Windward Review Vol. 20 (2022): Beginnings and Endings
"Beginnings and Endings" (2022) challenged South Texas writers and beyond to narrate structures of beginnings and ends. What results is a collection of poetry, prose, hybrid writing, and photography that haunts, embraces, and consoles all the same. Similar to past WR volumes, this collection defies easy elaboration - it contains diverse tones, languages, colors, and creative spaces. Creative pieces within the text builds upon others, allowing polyvocal narratives to interlock and defy the logic of 'beginning-middle-end'. By the end of this collection, you will neither sense nor crave the finality that a typical text brings. Instead, you will be inspired to learn and create beyond a narrative linear structure. Your reading and support is sincerely appreciated.
"Beginnings and Endings" (2022) challenged South Texas writers and beyond to narrate structures of beginnings and ends. What results is a collection of poetry, prose, hybrid writing, and photography that haunts, embraces, and consoles all the same. Similar to past WR volumes, this collection defies easy elaboration - it contains diverse tones, languages, colors, and creative spaces. Creative pieces within the text builds upon others, allowing polyvocal narratives to interlock and defy the logic of 'beginning-middle-end'. By the end of this collection, you will neither sense nor crave the finality that a typical text brings. Instead, you will be inspired to learn and create beyond a narrative linear structure. Your reading and support is sincerely appreciated.
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<strong>Beginnings</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Endings</strong><br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong><br />
<strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>, <strong>20</strong>22
<strong>Beginnings</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Endings</strong><br />
X<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>, <strong>20</strong>22<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> are usually scary <strong>and</strong> endings are usually sad, but it’s<br />
everything in between that makes it all worth living. .<br />
-Bob Marley<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X<br />
2
Managing Editor<br />
Dylan Lopez<br />
Assistant Managing Editor<br />
Raven Reese<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Endings</strong><br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong>, <strong>Vol</strong>. <strong>20</strong><br />
Senior Editor/ Creative Director<br />
Zoe Elise Ramos<br />
Copyeditor<br />
Celine Ramos<br />
Associate Editors<br />
Logan Alves, Jasmine Aran, Elida Castillo, Kimberly Epps, Brooke Free, Daunte Gaiter,<br />
Jamie Grime, Alexa Mendoza, Allora Montalvo, Halli Peltier, Rol<strong>and</strong>o Villareal, Joi’<br />
White | All Students of ENGL 4385: Studies in Creative Writing: Literary Publishing,<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong>, Spring <strong>20</strong>22<br />
Social Media Manager<br />
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Event Coordinator<br />
Kindel Casey<br />
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WR is a not-for-profit journal established by Robb <strong>and</strong> Vanessa<br />
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<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
3 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X X
Contents<br />
Letter from the Managing Editor 6<br />
Nehemiah Flores<br />
Jukebox Heart (Illusions of War) 7<br />
Joseph Tyler Wilson<br />
The Craziness of Love 8<br />
My Story Begins on Interstate 69<br />
Near Humble 9<br />
Dezarae Martinez<br />
Metamorphosis 10<br />
Ava Coronado<br />
Sibling Harmony 11<br />
Anna Strickl<strong>and</strong><br />
Goodbyes 16<br />
Raye Bailey<br />
She Remembers 17<br />
The Last Leaf 17<br />
Nancy Spiller<br />
A Brief History of Donny 18<br />
Aliah C<strong>and</strong>ia<br />
Black Sheep 23<br />
Me, Her 24<br />
Kaitlyn Winston<br />
You’re Hungry 25<br />
Natasha Haas<br />
A Gnawing Empty 27<br />
Edward Wang<br />
Embers of Ambition 28<br />
Cianna Martinez<br />
The Tainted Painting 32<br />
Dee Allen<br />
La Bestia 33<br />
THE BLACK SHIPS 34<br />
Morning Alarm 35<br />
Swapna Sanchita<br />
Banality 36<br />
M. Alis Spencer<br />
la génesis 37<br />
Zev Edwards<br />
Here Today 39<br />
Steve Brisendine<br />
circuitous reasoning 43<br />
The Green Man in Autumn 44<br />
Nativity 45<br />
James T. Grissom<br />
The Water 46<br />
Gibel Amador<br />
Love’s immortality 47<br />
Marathon 47<br />
Fleurs Violentes 48<br />
Leonard Duncan<br />
An Epilogue 49<br />
Charity McCoy<br />
Denial: Blurry 56<br />
Anger: Complexities 57<br />
Bargaining: Stolen Moments 58<br />
Depression: Clean Breaks 59<br />
Acceptance: Slow Fade 60<br />
Jessica Grissom<br />
The Book with a Cup of Tea 61<br />
Jesus Fern<strong>and</strong>o Ochoa Arreola<br />
Me Acuerdo de Ti 63<br />
En las Ruinas del Pensamiento 64<br />
Routine Staccato 65<br />
Mi Almohada ya no Ladra 67<br />
Liz Torres Shannon<br />
A Beautiful Goodbye 68<br />
Thảo Ðinh<br />
Rebirth 71<br />
Coryna Trevino<br />
chrysalis 72<br />
ocean blue eyes full of love<br />
<strong>and</strong> promises of forever 73<br />
Elizabeth Motes<br />
The Five Stages of a Near-Death<br />
Experience 75<br />
Bitia Alanis<br />
“For the mockingbird that was<br />
shot 17 times” 81<br />
“10 things I hate about you” 82<br />
Alyssa-Rae Barrera<br />
My Last Dream 83<br />
Eva Buergler<br />
EulogyforDr.BfinalFINAL.docx 85<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X<br />
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Barrio Writers’ Project <strong>20</strong>23<br />
Letter from Raven Reese 89<br />
Athena Armijo<br />
Untitled 90<br />
Sophia Chapa<br />
Only Human 91<br />
Don’t Grow up too Fast 91<br />
Ethan Clarke<br />
Alligators 2 92<br />
Jacob A. Clauch<br />
Book of The Reader’s Life 94<br />
Janet Doe<br />
Ignorance’s thievery 95<br />
Let Them Be Heard 96<br />
Restlessness 96<br />
K. Elise<br />
Whisper I say. 97<br />
The Wild Woman... 97<br />
Raison D’etre. 98<br />
Evolvere (Derek)<br />
World of Wars 99<br />
Sophie Johnson<br />
Existential Procrastination 100<br />
Tiny Little Creature 101<br />
Jasmine Martin<br />
Finding Something Positive 102<br />
Leo Monsavais<br />
Falling 103<br />
Blind Sins 103<br />
Relationships 104<br />
Isadora Pak<br />
Sparks 105<br />
Aleena Roy<br />
Zombie carnival 107<br />
Nadi 107<br />
Alisha Roy<br />
Disgust 108<br />
Emily Hargitai<br />
Esther ‘98 109<br />
John C. Mannone<br />
una lección 115<br />
A Lesson 116<br />
Tinted Glasses 117<br />
Ariana Esquivel<br />
Diversity in Two Cents 118<br />
Corita Fern<strong>and</strong>o<br />
Mourning Loss 119<br />
Kelly Talbot<br />
Meta Merging 122<br />
Jacob Benavides<br />
Deep in the Heart 123<br />
hereafter 124<br />
To The Grounds We Trample,<br />
The Skies We Are 125<br />
Amairani Llerena<br />
And So Lived Dad 127<br />
Woe Is Me 129<br />
Tiffany Lindfield<br />
Enough: 1968 130<br />
Suzette Bishop<br />
The Manta Ray 136<br />
After Class 137<br />
Mose Graves<br />
When I Die Just Let Me Go To Texas 138<br />
Rod Carlos Rodriguez<br />
Coyote Lullaby 139<br />
Spill 140<br />
Martel Deserts 141<br />
Jesus of Three Gazes:<br />
Martel Deserts II 141<br />
Soil <strong>and</strong> Ash 142<br />
Ron Pullins<br />
Reiner 143<br />
Jean Hackett<br />
Elegy for the One Who Got Away 147<br />
I Watch too Many Movies 148<br />
Arik Mitra<br />
Arid Beast 149<br />
Let’s leave for those to come 149<br />
Peace talks with locust storms 150<br />
The rose returns to bloom 151<br />
Robin Latimer<br />
Comber 152<br />
Daniel Rodrigues-Martin<br />
A Grain of S<strong>and</strong> in an Hourglass 153<br />
Azrael Montoya<br />
Some Poem 165<br />
Dinosaurs (A Fragment) 165<br />
Egypt 166<br />
Laura Treacy Bently<br />
Still Life 167<br />
Cellar Door 168<br />
Sai Varshini Chinnasani<br />
Twas the Journey 169<br />
Jo Bowman<br />
When a poem first finds you 170<br />
Contributors’ Notes 171<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
5 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X X
Letter from the Managing Editor<br />
Dear Readers,<br />
It is my pleasure to introduce to you our latest edition of the <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong>,<br />
the much-anticipated <strong>Vol</strong>. <strong>20</strong>, <strong>Beginnings</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Endings</strong>. Our team of student editors have<br />
worked tirelessly to put together this collection of fine fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction,<br />
flash fiction, plays, works in translation, <strong>and</strong> hybrid genres of writing. We’re also<br />
fortunate to have included a number of beautiful art pieces that add to this creative<br />
conversation with inspired visual <strong>and</strong> narrative flare.<br />
The theme, <strong>Beginnings</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Endings</strong>, came about at the beginning of my tenure<br />
as the managing editor. I felt that the next theme following <strong>Vol</strong>. 19, Empathy <strong>and</strong> Entropy,<br />
should be something quite simple, yet indescribably broad—something everyone could<br />
contribute to. At this time, I was reading Amitav Ghosh’s Gun Isl<strong>and</strong> for a class on<br />
the numerous environmental crises currently taking place throughout the world. In his<br />
novel, a rare books dealer must come to terms with the power of stories <strong>and</strong> culture, the<br />
impact that words may have on the world, in shifting beliefs <strong>and</strong> enacting real change. I<br />
wanted <strong>Vol</strong>. <strong>20</strong> to explore in some way, this nigh-elemental power that storytelling has<br />
throughout our world, <strong>and</strong> in our more personal lives.<br />
It’s my belief that every story contains in some way a lesson, proportions of<br />
truth, beauty, <strong>and</strong> goodness that illuminate, <strong>and</strong> connect us together. Our stories, the<br />
secrets we share, are both indelible <strong>and</strong> unique to us, <strong>and</strong> yet not dissimilar from the<br />
experiences of those around us. The more we share—the more we write—the more<br />
other people underst<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> wish to share their own stories. <strong>Vol</strong>. <strong>20</strong> contains stories<br />
from around the world, <strong>and</strong> celebrates their courageous storytellers, who cultivate the<br />
