page 28 “Music Yet Lives” by Samuel Sugiura Photography by Jasper Quattrone..............................................................................page 30 “The Duty of a Woman at Sea” by Madison Cruz Photography by Frances Clifford...............................................................................page 32

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“Origami” by Talia Tirschwell Collage by Elyse Wang.................................................................................................page 34 “The Invisible Mask” by Arya Gauba Painting by Allison Chin.............................................................................................page 36 “Sinking” by Isaac Ahn Photography by Annabel Hardart..............................................................................page 38 “How to Say Goodbye” by Kylie Oh Photography by Fiona Pedraza...................................................................................page 40 “Five Ways of Looking at a Mallomar” by William Earley Photography by Annabel Hardart..............................................................................page 42 “Randomness / Decay” by Talia Tirschwell Painting by Hailey Won...............................................................................................page 44 “Intertwined” by Anonymous Photography by Frances Clifford................................................................................page 46 “Staring at purple” by Francesca Jones Painting by Reagan Begley..........................................................................................page 48 “Barbershop Questions” by Allison Chin Photography by Anonymous......................................................................................page 50 “Evanescent Daydream” by Anonymous Painting by Allison Chin.............................................................................................page 52 “Cheap Ink” by Kylie Oh Drawing by Ella Chen..................................................................................................page 54 “The Little Ant” by Miya Lauher Photography by Jasper Quattrone..............................................................................page 56 “Your Radiant Company” by Madison Cruz Photography by Annabel Hardart..............................................................................page 58 “Cycle” by Talia Tirschwell Drawing by Gabrielle Hogrefe....................................................................................page 60 “Haikus” by Talia Tirschwell Photography by Annabel Hardart..............................................................................page 62 “Big Shoes to Fill” by David Lefkovits Photography by Isaac Ahn...........................................................................................page 64 “snacking thoughts” by Anonymous Painting by Elyse Wang................................................................................................page 66 “honor me with the comfort of knowing” by Madison Cruz Photography by Olivia Houck.....................................................................................page 68 “Jumanji” by Anonymous Photography by Samantha Reyes................................................................................page 70

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Zion Bennett ’26, drawing

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The Road Less Traveled

by Nkechi Ude ’26

Sometimes I wonder why Nobody ever takes the road less traveled by the masses They never take the time to understand why highways end in crashes I wonder why the woman who passes by every Sunday in a shiny red Corvette has an empty passenger seat with 4 kids in a back that only seats 3, her attention forever divided but in the winter months the heat of her heart only warms three why the man to her woman sometimes drives and sometimes occupies, a faded silver Honda on dirt roads in the night, how he sometimes forgets the quality of a Corvette when he knows he’s deserving of something less, that its shine is much too bright for the fragility of his ego why the fourth passenger in the back of their car, looks to find comfort on her sister’s lap, as there isn’t enough room and getting a new car would’ve meant driving past the roundabout, something her tired mother refused. So instead she watches her little sister stick her nose into the driver’s manual, long before she can read. She watches her attempts at driving when her feet can’t quite reach the pedals, and her hands are far too small to steer. But even still a little sister finds her way to life on the highway, where she speeds in the fast lane as often as she pleases. For the directions to the road less traveled were hidden in the fine print ofthe manual she’d never understood. She traveled much too fast. Which eventually led to a crash. A cautionary tale told so that I, somebody to nobody, might pave my own path.

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Annabel Hardart ’24, photography

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I remember

by Lara McComiskey ’27

I remember when the sheet hugged us tight but not as tight as our friendship. I remember making up stories to you when I couldn’t read. I remember looking out the window and seeing fireworks light up the sky.

I remember drawing on your blue wallpaper. I remember watching you play games on your computer. I remember when I broke your headboard, I remember all of it.

It was all in one room. The blue room. It wasn’t my room, but it had my favorite things. It wasn’t my room, but it might as well have been. It wasn’t my room but it holds memories my room never will. The air was homey, the light bright and happy.

