It’s June. The air has regained the warm embrace it gives you as you step out of school after a long, air-conditioned day. Birds are back to singing, their songs floating through open car windows. The Cubs are back in season.

For me, June has always carried with it a familiar nostalgia. We seem to all be in an exciting limbo at this time of year. It seems to me you’re either looking back on the journeys you’ve just completed, or you’re looking forward to the next ones you’re about to embark on.

Probably the most obvious example of this is you, the seniors, desperately holding on to the last remnants of high school as you approach the so-called “bookend” of your childhood: graduation. Very soon, you’ll be throwing caps in the air, celebrating with distant relatives you haven’t seen in years, and experiencing all the other customary punctuations that come with all things ending and beginning.

And that brings me to my point today.

Currently in every stuffy auditorium across the nation, principals, valedictorians, and celebrities are telling students that they are about to “turn the page onto the next chapter in their lives.”

If you’ve gotten the hang of my columns by now, you’ll know where I’m going with this. I’m here to dispute that.

I believe one of the greatest mistakes of mankind (besides, you know, instant coffee and Facebook) is the perception we’ve created that compares the course of our lives to that of books. We tend to group our years neatly into so-called “chapters.” Don’t we know by now that life is far too dynamic and complex to be organized into a format so structured?  

Comparing our lives to books means that once we finish a chapter, we can’t go back. After all, we’ve “outgrown” it. We processed the information and moved on. How binding is that?

Sure, one might argue that these times can always be revisited on quiet summer nights, as we leaf through our favorite chapters forever titled “The Good Old Days.”

But if this were the case, these visitation hours would be limited. The Good Old Days shouldn’t ever be behind you, but rather carried throughout your present and future endeavours. The Good Old Days aren’t stationary. To be honest, I’m not sure that the Good Old Days are even a time period at all.

Maybe you think that receiving your diploma this weekend is like a trade-off. You must give up your childhood, must close a metaphorical “chapter” in order to pass “Go” and collect your $200.

Please, let that not be the case.  

Let’s try not to outgrow these “chapters” as we would Nike sneakers, discarding them in the trash or handing them down to our little sisters. Nor should we be overly focused on all the chapters of our future selves yet unwritten.

Instead, take your chapters with you. They end up being pretty reliable tools for experiences in the future.

I guess my perfect example would be what I’m doing right this moment.  Writing this. Around dinner tables and in car rides, I’m continually reminded by my family that this is my last column. I’m reminded about the inevitable ending of my experience as columnist, but also the simultaneous beginning of something new.

Of course the thought of not writing about the things that interest me is saddening, but I know in some way, shape or form, I’ll always be a columnist. I will hopefully find different ways in the future to express myself in ways I learned this year writing this column. In that sense, the experience never ends. Just like some part of you guys will always be seniors. Or eighth graders. Or 49 year olds.

The “chapters” that we so commonly reference are more like layers. The misconception is that we prune off the chapters in our lives once we turn a certain age. We watch the etherealness of childhood wilt away from us as we pack our school bags full of MacBooks and anxieties.

Your childhood isn’t just reserved for the first 60 pages of your life. And your “ah-ha moments” and your sense of “what it’s all about” aren’t reserved for the last pages. Let these entities be mobile and fluid layers. Let them stay with you. Don’t leave them behind.

You’ll probably find yourself in moments when you’re 50 and feeling more like a kid than when you did at 7. At least that’s what I hope.

As you’re continuously reminded of the stages that are coming to a close, keep in mind that complicated things like youth and childhood aren’t things. They are more like feelings, emotional states I can’t quite put to paper. Most importantly, they’ll always be with you–and can be recognized and resurrected no matter your age or circumstance.

And no longer do I look at my last sentence to my last column as an ending, but rather as just another ellipsis helping me bridge the gap toward whatever may come…