inexplicable magic of the written word.<br />
We are thrilled to feature both new <strong>and</strong> familiar voices in this edition, including<br />
works from teens in the Barrio Writers creative writing program, <strong>and</strong> winners of the<br />
Robb Jackson Poetry Awards from the People’s Poetry Festival. It has always been a part<br />
of our mission at the <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong>, to showcase emerging, <strong>and</strong> established voices<br />
alongside one another as equals. No writer is lacking a story to tell, especially those who<br />
have been overlooked, forgotten, or shunned for daring to share their beautiful, diverse<br />
voices. In some small way, the <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> seeks to amend the countless years of<br />
literary inequality <strong>and</strong>, with the help of our contributors, publish fearless works that<br />
challenge the present state of affairs.<br />
As always, we want to thank our contributors for their trust, their beautiful<br />
words, <strong>and</strong> their dedication to their craft. We are proud of each <strong>and</strong> every piece in this<br />
long-awaited volume, <strong>and</strong> cherish our fortune in being able to showcase you in our<br />
humble, but growing journal. Thank you for being part of this burgeoning community of<br />
warm <strong>and</strong> accepting writers. Your voices are much-needed in our current times, adding<br />
to a global conversation on human experiences, <strong>and</strong> remind us of the power of stories<br />
well-told.<br />
To our readers, we hope you enjoy reading this journal as much as we enjoyed<br />
putting it together, <strong>and</strong> we hope that the work speaks to you, <strong>and</strong> inspires you to share<br />
your voice as well. People are at the heart of our work at the <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong>, <strong>and</strong> we are<br />
so grateful to our readers who help us celebrate <strong>and</strong> encourage the tremendous work<br />
these writers are doing. Thank you all for sticking with us!<br />
With love <strong>and</strong> gratitude,<br />
Dylan Lopez, Managing Editor<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong> 6<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X<br />
6
Nehemiah Flores<br />
Jukebox Heart (Illusions of War)<br />
When I see legends, I try to see myself<br />
But I’m nothing like them<br />
The musical dreamers <strong>and</strong> revolutionaries<br />
The ones who wrote the songs that tore this world apart<br />
But what have I done?<br />
I can’t write if I can’t comprehend the human heart<br />
It’s a process which I can’t seem to underst<strong>and</strong><br />
Why is it so hard to reach my Promised L<strong>and</strong>?<br />
I can’t wonder like Stevie<br />
I can’t imagine like Lennon<br />
Dance for Satisfaction like Jagger<br />
Or Take It to the Limit like the Eagles<br />
I can’t Jump like Van Halen<br />
Can’t be no Smooth Criminal like Jackson once was<br />
I don’t Let It Be like McCartney<br />
Yeah I’m Livin’ On A Prayer, but that ain’t worth much<br />
Sure I was Born in the U.S.A.<br />
But I ain’t nothing like good ol’ Springsteen<br />
I don’t Dream On like Aerosmith<br />
I’m Under Pressure, but I ain’t no Bowie<br />
No elaborate rhymes<br />
No Sign o’ the Times<br />
No Sweet Child O’ Mine<br />
Is gonna change the way I feel inside<br />
If I just keep dancing in the Purple Rain<br />
Just keep livin’ with Love On The Brain<br />
Maybe then, something will shift inside me<br />
But I deceive myself, These Times They Aren’t A-Changing<br />
I am forever to admire<br />
That which I cannot produce<br />
Like lookin’ through a Window In The Skies<br />
My heart feels terrorized<br />
I’m just Blinded By The Light<br />
Time After Time, My Foolish Heart<br />
Can only rewrite, reuse, <strong>and</strong> recall<br />
Never Make Songs Out Of Nothing At All.<br />
Robb Jackson Highschool Poetry 1st Place (<strong>20</strong>21)<br />
7 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
7 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X
Joseph Tyler Wilson<br />
The Craziness of Love<br />
My love is like a campfire burning too high on a cold dry night<br />
My love is a footpath lined with river rocks from the hill country<br />
My love is a chair with one broken leg that with weight collapses<br />
Because wood screws have worked their way out<br />
But the distance between me <strong>and</strong> my love’s lips<br />
Is easier to erase than the emptiness I feel when we separate<br />
Sometimes I shut my eyes to touch her<br />
Not just to touch skin<br />
But to simply touch her to feel her within me<br />
The not so static electricity that is like the perfect jolt<br />
I shove my favorite books off my desk<br />
To make space for my love’s framed picture<br />
Much like the afternoons I freely give up tennis<br />
So that I can meet her after class for green tea<br />
Her oldest friends may disapprove although from the rooftop<br />
Of the Omni I can see beyond the Captain Crunch bridge<br />
And beyond the shimmering green bay<br />
To the far-off isl<strong>and</strong> that holds my heart<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
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<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X<br />
8
Joseph Tyler Wilson<br />
My Story Begins on Interstate 69<br />
Near Humble<br />
I drive skittishly through Houston<br />
This morning shuttered by vertical layers<br />
Of flashing singing rain showers<br />
The vivid grey panels scream down from<br />
The vanishing sky<br />
Mute the sounds of seven<br />
Lanes of crawling cars <strong>and</strong><br />
The bestial four-wheeler lugging oil<br />
That I follow closely for seven miles<br />
Because I cannot see anything but close grey<br />
I sit in the Menil Museum right now though<br />
Safely on a solid mahogany bench<br />
Staring for a time at an Agnes Martin<br />
Seven foot by seven foot square oil painting<br />
The same greyish color as the storm<br />
But her inscribed seven lines are horizonal<br />
Subdued greys so I am at peace<br />
Resting <strong>and</strong> immersed in this room<br />
Filled with other Agnes monochromes <strong>and</strong> yellow lines<br />
On the floor marking where I cannot go<br />
Just yesterday at lunch at BK Thai on the patio in the overcast<br />
Grey my friend Mark Str<strong>and</strong> says “Pu Chou, Pu Chung Chu”<br />
Which he claims translates to<br />
“Without coincidence<br />
There is no story”<br />
9 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Dezarae Martinez<br />
Metamorphosis<br />
There is a time when the path you’re on stops <strong>and</strong> it’s time to start anew,<br />
When Barney & Friends becomes Grey’s Anatomy<br />
And your favorite color changes from pink to red.<br />
Things around you were changing constantly,<br />
You didn’t know how to wrap your head around all the things going on.<br />
From being with two parents, now to one,<br />
Always laughing with your gr<strong>and</strong>ma <strong>and</strong><br />
Late night adventures with your uncle,<br />
It’s. All. Over.<br />
You grew up, <strong>and</strong> your parents grew apart,<br />
Your gr<strong>and</strong>ma <strong>and</strong> uncle, they passed away.<br />
Now you love to wear black <strong>and</strong> write about your feelings.<br />
Instead of birthday parties at Peter Piper Pizza<br />
You lay in your room, eating a tres leches cake by yourself.<br />
You’ve watched the people you love fade away<br />
And you kept all that feeling inside.<br />
You don’t know how to tell the person who loves you the most that<br />
You are not okay.<br />
Not all of it is bad though,<br />
There are still those happy moments when the entire family gets together,<br />
We barbecue <strong>and</strong> enjoy each other’s company.<br />
You’ve grown up <strong>and</strong> you’ve learned.<br />
Even though you had to grow up fast <strong>and</strong> help raise your siblings,<br />
You’ve learned that family has your back no matter what.<br />
You know what familial love is<br />
And even though you don’t know how to love you,<br />
It’s okay.<br />
You’ll figure it out one day<br />
When the path you’re on stops <strong>and</strong> starts anew.<br />
Robb Jackson Highschool Poetry 2nd Place (<strong>20</strong>21)<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
10
Ava Coronado<br />
Sibling Harmony<br />
Summer <strong>20</strong>15<br />
When I was fifteen, Eleanor was finally home from<br />
the University of Texas, <strong>and</strong> it was a summer where we<br />
unexpectedly bonded over love <strong>and</strong> friendships…<br />
We reconnected with brothers—Noah <strong>and</strong> Dean, our<br />
friends for over ten years. It was a peculiar piece of time as<br />
Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I were filled with butterflies by these smooth<br />
dancing siblings. That summer we met up at Sonic every Sunday night, facing our friends,<br />
wondering when the brothers were going to walk in—eventually blushing at their red caps,<br />
as their tall physiques strode past the metal door, into the s<strong>and</strong> filled volleyball court.<br />
“How did you get that cut? Oh yeah, SAND,” Dean joked as he threw the volleyball<br />
at the ground, reminiscing over last week’s tragedy of the Sonic s<strong>and</strong> cutting his knee. I<br />
laughed, admiring his humorous energy.<br />
Sometimes instead of the volleyball courts, our sibling<br />
harmony motioned the waves <strong>and</strong> kindled the flares on the<br />
beach… As the bonfire crackled in front of us, Noah’s h<strong>and</strong><br />
reached for Eleanor, tangling his fingers in her curly blonde hair<br />
as her face blushed with a pink undertone… Dean looked at me<br />
excitedly, switching the two step music to The Weekend while we<br />
danced on the bed of Noah’s red truck, looking up at the bright<br />
stars, interlocking h<strong>and</strong>s as we sung our lungs out. “I can’t feel my face when I’m with YOU,<br />
but LOVE IT, but I LOVE IT.” He danced smoothly like Justin Timberlake, <strong>and</strong> my bare face<br />
flashed a smile.<br />
Fall<br />
Fast forward a couple months, I was falling in love<br />
with Dean as I watched Eleanor <strong>and</strong> Noah bond over their<br />
reoccurring movie theater dates every Thursday night--The Gr<strong>and</strong><br />
Budapest hotel, Interstellar, Boyhood… I left Eleanor a note every<br />
time she had a date with Noah, just because I wanted her to<br />