But now when you reach for the doorknob the door gets stuck, overtime the door and the wall have melted together. The air is stagnant like an algae ridden pond. The room has a cold hospital-like feeling. The light dimmed, maybe from lack of use or lack of joy.

The room just has old memories; it no longer creates new ones. It’s just a place with blue walls. Just a place where my favorite person used to be

Elyse Wang ’24, painting

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Annabel Hardart ’24, photography

Annabel Hardart ’24, photography 10

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phy

The moon is a beautiful peacekeeper

by Lilo Haidara ’25

The moon is a beautiful peacekeeper She rises at dusk—a bat from a cave The leaves, fallen from the day, leap to her She bows to sun, an amenable slave With no such complaint she rises above Her milk eyes splatter across the dim night Witnesses wistfully below the dove Fear the mighty sun, her great ray of light Take me, I fear before the sun will rise Your light is perfect for star sunken eyes Write me a passage from words that are wise Relinquish your guilt the sun also lies La lune please guide me through this library You smell dewy of rotten rosemary

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Enrique Ramirez ’24, photography 12

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August

by Arri Bentsi-Addison Posey ’25

“Love camouflaging under strife Or other matters Minds over matters Let there be more!”

- “Isle Unto Thyself ”

Minds over matters.

Funny.

Funny how often I believed the two depended upon one another.

And yet A mere gaze in your direction (And I’m quite aware of how corny this sounds) Sends the matters fleeing from within my mind.

Now I refuse to be one of those poets who writes nonstop cliche poems Above love And romance And dreams that don’t exist in even the most starved imaginations.

But even so I ask myself And I ask my highest powers My greatest divinities Love Hope Dreams That there will be more!

Lest my woeful cries ever resound throughout the forsaken, neverending Valley of Broken Hearts.

It’s a craving that I cannot fulfill A feeling, a high that cannot be matched A comfortability.

And even amongst the bright fluorescent lights That flash across your face And your messy oxtail-flavored kisses.

I find our love undisguised.

Revealed through its camouflage For it has nothing to hide from.

No strife. No means or want for discretion.

Please.

Please Love.

Let there be more!

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Elyse Wang ’24, collage 14

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Fruits of her labor

by Nkechi Ude ’26

On sunday mornings when i’m home alone with him they often ask me to cut a piece of fruit For everyone who wants it My father gets the biggest piece, because he earned it for all the work he does every weekday 9-5 So on the weekends he enjoys the most sweetness Never mind the fact that taking care of 3 incredibly high maintenance children is no small feat My little big brother has the second largest piece, because he’s a growing young man who needs all the sweet he can get for the ugly world that is his daily environment as the only the only kid representing an entire culture that his classmates can mock and imitate the good parts of but never the lows So for that he is deserving of a moderately sized piece I serve my baby brother next, because it’s selfish to not put him before myself, because that’s the job of the eldest So my 4 year old brother has the third largest piece by this point a mere 1/5 of the melon remains the smallest scraps leftover and of course I never complain so as my mother and I glare, at leftovers from fruits we cut, cleaned, and served today fruit we selected, taste tested, bought and checked for mold My mother hands me the last piece without a second of thought she gives it to me and although I cut my piece in half and leave it in the fridge for her against her wishes I wonder if she’ll ever taste the ripest part of the fruit that is my fathers piece

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Trace

by Rowan Pedraza ’24 Our canoe paddles spun whirlpools in the water.

Sometimes a whirlpool held, long after the others dissipated.

The wakes traced by our canoes made the clouds dance.

Light travels in a straight line, but I caught it pliéing when it felt nobody was watching.

The trees, in particular, came into focus. Before we left camp for the Allagash, we studied the leaves of trees found in Maine. I had learned when I was very young that there are two types of trees - trees that lose their leaves every year and trees that don’t.

But something was changing in my fifteen-yearold perception.

Fiona Pedraza ’26, drawing 16

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I had often looked at the façade of trees along the bank of a river. But in those days on the Allagash I gazed in wonder at arms outstretched in an eternal struggle with gravity.

