"School Days: Growing Up on a Wooden Bench"

Among all the chapters of life, none is as sweet and nostalgic as school life. When I was a child, I didn't really get how profoundly it would shape me. But nowadays, when I look back, I realize that everything I started in that small classroom, on that little wooden seat. My school stood at the edge of a calm town, settled next to an open field specked with palm trees. The street to school was a limitless path of ruddy clay, which I strolled each day with clean on my shoes and dreams in my eyes. An improvised entryway with bamboo posts stood at the entrance, and right adjacent to it hung an ancient, rusted chime. One of the instructors would ring it with a wooden pound and call out, “Come on, kids, time for class!”

I still keep in mind the first day I went to school, holding firmly onto my mother's hand. My modest heart was beating with a blend of fear and energy. Everything was new—unknown faces, strict voices of instructors, and a new environment. To begin with, I attempted to type in “A for Apple” on the chalkboard and finished wiping the entire thing clean with the chalk. The instructor chuckled and said, “Looks like a storm fair passed through your handwriting!”

As time went on, school started to feel like a domestic moment. Break time was a highlight—we'd share chips and rolls, giggle over senseless jokes, and arrange little experiences. My closest companion was Manik. We did everything together—homework, tricks, climbing trees, and indeed making paper water crafts amid storm downpours. One memory I'll never disregard is the science reasonable course in five. Some of us built a little sun-based framework show utilizing thermocol balls and string. I was in charge of pivoting the Soil and Sun. When the judges came to see our venture, I got so anxious that I pulled as hard, and the sun fell off! Everybody burst into giggling, including the judges. Still, they granted us the “Most Effortful Team” prize. That day I learned something valuable—you do not continuously have to be idealize to be recognized, but you must attempt your best.

But not all school memories were perky. One of the hardest minutes came when I was in course six—my father abruptly fell sick. Our family was shaken. I couldn't concentrate on the lesson any longer, and the grin on my face gradually blurred. I was approximately to donate to my ponders when my lesson educator, Mr. Sohel, called me aside and said something I'll never forget:

“Son, not all lessons are in reading material. In some cases, life is the most prominent classroom. You'd fair have to hold on and keep walking.”

His words touched something profound inside me. I wiped my tears, picked up my books, and guaranteed myself that I wouldn't stop. I began considering late into the night, asking questions, and slowly, I started to recoup my lost certainty. That same year, I stood to begin with the last exams. My father, still recovering, held my report card in his hands, his eyes damp with pride. “You've made me glad, son,” he said, with a powerless but blissful grin.

At that point came the final day of school—the most enthusiastic day of all. We all wore white regalia, marked each other's shirts with markers, and took gather photographs, knowing that nothing would ever be the same once more. Our dean gave a discourse that still echoes in my heart:

Among you're future instructors, specialists, writers, and heroes. Do not halt imagining. Do not halt trying.”

Nowadays, no matter how far away I go, how tall I climb, I carry those days inside me. That minor classroom, the wooden seat, the dusty play area, the kind instructors, and the insidious giggling of friends—they live on in a corner of my heart.

Life may move on. The buildings may age. The chalkboard may blur. But school life—those early minutes of bliss, battle, companionship, and growth—remains carved within the soul until the end of time.

📝 Final Thought:

School isn't close to exams and grades. It's almost learning to be human—learning to care, to drop, to rise, and most critically, to accept yourself. In the event that I might go back in time, I'd sit once more on that little wooden seat, feel the warmth of the morning sun on my back, and remember those mysterious days all over once more.