know when I went to sleep <strong>and</strong> that I hoped she had fun. I never<br />
<strong>and</strong> I mean never texted her when she was on a date with Noah, because she was so caught<br />
up in cinema talk, she did not have a chance to be on her phone. Who could blame her<br />
though? Noah was attractive, smart, funny. He was tall <strong>and</strong> made funny jokes <strong>and</strong> they<br />
both had intellectual talks only they could underst<strong>and</strong>. I mean they could talk for hours,<br />
<strong>and</strong> they did. About life, about movies, God, relationships, love, family, each other—so<br />
much.<br />
For months, Noah <strong>and</strong> Eleanor had met up at the Alamo Draft-house theater, catching<br />
late night flicks in the black leather seats, picking each other’s minds afterward, as they<br />
discussed elements of movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind—that made it<br />
worth it.<br />
“Do you think we’ll ever want to erase each other from our minds?” Noah asked.<br />
“Huh. What a sad thought… I hope not,” Eleanor replied.<br />
“Ahh, relationships…”<br />
“What about them?”<br />
“It’s just sad, you never know when they’ll go up in flames,” he said.<br />
11 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
…<br />
It was my first dance, <strong>and</strong> my first date. Dean—the boy I’d had<br />
a crush on since I was nine years old, was my homecoming date…<br />
We waltzed into the venue, where strobe lights blinded our eyes,<br />
<strong>and</strong> country music rang. He interlocked with my h<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> I tried to<br />
keep up with his long strides with my small heels, as we walked to<br />
the table where his friends were at. “Sup guys, this is Dawn,” Dean<br />
said to his friends. They all perceived the same energy—outgoing,<br />
loud, sweet, fun. I dropped my purse on the table, as all of us stepped on the dance<br />
floor with the rest of the sweaty student body. Dean was tall, <strong>and</strong> many of his girlfriends<br />
seemed somewhat jealous of me. He was a varsity wrestling captain, <strong>and</strong> I felt proud that<br />
he was mine… He was very loud <strong>and</strong> excited. As we danced on the floor, he grabbed my<br />
hips <strong>and</strong> got behind me as I was nervous to grind. It was something every single student<br />
did at dances, so I didn’t make it much of a deal. It was fun—he kissed me on the cheek<br />
multiple times, as I prepared for him to kiss me, while Eleanor’s voice ran through my<br />
head.<br />
“Don’t be surprised if Dean kisses you tonight…”<br />
The music transitioned from Lil Jon to Thompson Square, <strong>and</strong> Dean’s eyes gleamed<br />
into mine, “I’m so happy you’re with me tonight,” he said.<br />
“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” Keifer’s voice rang through the speakers.<br />
And just like that, my first kiss happened with the boy I crushed on for six years—<br />
my karate kid—Dean.<br />
The excitement of first kisses overwhelmed our emotions as I told Eleanor what<br />
happened homecoming night with Dean, <strong>and</strong> she told me what happened on her <strong>and</strong><br />
Noah’s recent movie night<br />
“Ahhhhh, oh my goshhhh, I knew it was gonna happen,” she said. I blushed hard.<br />
“Just don’t go any further, please, you’re my little sister.” Her facial expression was a<br />
funny crying face as she was joking but was trying to give me solid advice. I laughed <strong>and</strong><br />
was happy to have her around again…<br />
October<br />
Another danced rolled by, <strong>and</strong> this time we waltzed to tunes in the Veterans<br />
Memorial High School cafeteria. This time he met my friends, <strong>and</strong> sometimes it felt like<br />
he knew more people from my own school than I did. We wore blue <strong>and</strong> took photos in a<br />
Photo Booth where our strips read “written in the stars.” He truly felt like my moon, <strong>and</strong><br />
I was his stars…. Once again, we had my parents take us to Whataburger, <strong>and</strong> sometimes<br />
when I visit the one on Cimarron, I still picture us sitting in the cold booth, where his<br />
h<strong>and</strong>s grasped mine, <strong>and</strong> the dazzling eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy locked into mine.<br />
Three words. “I love you.”<br />
Come Sunday night, we waltzed into the church gym, as we played music on the aux,<br />
<strong>and</strong> Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I watched our crushes play basketball, like every Sunday. Their athletic<br />
physiques sprinted across court, Noah made smooth yet funny expressions towards<br />
Eleanor, <strong>and</strong> Dean was afraid because I wasn’t sure if I loved him yet. I knew I did, but I<br />
was only fifteen—<strong>and</strong> I loved him so much. It was terrifying.<br />
Winter<br />
On December 13th, the church goers paraded across town for our<br />
annual Christmas parade <strong>and</strong> festival. Noah <strong>and</strong> Dean both waltzed along<br />
with Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I, just like they did six years before that. It was like deja<br />
vu, <strong>and</strong> I asked God why they suddenly came back into our lives, <strong>and</strong><br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
12
why everything felt so right. I loved Dean; Eleanor loved Noah. Their movie nights turned<br />
into intimate dates, <strong>and</strong> their h<strong>and</strong>s grazed, <strong>and</strong> lips touched, falling deeper into a love<br />
that set the stars on fire. Their brains were linked, <strong>and</strong> their souls were truly attached…<br />
And at the same time, Dean <strong>and</strong> I had movie dates of our own—I always called him<br />
Karate Kid because for one, his name was Dean <strong>and</strong> two, he did Jiu Jitsu… Not only<br />
did he do Jiu Jitsu, but his entire family was specialized in fighting—boxing, Jiu Jitsu,<br />
wrestling, you name it. He loved Karate Kid <strong>and</strong> always called me his Ali…<br />
We were fascinated by our connections, the five of us, including their<br />
sister, who fit in like a matching puzzle piece to our compulsive parallels.<br />
Often, people thought we were strange for dating brothers, but in depth,<br />
our friends understood our sincere interrelation as it made sense with<br />
the universe.<br />
The intertwined love of each pairing wasn’t just “strange” <strong>and</strong> intimate—it was<br />
truly harmonized. The oddity of time within our connectedness between us <strong>and</strong> these<br />
brothers pestered my mind between every l<strong>and</strong>mark the four of us made in each other’s<br />
relationships. I stared at Eleanor as an older version of me, a mirror of my descent, where<br />
I was headed, yet also there in the current time—kissing Dean, the younger version of<br />
Noah as he danced with glee.<br />
Summer <strong>20</strong>16<br />
By the next summer, after an entire year of dating brothers, the five of us became<br />
more like a family. We attended church events together, still went to sonic during the<br />
weekends, <strong>and</strong> fell more <strong>and</strong> more in love with these people we thought were meant<br />
to be in our lives. Sometimes we drove around in Noah’s white BMW. Me, Dean, <strong>and</strong><br />
their sister sitting in the backseat as Eleanor <strong>and</strong> Noah sat in the front. Drake’s new<br />
record blasted through the speakers, as we now associate the album with the summer<br />
of twenty-sixteen to this day. I held Dean’s h<strong>and</strong> as our siblings laughed in the front,<br />
making jokes with twinkles in their eyes. Once they were supposed to go on a date after<br />
church, but dragged us siblings along, making a memorable night. Everything had felt so<br />
completely right…<br />
In June, we went to Houston, <strong>and</strong> ice-skated side by side at the Galleria, listening to<br />
the word of God, while also developing contrasting opinions—mostly originated by the<br />
older siblings. Noah had his doubts, as did Dean… Eleanor believed in God, as did I. We<br />
wanted the brothers to be better, <strong>and</strong> wanted them to succeed, they had been a part of<br />
our lives <strong>and</strong> our church forever… They loved us not only as lovers, but as friends.<br />
In July, we spent our second Independence Day together, popping fireworks at 2 am,<br />
laughing as we snapped memorable polaroid’s that just sit in a dusty box underneath my<br />
bed now.<br />
Strangely, they both opened up to Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I about past relationships, their<br />
trauma, <strong>and</strong> their parents’ struggles. We prayed for their family always, encouraged<br />
them daily, <strong>and</strong> loved them to an extent we didn’t believe was possible… My sister <strong>and</strong> I<br />
genuinely thought this was our future family—everything felt so right.<br />
As an inexperienced teenager, frequently I talked<br />
to Eleanor about Dean, <strong>and</strong> strangely she went<br />
through the same things with Noah—in a different<br />
way. The brothers were similar, they both had similar<br />
emotions that changed very frequently. When they<br />
were happy, Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I felt like we were on cloud<br />
nine… But when they were emotional, everything shifted to a storm—<strong>and</strong><br />
most times it got taken out on us… I believe it stemmed from personal hurts<br />
<strong>and</strong> damaging pain from their past, <strong>and</strong> I felt sad. It still took a toll on us<br />
though, but we still believed it was meant to be. Not everybody was perfect.<br />
“He just gets so angry sometimes, I don’t underst<strong>and</strong>. And I can’t leave him Eleanor.”<br />
“Noah doesn’t want to commit to me Dawn, he says he loves me, but can’t commit<br />
to me.”<br />
13 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
By the end of summer, Eleanor, Noah, <strong>and</strong> I went to Dallas for a Coldplay concert. In<br />
twenty fifteen, Coldplay had just come out with a new album that talked about “brothers<br />
in blood, sisters who ride… if you love someone, you should let them know.” I watched Eleanor<br />
<strong>and</strong> Noah stare at each other as Chris Martin sang their favorite song… I watched them<br />
fall in love, <strong>and</strong> I hoped one day he would be my brother as it already felt like he was…<br />