From those arms grew smaller limbs, and from those smaller limbs still, all part of the same body, all fighting gravity. Each smallest limb ended in a treasure. For some trees, a veined membrane, thin enough to tear; for others, a cluster of flexible, fearless needles. Each capable of magic, of turning light into food.

Throughout our coexistence with the trees on the banks of the Allagash, we practiced mindfulness in the form of leaving of no trace.

Cooking over fires of only dead wood hardly needed a reminder once we became aware of the formidable sensitivity surrounding us, the wonders of nature who exhale the air we breathe and share the ground they hold in their roots for us to sleep on.

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The Moment When

by Allison Chin ’24

I wonder when I knew maybe that call where you seemed to admire how I looked while concentrated lips slightly pursed, tapping my pen against them because when I looked up from my paper you were staring at me half smiling with a warmth in your eyes that stopped me from looking away because there was a quiet tenderness as if you could bask in our silence as if it were sunlight like we could just exist side by side and it would be enough for you.

Or maybe in the aphotic haze of the witching hour as the words flowed from my fingertips and you returned in the same way a gentle joke or adorned message that kept me awake despite my better judgment and I knew I would do it over and over again if only to feel like the world narrowed to just you and me breathing in unison.

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Hailey Won ’25, drawing

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Charlie Perlman ’25, photography

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A year too soon, too late

by Anonymous

it’s worse honestly because I can’t even be mad at you There’s nothing I can pick out to make this more bearable: no snide remarks or ignored texts dropped hands or unsavory jokes and I don’t want to despise you for making me like you for smiling at me holding open doors and buying books determinedly tying on bracelets with too-short strings sending me songs you think I’d like “good morning”s and “good night”s nicknames and gentle teasing and I don't know what to do when I think of something you’d laugh at because I can't send it to you not without risking us dragging this on longer falling back into old patterns until the temptation to re-ignite what we had grows too strong But I don't want you out of my life I don’t want to look back on this in a year and it’s like we never crossed paths like this was a foray into an ephemeral dreamland but in the blink of an eye, it never happened that we’ll just become lessons before finding The One something we’ll pause and remark upon once in a while but never really remembered.

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Mika Nuzum ’25, photography 22

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Compromise

by Anonymous

I’m learning to love the damp heat of Tokyo So we could retire to Florida even though the humidity frizzes my hair and smothers my skin because I would have you.

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See Me, Feel Me

by Cassandra Stand ’24

I’ve had a complicated history with touch.

I remember being held between the inviting arms of my mother, remember the way her body’s folds and protrusions created a warm nest which perfectly fit my small form. I remember lacing my small, delicate fingers between her rough and calloused ones, worn from bleach, broom handles, and brokenness. She was a landscape I knew well, knew that if I rested my ear to her breast I could hear the steady drumbeat of her heart, a rhythm I’d known from the womb. Back then, she felt so solid—so alive. I couldn’t imagine her ever falling apart.

Like many black mothers, she had a heavy hand which my tender scalp dreaded. I’d flinch and protest as she pulled a brush through my dark coils, willing them into submission.

I didn’t appreciate my hair when I was younger. I felt as if it was a source of pain and annoyance, keeping me from my childish antics. I eventually screamed my way out of my mother’s hands, but could no longer run my fingers through the impenetrable knots of my own making.

I remember when the tentative, gentle hands of the social worker rested on the small of my back as she led me out of the courtroom. I remember when those hands later reached under the table to pull me out as I hissed, screamed, and begged. In those moments I yearned to feel the rough hands I knew so well, that I knew were mine. Hands that I could hold me so I wouldn’t fall apart.

Reagan Begley ’24, drawing 24

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I remember being hungry. No hands touched me unless they delivered blows: with combs, with belts, with hands and foul words. Hollow, gentle hands dragged me from house to house, none of them mine, none of them HOME. I was starving. But, I learned what older women could do; I was a clever child. To be felt was to be seen, to be heard, to be loved. I subsisted on the hands which ran through me and over me and in me. I thought the touch of these strangers would keep me from falling apart.

