Author's Note: I recently won first place in a narrative essay contest for the following work! Please let me know what you think in the comment's section below. It makes my day to hear from all of you.

I twirl the pencil between my fingers as I wonder what to write on the blank page before me. The brand-new page of the composition journal holds so much potential for the written word. Ranging from blue lines to red margins, the notebook primarily consists of white space, waiting only for the black lead of my pencil to fill in the lines. Pondering what to write, I think back to the wheelbarrow that I rescued from Goodwill and the first time I became a journalist. I think about the future, and I hope that by writing down my dreams, I can make them real. 

Discolored and broken, the once-red wheelbarrow often stood tilted on its side in the middle of our back yard. When it fell over after a hard gust of wind, the metal would fill with rainwater, creating an economy of algae, mold, and rust on the inside. Dirt clung to the outside edges, and the long wooden handles would stab misplaced palms with nasty splinters. The old wheel turned aimlessly, serving only to get stuck in the mud every time someone needed to use the ancient vessel. As a child, I fell in love with the fantastical and beautiful nature of the simple machine. However, when I was twelve years old, my parents decided that it was time to replace the wheelbarrow, and they threw it in the back of Dad’s old pickup truck. He took it off to Goodwill, and I was devastated. The entire way across town, I bawled my heart out, begging my dad to keep the wheelbarrow at home. My parents tried to reason with me, telling me that it would not work for anything, and that they planned to buy a shiny new one. However, I was not to be dissuaded, and when my mom finally asked me in exasperation what I planned to do with the wheelbarrow, I replied with a piece of twelve-year-old wisdom that I was yet too young to appreciate. Because it was beautiful, I wanted to fill it with beautiful things during the fall and spring months. With that, and a bit more convincing, my parents turned around, went back to Goodwill, and picked up the wheelbarrow from where they had left it outside. My dreams came true, and every year we put the wheelbarrow in front of the house and fill it with plants and occasional pumpkins. 

I could also write about the first time I became a journalist, heading to the Salvation Army to speak with the individuals in charge. I interviewed someone whose life had been drastically changed for the better, and I was astonished at how much was being done to help people in need. The long lines stretching far down the block and around the corner tugged at my heartstrings. When I went back to sit and write the article, I poured my heart into the words, trying to do everything in my power to assist the Salvation Army, even if I did not have much money to spare. 

I’m still twirling my pencil, but as I think, a third idea comes to mind; I could write about the future. In the future, there is so much raw potential for greatness, and its mysteries intrigue me. Peering through shadowy mists, I strain my eyes, trying to make out what lies beyond. All it would take is a couple of words in the present day to adjust this entire dreamlike landscape that lies before me. Writing, I could define the person I would become, and I could peel back the translucent curtain that obscured my view. 

Smiling, for I know what to write about now, I put my pencil to the page, ready to define the person who I wanted to be—who I wanted to become. However, when I start to write, the lead on the pencil tip breaks, leaving both my writing utensil and me no better off than we were before. In that moment, I realized that the future was not ours to define, but rather ours to look forward to. Rather than rush ahead, trying to clear the mist from my vision, I sat back and smiled. Defining the past would be easy, but for the future, the possibilities were limitless. Setting the pencil down, I walked away, leaving the blank page behind.