When I was ten, I was a lot smaller than when I was sixteen, <strong>and</strong> I always felt a big<br />
brother connection to Noah. Every time I saw him at church, I ran up to him <strong>and</strong> he gave<br />
me a big hug <strong>and</strong> picked me up <strong>and</strong> twirled me around… I always thought he was cool,<br />
<strong>and</strong> still did when I was sixteen… The Coldplay album is still an association with our<br />
relationships with them, <strong>and</strong> Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I still think about how fun seeing them with<br />
Noah was. It was her favorite b<strong>and</strong>.<br />
Fall / Winter<br />
In November, we took a trip to Austin altogether, <strong>and</strong> they wore their red caps as we<br />
strolled down to home slice pizza, experiencing Eleanor’s past life (she went to UT). We<br />
caught a movie, as their parents <strong>and</strong> sister sat beside us. We were good for them, <strong>and</strong><br />
they were happy to be in our lives… As December creeped up on us, we celebrated yet<br />
another church parade <strong>and</strong> festival, wearing beanies <strong>and</strong> singing as the brothers stood<br />
in front of us. The five of us matched outfits as we wore red <strong>and</strong> white on Christmas Eve.<br />
“Well, this was unplanned,” Eleanor said as Noah joked<br />
about his red tie <strong>and</strong> her red dress. For some reason red was<br />
always a thing between them… He bought her a movie ticket<br />
charm that she wore on a necklace with a red bead beside<br />
it, <strong>and</strong> she always associates her past feelings with him to<br />
Taylor Swift’s song Red.<br />
Loving him was like driving a new Maserati down a dead-end<br />
street, faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly.<br />
Dean <strong>and</strong> I wore white, <strong>and</strong> took a picture where I was head over heels for him.<br />
Although I was sixteen, I loved him in a way I didn’t believe a sixteen-year-old could.<br />
Perhaps it’s just because he was my first love, but I never imagined him out of my life…<br />
That picture was one of my favorites, <strong>and</strong> I still have it… Eleanor still has the ticket.<br />
…<br />
Dean <strong>and</strong> I hung out a lot during the weekends, <strong>and</strong> almost every day during<br />
winter break. Most of the time we liked to stroll to the newly opened Bahama Bucks<br />
on Saratoga, eat the tasty tiger’s blood shaved ice <strong>and</strong> compete against each other in a<br />
game of Jenga.<br />
“Dean, stop you’re making me laugh,” I said as I shakily removed a block from the<br />
wobbly Jenga tower.<br />
“I want my fifty cents,” he laughed.<br />
Spring / Summer <strong>20</strong>17<br />
While Eleanor <strong>and</strong> Noah continued their weekly hangouts, sometimes on weekends<br />
happy for me when I made the cheer team. In June, we attended another trip in Houston,<br />
<strong>and</strong> had more volleyball nights than ever. I turned seventeen in July, <strong>and</strong> the brothers<br />
wished me happy birthday in our group message. We cheered with Joy as we watched<br />
Noah walk the stage during his college graduation, extremely proud of him for being the<br />
first of his family to be a college graduate.<br />
Sometimes emotions roared through the brothers’ bleeding<br />
hearts. Dean being only seventeen, sometimes became manipulative,<br />
<strong>and</strong> angry when we didn’t do things his way… which left me sad. I had a<br />
hard time trusting him—he always said words to make me happy, but<br />
sometimes his eyes were on other comets… Being the emotional boys<br />
they were, Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I would come home from dates—frustrated<br />
often, as tears filled my eyes <strong>and</strong> rage rushed through her voice.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
14
We’re all the same, yet so different—older <strong>and</strong> younger versions of<br />
each other, playing games <strong>and</strong> switching narratives from euphoric<br />
bloopers to serious cinematic scenes that leave each other bleeding.<br />
I had always thought Noah <strong>and</strong> Eleanor made sense, <strong>and</strong> that maybe one day they’d<br />
be married. But he could never say he loved her, even though he truly did.<br />
“I’m sure you know how I feel about you; I just know you want to head towards<br />
marriage soon, <strong>and</strong> I’m only twenty-one,” Noah said.<br />
“I’m not asking you to marry me Noah, I never have, I underst<strong>and</strong> the place you’re<br />
at,” Eleanor said sadly. She only wanted him to be a committed boyfriend.<br />
He never was.<br />
The stars were aligned the first couple of summers, in June <strong>and</strong> July, <strong>and</strong> various<br />
planets formed long lasting retrogrades throughout the fall <strong>and</strong> winter season, turning<br />
directions not only in the sky but in our relationships at the same time as well.<br />
Fall / Winter<br />
As another homecoming came around, Dean was a senior <strong>and</strong> I was a junior. “I want<br />
to be engaged to you by the end of the year,” he said. This was something that scared<br />
me as I was only seventeen, but it made me feel good that Dean didn’t want to leave<br />
me… I had always thought I would end up with him, as my naive self thought our history<br />
was God’s plan… Except two weeks later, he left all our memories in the past, <strong>and</strong> simply<br />
changed his mind about me, <strong>and</strong> started dating another girl—she went to my school.<br />
Dean was young—therefore he was interested in other girls, which at seventeen is<br />
underst<strong>and</strong>able, but ultimately my presence had made a difference in his life—for the<br />
better. Nobody wanted him to lose me, perhaps if he didn’t, he’d have a better life now…<br />
“I’m sorry Dawn, I want to be with other girls,” he said.<br />
Once flames smoldered the enhanced attachment between Dean <strong>and</strong> I, it wasn’t<br />
too fast before the flames caught up with Eleanor <strong>and</strong> Noah, as if our sibling harmony<br />
diminished like a pair of shooting stars… They came to an end in January, because Noah<br />
was simply a noncommittal man.<br />
“Isn’t it strange? We started dating them at the same time, now we’re trying to get<br />
over them at the same time,” I told her.<br />
“I don’t know what the point of all that was,” she said.<br />
<strong>20</strong>18<br />
After a hectic year of seeing Dean create new memories with<br />
the softball girl from my school, <strong>and</strong> another retrograde causing<br />
him to orbit around the hallways I walked, I tried my best to put<br />
our memories in the past. I flirted with new faces, <strong>and</strong> cheered in July, despite the<br />
heartbreaking news of the softball girl’s pregnancy. Dean was going to be a father, <strong>and</strong><br />
we were nothing but dust.<br />
Still, so strange, the sibling harmony—gone in a moment… As Eleanor <strong>and</strong> I face<br />
being alone <strong>and</strong> time moves quicker than ever before, soon that summer in July <strong>and</strong> the<br />
two years after are nothing but old polaroids <strong>and</strong> pictures on memory cards...<br />
“Maybe we were star crossed lovers,” Eleanor said.<br />
We reminisce on that time, st<strong>and</strong>ing together three years later, this time growing<br />
closer to new faces, that perceive the same energy, this time not related—but falling in<br />
love with us, again. It’s strange, it’s intoxicating, startling, <strong>and</strong> yet another harmony set<br />
in motion.<br />
15 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Anna Strickl<strong>and</strong><br />
Goodbyes<br />
Saying goodbye is hard.<br />
It may be a hug.<br />
A pat on the back,<br />
A grimace,<br />
A whisper in the dead of night.<br />
And sometimes it happens without you even knowing.<br />
But what makes it hard?<br />
It’s forcing yourself to move on,<br />
Making the tough decision to walk away from something,<br />
Despite how good it may have been.<br />
But sometimes goodbyes are good for you,<br />
Although everyone hates change.<br />
Sometimes the people you love<br />
Just aren’t good enough<br />
And they don’t put in the effort to love you back.<br />
You deserve to receive the same love that you give others.<br />
So, no matter how many years you’ve known each other,<br />
Leaving them is for the best.<br />
Because, if you don’t leave them soon enough,<br />
They might just leave you.<br />
And that makes it so much harder.<br />
You’re left alone thinking you were the problem,<br />
Saying “I should’ve loved them more.”<br />
You look back at photos of past good times,<br />
Wishing that they came back.<br />
But YOU DON’T NEED THEM.<br />
You never have.<br />
The ones who gave an effort,<br />
Those are the ones that matter.<br />
And even if you’ve parted ways with them,<br />
They’re the ones that stick with you still.<br />
Because they’re the ones that changed you;<br />
Whether in a small or large way;<br />
They changed you for the better.<br />
Of course, goodbyes are hard.<br />
But they can also be a peaceful release.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
16
Raye Bailey<br />
She Remembers<br />
Impressed between my pages<br />
Here lies, a moment’s memory<br />
A stolen fragile moment<br />
When you belonged to me<br />
Plucked fresh from some spring meadow<br />
That place soon lost from sight<br />
I kept a moment hidden<br />
I held it safe, nurtured, contrite<br />
Now entombed, withered in pages closed<br />
Our memory fades until forgotten<br />
And to my only growing despair<br />
Our bud never did seem to blossom<br />
The Last Leaf<br />
From her branches, the solitary leaf descends<br />
Released is the final remnant of Autumn<br />
And with a dreamy sigh of resignation <strong>and</strong> relief<br />
She weaves one last story to no one in particular<br />
A motion so graceful <strong>and</strong> honestly mundane<br />
She waves her last farewell with no sense of finality<br />
A dance so careless <strong>and</strong> silently divine<br />
Welcoming the chill, at long last,<br />
She rests<br />
17 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Nancy Spiller<br />
“As the massive star contracts, it’s gravity becomes so strong that light can no longer escape.<br />
The region from which light cannot escape is called a black hole <strong>and</strong> its boundary is called<br />
the event horizon.”- Steven Hawking<br />
A Brief History of Donny<br />