It took me so long to realize how wrong it was.

It was only on park benches, on the subway rides, in the visiting center of Abbott House where I was allowed to hold my mother. She was the only pure touch I had left. Despite years passing by, her body still retained its shape, her hands their roughness. In these glimpses of familiarity— when she was still mine—I held her close to me. I listened for the drumbeat, proof she was still alive. In these moments, all we could do was hold onto each other to keep from falling apart.

But that heart betrayed me; She never let me say goodbye.

I sometimes envy how easy it is for others to have physical relationships. To touch and be touched. To be felt without pretext. Though, I’ve been learning the power of my own hands, a power building with each new bond I form and each step I take to reconcile my past. I take my mother’s rough hands and beating heart and make them my own. Hugging myself, holding myself, keeping myself from falling apart.

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The Old Toy Van

by Anonymous

For a toy left behind we would obsess.

Trekking through the sand, we’d look around, searching for hours with our heads down.

Although we seemed like fools, nevertheless, we found a toy van: our greatest success.

Its pink and yellow faded into brown.

That scratched old thing with chipped paint would astound me.

But my prize I tossed in the basement, Now forgotten to the dust that collects below.

Not unlike the way I’ve mistreated you, a golden antique bound to misplacement.

We only have a few years left, you know.

To find us again I’d love most, it’s true.

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Gabrielle Hogrefe ’24, drawing

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I want to retrieve you from the crinkled paper prints

by Anonymous

Kalin Huang ’26, photography 28

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I want to retrieve youfrom the crinkled paper prints, of shattered frames; from the loose lipped souls, the ones that lit the flame; from the monster that sprung itself alive, with your opening eye; from the broken kitchen, watching your hopes fly.

I so wish to reveal to youthe frail wings will make die; brass bands play a sorrow cry; the ashes of tomorrow, clear expired rose fields; and in lieu of expected solitude, flowers of rainbow colors bloom.

I would give this splintered worldto dry your eyes of salt. to teach you love composes every sentence, every wrinkle, every laugh, every wail, every word, every embrace, every meeting with hail; to embed your impressionable soul, with nothing but boundless love.

My heart aches for a future untouched.

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Jasper Quattrone ’25, photography 30

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Music Yet Lives

by Samuel Sugiura ’26

Music is a kinda funny thing.

There’s ambient so soothing it could put you to sleep, or death metal so loud it makes your ears ring. but sadly not all live to see the rewards they should reap, Like Nick Drake, the Van Gogh of song, Who never saw the gain from his tunes.

But regardless of death, the sounds still live on.

Speaking from the dead, his words like some runes.

But there are pieces from the living that carry sadness just as major.

Like Microphones and Mount Eerie, His guitars strumming the chords of nature.

Though still alive, his songs are just as dreary.

But not all music of the dead must be glum.

Take Fishmans, though Sato’s dead, from Otokotachi happiness is the outcome.

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The Duty of a Woman at Sea

by Madison Cruz ’26

If a man is like the sea, what is a woman ?

Because i know for certain i will never love a boy the way i love the ocean A pitiful man can’t compare to the way that the ocean tends to my every wound The originator of tough love When you scrape your knee, she offers a sharp caress that heals and strengthens The pain is simple and concise, yet you can feel the love through the platelet growth Now if your heart has been thrown into the sea It is lost forever Held captive by the man that’s only use for it is to hoard Clinging to the pure love he steals from these innocent beings He takes the heart from those that flow and spin All their sustenance now his An assertion of the power that he has over them, but not a key Mass accumulating their hearts is not the same as owning it There is no entry way with this theft ’Tis not a door, but a cage

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Francis Clifford photography Francis Clifford ’25, ’24, photography

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Elyse Wang ’24, collage 34

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Origami

by Talia Tirschwell ’24 To fold, and to unfold, and to refold, and to unfold, and to fold…that is the course of life.

When the paper begins, it is nothing but a thin, flat, smooth essence, not even capable of imagining what it may later become. Over time, though, with each crease of an edge, seal of a fingernail, and outgrowth of a shape, that flat paper develops into something three-dimensional, and it slowly fleshes out into a full, rich, depth-filled form.

