Snowflakes and Paper-Chains by <strong>The</strong>resa Flynn My facial features are not uncommon, nor are they unique. <strong>The</strong>y are closely replicated on the faces of my s<strong>is</strong>ters – big brown eyes, a small nose with a bump, high cheek bones and a fair complexion, all framed by thick frizzy hair. At first glance we are a paper-chain, each cut out of exactly like the next, but look closer and you will see we are snowflakes, similar at a d<strong>is</strong>tance, but still unique and special. My big brown eyes shine when they are happy. At the mention of the paper-chain, they narrow. <strong>The</strong> tips of my toes curl, and an angry, red heat travels into my face. I am a snowflake. Unique and special. I am not part of the paper-chain – cut from the same paper, attached permanently to the other paper-girls, with the same sharp edge of the skirt and uniform length of hair. My pattern <strong>is</strong> different, and all its own. I am a snowflake. Steve Purk<strong>is</strong> 7
Mom “Do you remember me?” Those were the first words I remember my mom saying as she hugged me. She was tall with long wavy dark as midnight hair and a unique smell. She smelled of lavender and babies. Her skin was tanned and she had one beauty mark on her left hand, the only part of her I could make out clearly, as I was midget-sized, even for a five-year-old. She waved her hand towards me and it seemed to emit comfort. Without thinking, I reached for it, and was surpr<strong>is</strong>ed by its smoothness. She smiled at my surpr<strong>is</strong>ed face and turned me towards a tall man with coffee skin who smelled of paint. He stepped closer to me and I tilted my head up to try to see all of him. I could just barely make out two dark eyes and a laughing smile. He looked down and said, “Let’s go.” Something in the back of my mind said dad. I hadn’t seen my parents in a long time—not since they’d left to start our new life in America—and I had to get to know them all over again. My mom then lifted me into my dad’s arms and navigated her way through the throngs of figures with suitcases. When we got to the car, he placed me back into her arms and the smell of her skin lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, it was dark. We were in front of th<strong>is</strong> hideous pineapple-colored house that looked to be hundreds of years old. I was pushed out the car, into the house, up the creaking stairs, and into a small room. <strong>The</strong>re my mom pointed to a rosy pink princess bed with matching pillows. I turned to her, saw her goofy happy expression, and didn’t have the heart to tell her my favorite color was blue. <strong>The</strong> next month, my s<strong>is</strong>ter, Diana, came, and I was able to tell someone just how crazy my mom was. She would do things like watch me play with my dolls or play with the kids downstairs. She would ask if she could braid my hair, even though it was still short from my last haircut. She would ask me if I was happy. If I looked sad, she looked sad. I never once realized that all she was doing was trying to get to know me, just as I had to get to know her. I was used to having people know that my face gets serious when I am deep in thought, or that my favorite color <strong>is</strong> blue, or that I like having my hair loose, not braided. <strong>The</strong>se were things, I figured, that I had to teach her. But my mom caught on quickly and replaced the Pepto-B<strong>is</strong>mol bed with a flowery sky blue one. She stopped trying to braid my hair every day. When school started, she would take me to the bus stop and then hurry off to work. After a few years, my mom and dad decided to have another baby. Her name was Lillian. <strong>The</strong>n they decided to split up, and we, my s<strong>is</strong>ters and I, left with my mom. At first, she worried about us, but when I d<strong>is</strong>covered the violin, she decided that if it helped me, she would do everything to support me. She never m<strong>is</strong>sed a single concert and pushed me to practice every day. When she found out I enjoyed reading, she decided that routine trips to the library were a must. She never once complained about how hard it was to keep a roof over our heads; all she did was try to make things fun for us. On the weekends, she would take us on walks to the park and treat us to ice cream. On the days she was home, she would make up stories for me. But then, all that changed. One summer day when we were on one of our regular trips to the library, she collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. <strong>The</strong>re she was diagnosed with cancer. For a few months, she attended an outpatient program in Valhalla. <strong>The</strong>n when her cancer worsened, she went to Westchester Medical Hospital. Whenever she went to the hospital, I would go with her, even if that meant m<strong>is</strong>sing school. Little by little, I saw my mom shrink from the beauty that she was into th<strong>is</strong> pale, weak, prematurely aged woman whom I didn’t know. As she slipped away, I realized that she tried to make things the way they used to be. She would have me curl up in bed with her and l<strong>is</strong>ten to stories about what she used to do as a little girl. Every time I we did th<strong>is</strong>, I would lie there and inhale her smell so I would have it with me forever. <strong>The</strong>n it happened. That day was the same as every other day. I woke up and was about to go to school, but decided to stay home. She got worse and I had Nicole to call Healy an ambulance. Two days later, she was gone. She left while I was at school and I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. All that remained was her empty bed that smelled like lavender and babies. At that moment, all I wanted was to hear her scream at me to clean my room, or to curl up in bed with her and l<strong>is</strong>ten to her stories. It has taken a long time, but now, when I remember her, I think of her scent, and imagine her somewhere looking down on me, protecting me and smiling at me. And I know I am never alone. 8 —Anonymous
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