I did my best trying to get along<br />
with my son, Donny. He used to be a<br />
real mother’s helper, picking up the dry<br />
cleaning, emptying my ashtrays, the<br />
little man of the house. Saturdays were<br />
soccer days. Sure, I had to yell for him to<br />
keep his cleats off until he got to the car,<br />
but he so loved clickety-clacking down<br />
the driveway. My fondest memories are<br />
of him running the full length of that<br />
impossibly green field, the one built over<br />
a former waste dump—they’ve only had<br />
to close it twice for methane explosions<br />
from the rotting garbage below. My boy,<br />
kicking the ball, leaping in the air like a<br />
baby Billy goat, feeling the full wallop of<br />
his life force.<br />
But all that changed in the<br />
bitter morning hours the winter of his<br />
seventh-grade year. He’d snuck out of<br />
the house with a group of like-minded<br />
delinquents, his “crew,” to spray paint a<br />
freeway overpass. Tagging, they called<br />
it. I had to get out of bed, throw a coat<br />
over my nightgown <strong>and</strong> drive to the<br />
police station for the little booger. That<br />
was what he became to me that night,<br />
no better than a noisome waste product<br />
headed for a tissue <strong>and</strong> the Big Flush. He<br />
was in his crew uniform, a T-shirt, baggy<br />
jeans <strong>and</strong> a stocking cap, his bare arms<br />
scabby from self-inflicted burns. I told<br />
him I’d knock the stuffing out of him if<br />
he ever did anything like that again. Of<br />
course, you could whack a kid like him<br />
all day <strong>and</strong> he’d still manage to say or do<br />
something, or just give you a look, that<br />
made you want to keep whacking him.<br />
I’ve thought about this a lot.<br />
I’ve had the time to, now that things<br />
have quieted down. All those volcanic<br />
explosions claiming he never asked to<br />
be born, making me wish he’d come<br />
with a return mailing label. Sometimes<br />
I wonder if he just did that to make<br />
himself stronger, like they do with<br />
steel blades, heating <strong>and</strong> cooling, then<br />
heating <strong>and</strong> cooling, until it’s tougher<br />
than whatever it needs to cut through.<br />
I treasure my son, don’t get me<br />
wrong. His Spirit. God knows I wish his<br />
little sister had a tenth of his spunk.<br />
Sometimes when I’m yelling at her I<br />
worry she’ll just dry up <strong>and</strong> blow away.<br />
Even worse, I won’t notice. I’ll be paying<br />
too much attention to Donny. Only now<br />
it’s a different kind of attention.<br />
I first got the idea of how to<br />
deal with him from Steven Hawking,<br />
you know, the late twentieth century’s<br />
Einstein. Einstein invented the theory of<br />
relativity. Something about a train going<br />
a certain speed <strong>and</strong> out the window<br />
everything starts to stretch out, or<br />
maybe moosh up, like a yeast dough left<br />
too long to rise. Or something.<br />
Einstein didn’t talk until he was<br />
four years old. His mother claimed<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
18
he had nothing to say. Donny still<br />
doesn’t like talking, at least to adults.<br />
Unless they talk trash about his father.<br />
Then he’ll gush on for the man who<br />
ab<strong>and</strong>oned him when he was five.<br />
Who sent him home from visits with a<br />
bruised buttocks. Who moved across<br />
country for work, gifting me a second<br />
career chasing child support. Mention<br />
that bastard <strong>and</strong> Donny wins a Top Pop<br />
essay contest.<br />
But back to Steven Hawking, the<br />
black holes from collapsing stars guy.<br />
He proved black holes exist, saw how<br />
everything disappears into them except<br />
for two atoms dancing on the edge,<br />
what’s called the event horizon. That’s<br />
where you fall in <strong>and</strong> disappear. You<br />
don’t see the event horizon, you just<br />
disappear. Hawking wrote “A Brief History<br />
of Time” about this stuff. Sold a million<br />
billion copies. I waited for the movie. In<br />
it, they break a tea cup to show how the<br />
past is different from the future: the tea<br />
cup won’t ever put itself back together.<br />
Time goes forward, never back.<br />
Got it.<br />
The second thing I got from it was<br />
when he was a boy, Steven Hawking was<br />
a booger. It wasn’t until he got stuck in a<br />
wheel chair that he started figuring out<br />
the universe.<br />
At Oxford, he drank <strong>and</strong> goofed off.<br />
Then he fell drunk out of a tree. Doctors<br />
diagnosed him with a degenerative<br />
nerve disease. He’d spend the rest of his<br />
life in a wheel chair. He started paying<br />
attention, cracking the books, thinking<br />
big thoughts <strong>and</strong> inventing world class<br />
theories. He needed a synthesizer to<br />
talk. It focused his mind. Let his genius<br />
out.<br />
Donny refused to watch the movie.<br />
How was his genius ever coming out?<br />
He did say he’d watch if I sat through a<br />
skateboarding tape. Punks shooting up<br />
one ramp <strong>and</strong> down another, up, down,<br />
up, down. Hopped up music. Forget it, I<br />
said. Run off <strong>and</strong> find some trouble.<br />
He got arrested earlier than usual<br />
that night.<br />
What could I do? A backwards<br />
baseball cap covered his shaved head,<br />
flannel shorts big as a pup tent <strong>and</strong><br />
XXX-Large T-shirt making him look<br />
like a pinhead. His skinny legs wrapped<br />
in snake tattoos made with ball point<br />
ink <strong>and</strong> cigarette ash. The ex-cons at<br />
his continuation high school taught<br />
him that. At least he was learning! But<br />
his eyes were blank when he told me,<br />
looked like something biology students<br />
would have to share on dissection day.<br />
I got pregnant without even<br />
thinking. The easiest thing. I didn’t<br />
worry about raising a kid. Being a<br />
parent. Or Parenting, like everyone calls<br />
it now, making it sound so complicated,<br />
like you need to get a college degree in<br />
it. I just loved to push Donny’s carriage<br />
through the park. He’d stare up at the<br />
trees, wave his little paw, <strong>and</strong> say “Twee.<br />
Twee.” I’d coo back <strong>and</strong> we’d both smile.<br />
I’ve often thought since of that<br />
needlepoint sampler behind the juvenile<br />
court judge’s desk: “Mighty oaks from<br />
little acorns grow.” Maybe if I’d cooed<br />
that to my baby back in that park,<br />
it could have done some good. As it<br />
st<strong>and</strong>s now, he’s beyond the reach of<br />
any threadbare old saying.<br />
Or maybe it’s more like the acorn<br />
explodes to make the oak. Maybe the<br />
oak’s emotional <strong>and</strong> psychic self, like the<br />
19 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
court ordered psychiatrist said about<br />
Donny, just gets overheated, violent,<br />
exp<strong>and</strong>s too rapidly. A spontaneous,<br />
irreversible collapse. Scattering pieces<br />
about the universe, like the clothes in<br />
Donny’s room since the day he turned<br />
13.<br />
Maybe the soft-boiled boy<br />
becomes the shattered man. All I really<br />
know is I’m tired of thinking about it.<br />
Seventeen is the last year in<br />
which to save your kid. Kids know<br />
this. They know about sealed records,<br />
juvenile court, community service in lieu<br />
of incarceration. That ends at 18 when<br />
they can be tried as adults.<br />
For Donny, 17 was the year he’d<br />
use a gun.<br />
The psychiatrist said drugs were<br />
controlling his life, threatening it. Not<br />
to mention our lives. A knife to his<br />
sister’s throat? Twice. The second time<br />
he l<strong>and</strong>ed a 72-hour psychiatric hold.<br />
He told the judge he “understood” the<br />
gravity of his actions. But did he? If<br />
that sumo-sized guard hadn’t held me<br />
back, I would have throttled him. If he<br />
understood—then explain it to me! Was<br />
a couple of nights in a psych cell a rite of<br />
passage for the modern teenage boy?<br />
Anti-depressants the doctor said.<br />
Clear his mind of anger. “Buckets of<br />
anger,” the doctor said. “Buckets he’s<br />
dealing with.”<br />
“I could kill you now,” he said<br />
looking stone hard at me in that joint<br />
session, his dark brows anvil flat. My<br />
baby boy. My Donny! The stinker. Where<br />
did these buckets come from?<br />
I’d been ab<strong>and</strong>oned by my parents.<br />
Dad took off with another woman <strong>and</strong><br />
mom went to her room for a couple of<br />
decades. I never got angry enough to fill<br />
a screw cap’s worth of resentment. In my<br />
day, ab<strong>and</strong>oned children stayed sweet in<br />
hopes their fleeing folks would return.<br />
We didn’t have spray paint, or crews, or<br />
guns. We had nice. We remembered them<br />
on all the holidays with gifts <strong>and</strong> cards<br />
<strong>and</strong> cards <strong>and</strong> gifts. And we never forgot<br />
Father’s Day or Mother’s Day, even if they<br />
tried to. None of it ever made a lick of<br />
difference. They had fled the crime scene.<br />
Dear God, I said that night Donny was in<br />
the psych ward, if we can just get through<br />
this—anything, I’ll give you anything.<br />
Did Steven Hawking believe in<br />
God? He figured everything else out.<br />
“Observations of distant galaxies indicate<br />
that they are moving away from us,” he<br />
wrote. Or maybe he said it in the movie.<br />
“The universe is exp<strong>and</strong>ing. This implies<br />
that the galaxies must have been closer<br />
together in the past...” Run film of the<br />
shattering cup in slow motion <strong>and</strong> the<br />
pieces float away from where the whole<br />
cup was. The whole cup is just a memory.<br />
What went wrong with Donny? Was<br />
it too much high fructose corn syrup?<br />
Not enough spankings? Leaded house<br />
paint? The bad air from living so close to a<br />
refinery? Was it genetic? His father never<br />
talked about his own teen years. I couldn’t<br />
get him to offer any excuses for his son.<br />
It was that brief lull between Donny’s<br />
stay in the psych ward, <strong>and</strong> being picked up<br />
for armed robbery <strong>and</strong> attempted murder,<br />
that I started seriously considering the<br />
benefits of confining him to a wheel chair.<br />
That Superman actor didn’t do so bad<br />
after a horse jumping accident stuck him<br />
on the sidelines in his big wheels. Without<br />