In the majority of cases, the paper does not, or cannot, go straight from its simple flatness to its rich complexity. Instead, it must stop along the way, sometimes to reverse, sometimes to rewind and start over, and sometimes to morph into something new or even unexpected. The paper may not always have a clear shape as it goes along this path, but that reality is only due to the nature of its change.

Whatever happens, it is true that, for the paper, nothing is permanent: every fold can be undone, buried, or repurposed, and the simple, flat structure can always be returned to. Nonetheless, it is also true that, for the paper, everything is permanent: like lines on the palm of a human hand, each crease made will always leave a mark, and the paper will never again fold in quite the same way as a result of that mark.

While the days, months, and years slide by, the once-smooth paper will accumulate a collection of these marks, their lines haunting it like ghostly traces of the past. And with each new crease, the paper will grow slightly stronger, for it will have fought the ever-growing temptation to fold back over old lines and become something it was before. But with each new crease, the paper will also grow slightly weaker, for it can only fold a certain number of times before beginning to tear and unravel, before beginning to lose all semblance of the form it once held.

From a simple heart to butterfly to paper airplane, to fortune teller to swan to crane, to floral wreath to spring to spike ball, and back to all stops that came along the way…

To fold, and to unfold, and to refold, and to unfold, and to fold…that is the course of life.

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The Invisible Mask

by Arya Gauba ’27

The mask is invisible, A sheer piece of glass covering her face.

A piece of glass that allows her to hide, To lie.

To let the world see a version of her that’s so fake, That it’s allowing the old version of her to die.

The social pressures of school and life Is a silver knife.

Blood flows out as memories of her life, A life where she was happy, Silly, Imperfect.

Now her life consists of perfect smiles.

Her personality is kind, but she feels vile.

She hates how she feels, like a fake, Like she’s drowning in a lake.

She’s through with it, she’s done.

She’s realized that she hasn’t won,

Allison Chin ’24, drawing 36

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And is ready to run.

Run back to her old self, To a life of real smiles, A life where she’s not in exile.

She used to feel like fraud, But now she feels like god.

The mask has been broken, Catched, And thrown away.

She’s happy now, Living her life, Hoping to help those who are living on the same isle.

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Sinking

by Isaac Ahn ’26

People who go unknown in this world Like sinking stones in the water

Never realized of their actions and

deeds that changed this world

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Sinking, sinking

Until they take rest at the bottom

Never known, sinking history

Annabel Hardart ’24, photography 39

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How to S

G y a

e y b d oo

by K y

li e O

h

’24 40

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I go to sit with the sunrise, admiring its beginning as I approach my end. Its rays dance on the surface of a bench, and on each blade of grass, bathing the strands in golden glow.

I also sit with my family: My mother, at breakfast and on the couch.

(She is watching TV, I am watching her).

My father, in the car as we drive to CVS for our last of many candy & shampoo runs.

My sister, through grey and blue bubbles plastered on the phone screen.

I don’t tell them, I don’t think I could. Yet my dog feels my impending absence, and he sits with me as we have done countless times before, us both sensing the weight of this embrace as different—bittersweet.

Because I had accepted what would happen when I realized the day before. Ready to be the golden blades of grass, the sunlight that traces them in warmth.

And so I give a piece of myself to my families.

They will see me in the calm of their mornings, in the frenzied last-minutes shopping trips.

I give a piece of myself to the earth, to the sea, to the air. Surrounding what I love, what I love surrounding me.