the money for riding lessons, a motorcycle<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
<strong>20</strong>
might do. But Donny wouldn’t wear a<br />
helmet, so it might kill him, as well.<br />
Not the goal.<br />
Simple solution: a week out of<br />
the psych ward, I told him to get his<br />
piles of Nintendo, Power Ranger, <strong>and</strong><br />
Transformer knickknacks into the<br />
basement before I threw them out.<br />
While he packed boxes, I loosened a stair<br />
near the top of the flight. He accused<br />
me of trying to kill him as he lay on the<br />
basement floor. Couldn’t move a finger<br />
as we waited on the ambulance. It wasn’t<br />
true. I didn’t want him dead. I just wanted<br />
his attention.<br />
Once he was in the wheelchair,<br />
I thought we pretty much licked the<br />
problem. He’d be at least 18 by the time<br />
he ever walked again. My job was done.<br />
Got him alive, if not kicking, to the age<br />
of majority.<br />
The wheel chair did get his<br />
attention. Unfortunately, it was focused<br />
on those buckets of anger. His birthday<br />
was a few weeks off when it got really<br />
quiet. A scary quiet. No yelling from the<br />
TV room for another soda or his phone.<br />
His father had called. He’d heard from<br />
his side of the family that his son had<br />
an accident. When he got the full details<br />
from the source, he cut the conversation<br />
short. Said a birthday gift was on its way.<br />
Last Donny heard from him.<br />
No news there.<br />
As for what came after, never in a<br />
million years could I imagine his leaving<br />
his room in that condition. He couldn’t<br />
get that wheel chair out a front or back<br />
door without my hearing the snap of the<br />
screen.<br />
Wrong.<br />
He swears his punk friends<br />
cooked up the idea, an armed robbery<br />
from a wheel chair. Who would guess<br />
that poor soul rolling towards you was<br />
dangerous? Jeff, a soccer bud from his<br />
Billy goat days, filched his father’s gun.<br />
Donny held it on his lap, hidden under<br />
the afghan his gr<strong>and</strong>mother knit for<br />
his christening. When the woman they<br />
were following heard the wheel chair<br />
near, she stopped <strong>and</strong> turned.<br />
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” one of them<br />
said. “please give us your purse.”<br />
According to the court record, she<br />
saw Donny holding the gun underneath<br />
that blanket, panicked, <strong>and</strong> threw her<br />
purse at them. When she began to<br />
run, Donny shot her in the back. Laid<br />
her flat on the sidewalk wet from rain.<br />
Those idiots crossed a lawn to get away,<br />
then backtracked home. The police<br />
were at our door in no time. The wheel<br />
chair made muddy tracks straight to<br />
his bedroom. He was inside shaking<br />
<strong>and</strong> crying <strong>and</strong> smoking a cigarette.<br />
I walloped him upside the head for<br />
smoking in his room. He asked if the<br />
woman was alright, which showed some<br />
remorse. His lawyer ran with that. While<br />
he couldn’t get him a juvenile trial, he<br />
did snag a reduced sentence.<br />
Donny’s little sister, Maya, turns<br />
13 next week. Her father’s better than<br />
Donny’s dad, but not much. He’s in town<br />
but does enjoy his drink. That’s how we<br />
met. I got sober long enough to leave<br />
him. Maya will be fine. I’ve been checking<br />
her regularly since she was 12 to see if<br />
she’d pierced, poked or burned any part<br />
of her body. As best as I can recall, that’s<br />
how her brother got started. I wished I’d<br />
paid closer attention then.<br />
21 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Sitting in his wheel chair in prison,<br />
Donny did finally watch the video based<br />
on Steven Hawking’s book. And then he<br />
called. I picked up the phone to an old<br />
familiar silence. I knew it was him, his<br />
ragged breath, struggling on the other<br />
end of the line.<br />
“What is it, Donny?” I asked, trying<br />
not to sound impatient. I really do want<br />
him to call. Still, I’m always surprised by<br />
my reaction when he does. Maybe I have<br />
buckets of my own.<br />
The outside light’s bulb was dead. That<br />
was the kind of repair I used to depend<br />
on Donny to do. Now the glass door<br />
panel was like a portal, an opening onto<br />
a dark future I couldn’t imagine, let<br />
alone see. “Mother underst<strong>and</strong>s,” I said<br />
to my son.<br />
His last words to me were as soft<br />
as light from a dying planet.<br />
“Do you, mother. Do you really<br />
underst<strong>and</strong>?”<br />
“I watched Steven Hawking today,”<br />
he said, his voice taking on the old<br />
familiar sound of spilled molasses. Like<br />
he’d just been poured out of a thick<br />
crockery jug. My Boy.<br />
“It made me think,” he said. I<br />
wondered what his words would sound<br />
like filtered through a synthesizer,<br />
thinking of the hesitant, broken metal<br />
of Hawking’s voice. What a lucky woman<br />
Mrs. Hawking must have been. So proud.<br />
“What Donny, what did you think,<br />
dear?” I tried to sound sincere, even<br />
though I could smell a pot of leftover<br />
pasta burning on the stove. It was bad—a<br />
two-day soak <strong>and</strong> scrub smell. And I<br />
confess, I felt a whiff of rage coming on.<br />
His putting me through all that he did.<br />
“Mom, sometimes I feel like a<br />
tea cup on the edge of a table. Like<br />
somebody hit the pause button. Like<br />
time’s suspended, <strong>and</strong> I don’t know<br />
which way to fall.”<br />
“I underst<strong>and</strong>, Donny.” If I didn’t<br />
get to that pot, it would be a three-day<br />
project. Where was Maya when I needed<br />
her? It was pitch black in our yard as I<br />
looked through the aluminum patio slider.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
22
Aliah C<strong>and</strong>ia<br />
Black Sheep<br />
I am the black sheep<br />
The air surrounding me burns white<br />
Outcast.<br />
Leper.<br />
Outsider.<br />
A pariah. Purposefully picked <strong>and</strong> prodded.<br />
Gawked at. Questioned. Resented.<br />
Now, pitied.<br />
The look on their faces…<br />
Familiar.<br />
A child, small, eyes wide, surrounded<br />
by sinister-smiling adults.<br />
I’d run.<br />
Escape into a castle in the sky or a traveling circus act.<br />
(Later, I’d find out they were well-structured<br />
halfway houses that could never be mine.)<br />
My home in the clouds drifted away from me.<br />
I visit <strong>and</strong> knock, but no one is there.<br />
The castle is empty.<br />
The circus act remained the same, I did not.<br />
I no longer fit into my expected role. The costume<br />
cut into the soft skin of my shoulders. (It hangs in my<br />
closet, untouched but honored.)<br />
I still argue with myself if it was me who left or<br />
if it had left me a long time ago.<br />
Now, where do I run?<br />
I can attempt to use my newfound strength<br />
<strong>and</strong> independence to act untouchable.<br />
I am not.<br />
I am touched by pangs of disappointment, anger,<br />
disbelief, nostalgia, <strong>and</strong> whispers of a love I once knew.<br />
Castle in the sky…<br />
The shuffling of slippers<br />
<strong>and</strong> Telemundo news broadcasting<br />
Traveling circus act…<br />
90’s R&B waking me up in the morning<br />
Tight hugs<br />
Harmonizing laughter<br />
I have been grieving the absence of sound.<br />
Proof that they existed.<br />
Evidence of my safe havens.<br />
I am running. Lost. Aimless.<br />
Pitied. Resented. Eventually,<br />
I’ll soar.<br />
But, for now,<br />
please, let me rest.<br />
23 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Aliah C<strong>and</strong>ia<br />
Me, Her<br />
How vast my heart exp<strong>and</strong>s when<br />
I allow it. Permit it. Grant it my<br />
approval. Smiling, I know, let her<br />
bask in it… while she can…<br />
Let it illuminate her cheeks.<br />
Blushing the corners of her smile…<br />
The roundness of her face<br />
growing like the fullest of moons.<br />
Soft hairs brushing across her ears,<br />
reaching for the sky.<br />
Breathy laugh, teeth shone.<br />
Arms clutching her small frame….<br />
Hold her… She wants the love<br />
<strong>and</strong> to be loved… her heart<br />
palpitates, fighting <strong>and</strong> allowing,<br />
gentle <strong>and</strong> willing…<br />
Vicious <strong>and</strong> telling,<br />
something teases.<br />
No. Let her feel it,<br />
let her.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
24
Kaitlyn Winston<br />
You’re Hungry<br />
When you were young, you thought you were the most beautiful girl in the<br />
world.<br />
And that was because you were. You had no concept of what society’s<br />
definition of ‘pretty’ was; your mother had always told you beauty was in your<br />
heart, <strong>and</strong> that was how you understood it. You were kind, <strong>and</strong> you were smart,<br />
<strong>and</strong> you were everything that you thought was supposed to be beautiful. Your<br />
family praised you for the good things you were, <strong>and</strong> that made you beautiful,<br />
you thought.<br />
When you were in the third grade, one of your classmates called you a twin<br />
tower.<br />
You stood in line in your elementary school cafeteria, your other tall friend<br />
to your left <strong>and</strong> your short friend in between the both of you as you talked<br />
about cartoons <strong>and</strong> books. You were seven months old when September 11th<br />
happened, but you <strong>and</strong> all your classmates knew how traumatizing the event<br />
was for everyone older than you, whether they were in South Texas or halfway<br />
across the country. That’s why it hurt so much when your classmate, the known<br />
school bully, <strong>and</strong> his posse came to you <strong>and</strong> your friends, pointing <strong>and</strong> laughing<br />
at the three of you because, “Look, it’s the twin towers <strong>and</strong> the plane”. Were you<br />
a tragedy?<br />
When you were in the fourth grade, the other girls in class laughed because<br />
your boobs bounced.<br />
You were jumping rope in gym class; in the first grade, your school had a<br />
competition for jumping rope, <strong>and</strong> you were in the top three, your shoe laces<br />
proudly showing the beads that marked your accomplishment in different jump<br />
roping skills. It was something that made you proud. But on that day, when you<br />
were jumping rope, one of the girls in your class (a friend, you had thought)<br />
pointed <strong>and</strong> laughed at you because your chest moved in a way she didn’t<br />
underst<strong>and</strong>. It’s been over a decade, <strong>and</strong> you still haven’t touched a jump rope<br />
since that day. It wasn’t for you anymore, remember?<br />
As you grew up, you developed an eating disorder.<br />
No matter how much your stomach ached for food, you convinced yourself<br />
that no, you’re not hungry, you’re not hungry, you’re not hungry to a point in which<br />
it had become the truth. Your parents would joke with family <strong>and</strong> friends, telling<br />
25 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
them to be careful because you’d “eat all that food in one sitting” if they had given<br />
you food that you liked. By the time you were in middle school, you had stopped<br />
liking food all together. It had become a liability, a constant reminder of the things<br />
that made you disgusting in the eyes of everyone else around you. You became a<br />
picky eater, only eating some things because they were the only things that didn’t<br />
make you feel like the pig you thought you were. You felt trapped in an ocean,<br />
constantly wading between never eating enough <strong>and</strong> binging way too much, stuck<br />
in a dreadful loop that felt like it would last forever because food was evil <strong>and</strong><br />
disgusting <strong>and</strong> was the reason you were the way you were.<br />
No one would listen to your problems. Your inner self would claw at your<br />
insides <strong>and</strong> beg for comfort, for food, for anything at all, <strong>and</strong> no one could hear<br />
her because you swallowed her down like a hard pill <strong>and</strong> buried her six feet under<br />
the ground from which you stood.<br />
You were only met with advice when you’d finally tell someone, because that’s<br />
what you were taught to do when you needed help. Eat more (you did, when you<br />
binged). Eat less (you did, when you starved). Go on a diet (you could barely keep<br />
yourself eating regularly). Work out (you did, even though no one believed you).<br />
You were eight, nine, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen; even now, at<br />
twenty, you’d be reminded of it. Even now, when you lay in bed at night in the still<br />
silence of your room, you can hear the little voice in the back of your head remind<br />
you that you’re disgusting after all these years. Even now, in the middle of class<br />
when your gut would gurgle <strong>and</strong> you’d take a sharp breath because that was your<br />
natural reaction now, your inner self would crawl from the depths of your mind<br />
<strong>and</strong> remind you no, you’re not hungry.<br />
No.<br />
You’re hungry.<br />
You’re starving, actually, <strong>and</strong> you’re not afraid to admit it anymore.<br />
You’re learning to cook good meals that your mom happily lets you know<br />
how to make because maybe then you’ll have control over the demons that keep<br />
you up at night. You don’t binge or starve yourself anymore, eating when you’re<br />
hungry <strong>and</strong> having big enough meals that are finally deemed normal. You’re no<br />
longer trapped in the ocean; instead, you’re st<strong>and</strong>ing far from the sea’s shore,<br />
watching the waves as they crash against each other with a bottle of water in one<br />
h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> a piece of pizza that no longer makes you feel guilty for holding in the<br />
other.<br />
And, though it’s hard, you’re not hungry anymore, <strong>and</strong> that’s the hardest<br />
thing to admit.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
26
Natasha Haas<br />
A Gnawing Empty<br />
Everyone has such a gnawing empty.<br />
That bottomless blank in their breadbasket,<br />
needin’ to gnaw, seekin’ a full belly.<br />
Whatta greedy little fuck though, aint it?<br />
Oh...bottomless blank in my breadbasket,<br />
blinding light, colossal cannibal rage.<br />
Shit, such a needy fucking monster, aren’t you?<br />
Come closer vittles sweetbread, I’ll explain.<br />
Whites wide blind eye, cannibal rattle cage.<br />
Vittles alone can’t sate ravenous ways!<br />
Closer still little sweetbreads, underst<strong>and</strong>?<br />
Isn’t it simple? Plain: Eye want to eat you.<br />
No vittles satisfy our vulgar ways.<br />
Give tongue, barbacoa. Such savory spice.<br />
It is simple, right? You eat my eye too.<br />
We gorge on vicious fluid, broken bone.<br />
Tear my tongue, my teeth gnaw on your cheek<br />
needin’ to grow, seekin’ a full belly.<br />
We gorge on vicious fluid, broken bones…<br />
Everyone is such a gnawing empty.<br />
27 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Edward Wang<br />
Embers of Ambition<br />
It stood perfectly upright <strong>and</strong><br />
centered in full view when she opened<br />
the door to the new place. In every<br />
respect, a monkey’s paw was a strange<br />
thing to encounter, certainly nothing<br />
that Antimony remembered ever<br />
purchasing or being gifted, <strong>and</strong> definitely<br />
something that the white-glove moving<br />
service failed to notify her of when they<br />
moved <strong>and</strong> unpacked the bulk of her<br />
items. Box in h<strong>and</strong>, she skirted around<br />
the disembodied limb to set her burden<br />
down <strong>and</strong> went back to the moving van<br />
to retrieve everything else. Then, she<br />
locked the door on her way out <strong>and</strong> drove<br />
off.<br />
The macabre thing was still<br />
present when she returned. She squatted<br />
down to almost eye-level <strong>and</strong> stared to<br />
confirm its existence. It was definitely<br />
a desiccated h<strong>and</strong> of some primate or<br />
another with bristled, dark hair around<br />
what was left of an arm, thick padding<br />
on the palm, <strong>and</strong> five fingers slightly<br />
too long to belong to a human. That<br />
Antimony couldn’t identify the species<br />
to which it could have belonged was no<br />
concern. She was more preoccupied,<br />
however ridiculous the notion, about<br />
whether the thing before her was merely<br />
a monkey’s paw or The Monkey’s Paw of<br />
literary horror. A matter to ponder later<br />
when she wasn’t still in the process of<br />
moving <strong>and</strong> settling in.<br />
Antimony strode over to the<br />
kitchen <strong>and</strong> returned armed with a pair<br />
of metal tongs. She gingerly grasped the<br />
monkey’s paw, noted it felt very much<br />
like h<strong>and</strong>ling a light length of wood, <strong>and</strong><br />
deposited it deep into a nearby alcove<br />
where it was out of the way but clearly<br />
in full view. There was no visible residue<br />
or hair on the tongs but she washed them<br />
with hot water <strong>and</strong> soap as a matter of<br />
course.<br />
She didn’t bother much with the<br />
monkey paw beyond moving it around<br />
as she cleaned <strong>and</strong> organized the rest of<br />
her possessions. Ill-fated, wish-granting<br />
item or decidedly not, she wasn’t much for<br />
touching it in general <strong>and</strong> gladly sacrificed<br />
one of her tongs to keep it at length.<br />
Nothing seemed to happen while she<br />
h<strong>and</strong>led it <strong>and</strong> it thankfully didn’t move<br />
itself from day to day. The idea of tossing<br />
it out was considered <strong>and</strong> dismissed,<br />
being more reassured in keeping it in<br />
sight <strong>and</strong> harboring the slight paranoia<br />
of it reasserting itself back into her life<br />
somehow. The novelty of its appearance<br />
soon wore thin against the more menial<br />
tasks in her life. Most of those came with<br />
moving to an entirely different place,<br />
but there was still much cleaning to do,<br />
figurative fires to put out, a new job to be<br />
bored at, <strong>and</strong> every other adult thing to<br />
deal with in daily life.<br />
Social interactions were not one<br />
of those things. Work people stayed as<br />
work people <strong>and</strong> none of her neighbors<br />
stopped by to say “hi”. To be fair, she chose<br />
a residence that was just remote enough<br />
that people had to try <strong>and</strong> she had little<br />
initiative to introduce herself. Online<br />
groups satisfied her low minimums for<br />
interactions <strong>and</strong> the only people she saw<br />
more frequently than her coworkers were<br />
the various couriers who made the long<br />
trips to her property. Antimony supposed<br />
that, were she to ever entertain visitors,<br />
the monkey paw didn’t particularly st<strong>and</strong><br />
out among her collections of books,<br />
figures, trinkets, <strong>and</strong> generally interesting<br />
clutter she failed to curate during the<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
28
move. The display of it was wanting but<br />
easily fixed with the purchase of a glass,<br />
bell-shaped dome on a wooden platform.<br />
The dedicated tongs also had received a<br />
st<strong>and</strong> of their own in the same stroke.<br />
Many months later <strong>and</strong> on her<br />
many idle days, Antimony contemplated<br />
the monkey paw. It became an exercise in<br />
pondering her unsatisfactory life. Of all<br />
the things she needed, of all the things<br />
she wanted, <strong>and</strong> of all the things she had<br />
to change. There were only five fingers<br />
<strong>and</strong> she supposed that this was why<br />
wishes often reached for broad effects—<br />
to make the most of them. Perhaps the<br />
consequences that followed were less the<br />
result of malice <strong>and</strong> more attributed to a<br />
lack of power to cleanly fulfill a wish. It<br />
was clearly not comparable to something<br />
like Djinni who often possessed the<br />
power <strong>and</strong> scope but could intentionally<br />
twist wishes towards their own desires.<br />
If it were the genuine article,<br />
Antimony figured it would have done<br />
something by now. It’s how the stories<br />
went anyhow. Her life circumstances<br />
were no worse than before, no convoluted<br />
circumstances compelled her to wish<br />
them different, <strong>and</strong> she certainly wasn’t<br />
squ<strong>and</strong>ering anything on easily fixable<br />
inconveniences when the backlash could<br />
be so disproportionately dire.<br />
The malcontent toward life <strong>and</strong><br />
its daily grind returned to the forefront<br />
of her mind. No matter how many new<br />
skills attempted, vision boards made,<br />
visualizations mediated, gratitude<br />