Fiona Pedraza ’25, photography 41

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o

Five Ways f

Looking

Ma a llomar t a

Annabel Hardart ’24, photography 42

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I Nostalgia The marshmallow popping through the chocolate Taste of special occasions past II Sorrow The graham cracker snapping briskly Taste of those gone by

by William Earley ’25

III Surprise The chocolate melting with a touch Taste of days yet to come IV Heartbreak Flavors melding into one whole A small joy through pain V Remembrance A cookie gone with the spring Something tied to the good old days

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Randomness / Decay y by Talia Tirschwell ’24

Pristine, white new sneakers A mesh tray filled with number two pencils Paper cups, stacked next to the coffee machine Soft-serve ice cream, swirled perfectly to its point Freshly braided hair Recently mowed grass Glistening, rounded quarters and A midnight-filled sky, exploding icy meteors

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Light tan leather, beaten at the edges A blue pen’s ink cartridge, only halfway full 2 smears of lipstick, against the crystal glass One single bite-mark, carved from a sandwich Gently disheveled curls Rugs after a first vacuum Andrew Jackson’s crinkled face and A murky, green-blue sea, swirling with fish

Mud-soaked yellow boots A dried-out quill, scratching uselessly at its surface Empty thermoses, stained with ancient tea Tiny scraps of food, piling up in the trash Frizzy, fraying pigtails Eroding wooden floorboards Pennies tarnished with age and A beat-down, trodden-on Earth, hovering beneath humanity

Hailey Won ’25, painting

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Intertwined

mirror opposites

by Anonymous and you are everything– have everything I wanted. long lashes, adorable dimples, a melodic laugh, an ease around everyone, as they all slowly fall in love with you.

Your permanent assuredness in who you are; your beautiful soul.

I know you aren’t thinking the hateful barbs I think toward you when I am feeling my most loathing. And I can’t even really hate you because I’m a bit infatuated with you. How you would choose me with my awkward angles, braced teeth, and framed eyes. And because you didn’t have it easy you still don’t, I know how hard it is but I can’t help wishing I were you and getting a little mad that I’m not at myself and at you as if there’s a difference, really.

Frances Clifford ’25, photography 47

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Reagan Begley ’24, painting 48

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Staring at purple

by Francesca Jones ’25 Purple means

You crazy bitch

But at least you know where to find me All my words are stolen You have your feelings And I have mine Portraits of love stories don’t Always end the way they Should Or is it could?

Expressing yourself can be so stifling You make my nights so Beautiful I become nocturnal Getting my vitamin D from Bioluminescent jellyfish It’s funny Lying on the floor at Grand Central I can see the constellations In your face Orion the only one I’ve ever remembered Obscuring midnight rain filling your bathtub As we write our play Let’s have them run away What a tantalizing cliché 49

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Anonymous, photography Anonymous, photography 50

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Barbershop Questions

by Allison Chin ’24

The barbershop is a bubble of light In the darkness autumn sweeps in, earlier and earlier.

Your brother hops down from the chair, with his hair swept back and a self-conscious smile.

You urge your baby brother to go next.

He toddles over, hands clutching candies he clumsily took while we pretended not to notice, as you lift him up, lips pursed in concentration.

The barber sweeps the white fabric over him, fanning around him, the way the skirt of a wedding dress does as the bride swirls on the arm of her lover, until he is a floating head suspended in a sea of white.

You come back to me, walking with your head down, the leather seat crinkling as you sit, the hum of the electric razor continues.

Hair brushes your eyes until you tilt your head back, shaking your head slightly until those strands fall away, revealing your face like curtains opening to reveal daylight, and your magnificence is suddenly so clear that I wonder how I’d never noticed.

Our words slow to a trickle, until the moment hangs over us, like a blanket of contentment, as if our lives have led up to this moment.

The barber looks up at the TV, sighing as he notices it’s frozen, A pitcher mid-throw The batter still poised in anticipation.

His gaze then flicks to us, alternating between you and me, and I look at the mirror across from us, to see what he sees.

I see a boy and a girl, talking about everything and nothing, close yet far on the same seat, as if hyper-aware of one another’s limbs and presence, backs against the wall, warped replicas of each other, and I can feel his question before it leaves his lips.

I glance over at your reflection as he says it, your cheeks turning red; the linoleum floor suddenly becomes fascinating.

Everything sharpens as the question echoes around my head, seconds soaked in anticipation pass as you finally find your voice, the gravelly sound spilling out and stumbling over itself, until the laughter slips out of me, an answer in itself.

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I’m sorry for laughing slightly when you first kissed me but how could I help it? it felt surreal, I’m still unsure if it actually happened -as if yesterday was just a beautiful dream concocted by my mind to reassure me that life can be exquisite but I know it happened because I can still feel you

Evanescent Daydream

by Anonymous 52

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Allison Chin ’24, painting

your fingers stroking mine as we held hands the softness of your sweater as you stood behind me.

I kept admiring you instead of the artwork but how could I help it? paintings surrounded us of famous muses and artists’ adoration and devotion but all I could think about was how I wish I could fill a hall with art of you.

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Ella Chen ’26, drawing

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Cheap Ink

Staring back at you, two years later, its persistence etched in your very skin.Oh An’24 unwelcome guest, yet has embedded

by Kylie beneath, rendering you powerless to politely ask it to leave. back at you,gone two years its persistence etched But goodStaring manners have longlater, untouched as you scrub, in your very skin. An unwelcome guest, yet has embedded scrape, scratch, & scream at your own self—your betraying beneath, rendering you powerless to politely ask it to leave. self. What itselfhave careless concealed commitment.

Butdepicted good manners gone long untouched as you scrub, What took minutes lasted years.

And after all the imperscrape, scratch, & scream at your own self—your betraying manenceself. in What your depicted life, whyitself is cheap the thing that stays? carelessink concealed commitment.

What took minutes lasted years. And after all the impermanence in your life, why is cheap ink the thing that stays?

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Jasper Quattrone ’25, photography

4/24/24 12:07 PM

The Little Ant The Little Ant

by Miya Lauher ’27 I feel like an ant I feel like an ant I do the work, I bend my back just to be in a place that I don’t wanna be or feel like I deserve I do the work, I bend my back just to be in a place that I don't wanna be or feel like I deserve II get invitedtotothe thebig big stuff I walk in line the others but people know that I’m different get invited stuff andand I walk in line with with the others but people know that I'm different More of an ant goes marching all alone than 1 by 1 let alone 2 by 2 More of an ant goes marching all alone than 1 by 1 let alone 2 by 2 But importantly I feel small overlooked But most most importantly I feel small andand overlooked No seemstotorecognize recognize work the effort, just Iwhat show and to present to the group No one one seems thethe work andand the effort, just what showIand present the group I've climbed hills and mountains, swam through rivers, waded through creeks I’ve climbed hills and mountains, swam through rivers, waded through creeks And yet myself when I compare myselfmyself to the others, their gaping trenches And yet IImanage managetotodisappoint disappoint myself when I compare to the looking others, at looking at their gaping and their highest peaks trenches and their highest peaks It's hard to feel accomplished when others' shadows are completely drowning me out It’s hard to feel accomplished when others’ shadows are completely drowning me out Hoorah, Hoorah Hoorah Hoorah

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Annabel Hardart ’24, photography

I had imagined our future together and something changed in me Beautifully, crushingly so you look like the rest of my life I’m unable to imagine even a single instance of inharmonious existence with you Everything feels so soft and warm when I’m talking to you So safe and comfortable You’ve created a safe space in your sparkling presence So I love you as all best friends do Surely and soundly Like the whole world conspired to help me find you Like when we crossed paths and the stars started pointing Knowing then what we only know now Can we always be this close” I ask Yes” you reply, as certain as anything And I add another quality about you I admire to the list

Your Radiant Company

by Madison Cruz ’26

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Cycle

By Talia Tirschwell ’24

Cycle

by Talia Tirschwell ’24

Is there a real point to the act Of folding laundry with such Is there a real point to the act tact folding laundry So so Of neat it will staywith such tact So so neat a it will For no more than daystay For no more than a day TillTill it’sit’scrumpled and once crumpled and once againagain sacked sacked

Gabrielle Hogrefe ’24, drawing 61

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Annabel Hardart ’24, photography

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Haikus

by Talia Tirschwell ’24

Haiku 1 When I catch the wind My flower will spin and spin Petals fly away

Haiku 2 The lone deer watch me Frozen, eyes wide and alert I pose them no threat

Haiku 3 A fallen acorn Its echo pierces the air Cracking on bare Earth

Haiku 4 Holly on the door Frosted mint coating the leaves Howls rush through the breeze

Haiku 5 A cold Christmas night We slipped down memory’s lane Us, darkness, and ice

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‫דו‬.

I , , D, V , A

brew, ‫ד‬ He

d i . v I a n D

D ,

Big Shoes to Fill

by David Lefkovits ’26

Isaac Ahn ’26, photography

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Three letters, two syllables.

This means “beloved ”.

In honor of my great grandfather.

A doctor and first generation immigrant.

Someone to carry on his legacy.

Yet expand on it at the same time.

Although my name, to some, may seem common, it may

not be taken for granted.

My parents always tell me, You are OUR beloved.

My parents always wanted a son named

David.

Me, the second child of the fourth generation.

Would get the privilege of such a sacred name.

A biblical hero, yet a humble man.

Big shoes to fill.

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snacking thoughts

by Anonymous

I am waiting Waiting for the weekend Waiting for Summer Waiting for something exciting.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

I am stationary. I need to get up, I need to move.

Stretch my legs, breathe.

I need to go, go, go.

Elyse Wang ’24, painting

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But what if everything goes quiet and it smells of grass and suddenly I miss the patchworked corner, of my room and the warm embrace of my mother and I curl my legs up and bring them against my chest and I squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until I can’t and allow myself to feel.

And sundays are Sundays

winter is winter,

and I am happy eating my tiramisu.

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I d o n’t e v e n w a n t t o w i n I just want you to sit with

me

Ha v i n g

a

in silence c o nv e r s a t i o n

only our eyes can say 1000 i love yous batted away

in

a

blink

I f i t’s o v e r i w a n t t o k n o w Though

i

c a n’t

say

it

n o w, y o u h a v e t o k n o w Olivia Houck ’25, photography 68

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honor me with the comfort of knowing

by Madison Cruz ’26

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Jumanji

by Anonymous I sleep in rooms with mirrors in the sky, but wake in fields with stars around my neck.

The longing stops and tears begin to dry once tarps of guilt can cover up the wreck.

And in these fields, I saunter through the west where lavender and cherry blossoms grow.

The fairies sing and put my mind at rest but reaping’s not about what you can sow.

Samantha Reyes ’25, photography

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Mercurial and cynical are those who hunt the bad, but take the sash and crown.

And competition’s written in the prose of those on airplanes looking at the ground.

The touch of hands could light the town ablaze, and blinks of eyes could put the fire out.

The mastermind is one who simply plays with rocks of life that live in river spouts.

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The Visionaries Editor-in-Chief: Kylie Oh Co-Editor: Joshua Lee Francesca Jones Fiona Pedraza Ella Chen Ben Nadorf Isaac Ahn Madison Cruz Ashley Hollingsworth Zena Hume Ms. Bottalico

The readers Alex Booth Alex Nuzum Angela Croce Annabel Previdi Ari Spiegel Arya Gauba Austen Shapiro Ava Derby Cara Minello Cecily Lewis Gabrielle Nunes Gabrielle Paes James Devereaux Kareena Parasnis Keisha Johnson Lara McComiskey

Lilly Rosenthal Lucia Butterfield Max Michael Molly Perla Nkechi Ude Owen Spencer Peter Roberts Rafael Von Spiegel Sabrina Reyes Sam Sugiura Sasha Haider Sofia DeSpirito Sophie Huang Tristan Payne Zariah Stewart

Submissions to The Vision are chosen by volunteer peer readers who judge each piece without knowledge of the author’s identity. All students are encouraged to submit work, and all are invited to participate as readers. Thank you to the members of the Hackley Upper School student body who supported our efforts.

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Cover Art by Lucia Butterfield ’25

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The HACKLEY SCHOOL • THE VISION 2024 • VOLUME XXXV

V I S 2 0 2 4

I O N

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