journals filled, social circles joined, or<br />
new experiences rendered, she felt that<br />
nothing moved forward. Not even the<br />
move to an entirely new location with a<br />
new job afforded her any significant or<br />
fulfilling change. It merely resumed as<br />
another environment with all the old<br />
trappings. Perhaps all her efforts were<br />
too halfhearted or the discipline of her<br />
endeavors too wanting, Antimony didn’t<br />
possess much of a drive to keep pace with<br />
modern life, <strong>and</strong> that she acknowledged<br />
of herself.<br />
As ridiculous as it was, she began to<br />
seriously consider the monkey paw more<br />
<strong>and</strong> more as her weariness festered over<br />
the months. Antimony felt exhausted in<br />
her efforts at self-improvement <strong>and</strong> her<br />
bank account was all the weakened for<br />
them.<br />
Wealth. That she could certainly<br />
use. Money could not outright buy<br />
happiness, but it was the great facilitator<br />
<strong>and</strong> the tremendous remover of<br />
limitations <strong>and</strong> obstacles. Antimony had<br />
no need for the excess of the super rich<br />
to sit upon <strong>and</strong> growth for the sole sake<br />
of growth. It would be worth enough<br />
to simply liberate herself from the<br />
dependence on the daily grind to provide.<br />
Sufficient wealth would give her more<br />
freedom to invest in her hobbies <strong>and</strong><br />
wants. Greater than that, it would enable<br />
her to throw money at all the artists,<br />
artisans, self-starters, independents,<br />
<strong>and</strong> general creatives she admired <strong>and</strong><br />
appreciated without any compromise to<br />
her own circumstances. After all, they<br />
had the courageous passion to pursue<br />
their own avenues <strong>and</strong> deserved to have<br />
their financial concerns alleviated in full<br />
favor of bringing more to the world as<br />
well as flourishing as individuals. Yes,<br />
wealth would certainly set her free.<br />
She stood over the monkey paw but<br />
did not remove it from its glass display<br />
until she fully <strong>and</strong> carefully considered<br />
her wish. The best approach was not<br />
to reach too far <strong>and</strong> also to localize the<br />
imagined consequences to herself. It was<br />
through a restrained selfishness that she<br />
could help herself before helping others.<br />
With an odd gravitas, she removed the<br />
monkey paw, grasped it with bare h<strong>and</strong>s,<br />
<strong>and</strong> wished in all its stipulations. None<br />
of its fingers so much as twitched, <strong>and</strong><br />
Antimony hastily set it back down before<br />
she had any errant thoughts. In the dead<br />
quiet of her home, she felt nothing but<br />
29 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
a private embarrassment in the act. She<br />
reached for the tongs <strong>and</strong> returned the<br />
monkey paw to its display before hurriedly<br />
walking to bed.<br />
There was no lottery to be won,<br />
sudden inheritance to gain, unfortunate<br />
accident to collect insurance from,<br />
obsessive patron to keep, or mysterious<br />
funds spirited into her bank account.<br />
Antimony did however receive a significant<br />
promotion at work. It was well-justified in<br />
the words of her supervisor <strong>and</strong> apparently<br />
long overdue, <strong>and</strong> it was a definite boost<br />
to her finances with the paradoxical<br />
bonus of lessening her workload. This was<br />
nothing Antimony could attribute to the<br />
monkey paw, but it was amusing to think<br />
her efforts coincidentally bore fruit after<br />
the brief madness of one night.<br />
All her debts were cleared in<br />
shorter order than they would have been<br />
otherwise. Antimony began to think less<br />
of her monthly bills <strong>and</strong> more about all<br />
the things she could better afford. Rather<br />
than a luxury car, Antimony gathered more<br />
books, figures, <strong>and</strong> trinkets along with the<br />
proper displays <strong>and</strong> storage for it all. Rather<br />
than a hi-tech mansion, she commissioned<br />
various creators for anything she was yet<br />
capable of making herself. Rather than<br />
a fully staffed yacht, she contributed to<br />
various content creators with a satisfied<br />
smile <strong>and</strong> to crowd-funded projects, with<br />
pleasant surprises when the final products<br />
made their way into her h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />
Antimony also delved with greater<br />
interest into her myriad of hobbies,<br />
everything from writing to model-making<br />
to instrument playing. And yet, in spite<br />
of it all, those pursuits still ran hollow for<br />
her. Whether it was due to her inability to<br />
focus on one craft to its utmost refinement<br />
or due to a restless curiosity that had her<br />
work on a bit of everything, Antimony<br />
saw no progress in light of increased<br />
investments.<br />
Her thoughts turned towards<br />
the monkey paw. The item was still<br />
foolishness to be sure, but—through<br />
either coincidence or a strong placebo<br />
effect—it evoked better than the daily,<br />
motivation creeds or law of attraction<br />
guidelines she once subscribed to.<br />
Antimony stood before it a second time<br />
<strong>and</strong> considered it.<br />
Simply asking for knowledge was<br />
out of the question. The worth of any skill<br />
laid in the journey moreso than the ever<br />
distant destination: a beautiful measure<br />
realized only in reflecting through<br />
the prism of personal perspective, in<br />
combination with the tempering of<br />
experience. It was meaningless to skip<br />
the journey <strong>and</strong> she was extraordinaryily<br />
hesitant in doing any tampering with her<br />
brain.<br />
Artificially giving herself better<br />
habits or purging all her hang-ups fell<br />
into the same forbidden territory. In<br />
the absence of medicine or therapists,<br />
Antimony had some decades of practice<br />
in strangling her inner demons into<br />
submission. Perhaps it wasn’t the<br />
healthiest way to deal, but she always<br />
stubbornly emerged as someone<br />
functional enough. Ample time was what<br />
she needed <strong>and</strong> there was not enough<br />
time for any comfort in a human lifetime.<br />
Immortality. The best answer<br />
without broaching something more<br />
nonsensical <strong>and</strong> troublesome like time<br />
manipulation. To be unbound by the<br />
pressures of time was a tremendous idea<br />
long pursued by humanity. She always<br />
thought lowly of the immortals she<br />
saw in media, specifically the ones who<br />
squ<strong>and</strong>ered their infinite time to wallow<br />
in self-inflicted negativity as opposed to<br />
something productive or simply living.<br />
True boredom did not occur to her. She<br />
wanted to be present for every small<br />
glory <strong>and</strong> wonder found in humanity.<br />
The passing of those around did not<br />
perturb her. She would simply be happy<br />
that those relationships <strong>and</strong> experiences<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
30
occurred as opposed to being sad that<br />
they ended. Freedom from the tyranny<br />
of time was a pleasant thought <strong>and</strong> if she<br />
didn’t leave Earth in about 7 billion years,<br />
that was really her own fault.<br />
With all in mind, Antimony removed<br />
the monkey paw from its display <strong>and</strong><br />
wished for an immortality without age.<br />
Not a finger moved but she mentally<br />
confirmed her second wish <strong>and</strong> set it back<br />
down.<br />
Though now that she was on this<br />
train of thought, there wasn’t much else<br />
that she wanted. The usual wishes of<br />
power, fame, <strong>and</strong> attractiveness held no<br />
appeal <strong>and</strong> were not as useful as wealth<br />
or immortality. Antimony figured that she<br />
may as well use the rest of her wishes now<br />
in order to give closure to this flight of<br />
fancy. She couldn’t keep using the monkey<br />
paw as a macabre stress ball for every<br />
introspective occasion. Immortality was a<br />
tricky concept anyhow <strong>and</strong> there was no<br />
harm in tailoring it further.<br />
When she picked it up a third<br />
time, she wished for at least a minor,<br />
rejuvenating aspect. Immortality would<br />
be pointless if she was still beholden to<br />
the chronic diseases, cancer especially,<br />
that came with age as well as anything<br />
lurking in her genetics. The third finger<br />
was unmoved as she counted the wish.<br />
When she picked it up the fourth<br />
time, she wished for reduced daily<br />
maintenance on her body. Antimony<br />
would abide by sleeping <strong>and</strong> eating but<br />
things like oral care she could do less of<br />
or without. It would also be nice to better<br />
keep fitness gains <strong>and</strong> have them degrade<br />
at a slower rate. The fourth wish was<br />
counted, <strong>and</strong> the fourth finger was as still<br />
as all the others.<br />
If Antimony was morbidily honest,<br />
she was very certain that an immortal<br />
life, with all of its perceived sufferings <strong>and</strong><br />
burdens, was deeply preferable to the void<br />
that was death. Of all the greatest <strong>and</strong><br />
oldest unknowns to fear, the complete<br />
cessation of awareness loomed above<br />
all else. So of all the things in life to<br />
procrastinate with, death was something<br />
to be put on hold forever.<br />
With the fifth <strong>and</strong> final wish, she<br />
thought about how immortals in media<br />
tended to switch identities or disappear<br />
ever so often, so as to not arouse<br />
suspicions or investigations into their<br />
longevity <strong>and</strong> affairs. It was something<br />
that would be increasingly difficult in the<br />
digital age or with annual tax returns.<br />
Having no desire to pose as her own,<br />
young relative ever so often or deal with<br />
that paperwork, Antimony wished that<br />
she would pass discretely from view <strong>and</strong><br />
simply not deal with it. Considering the<br />
number of forms <strong>and</strong> online accounts<br />
with her name, she had no idea how that<br />
would be fulfilled but it used up the five<br />
wishes of the monkey paw <strong>and</strong> she could<br />
finally be done with the whole affair.<br />
And then all the fingers of the<br />
Monkey’s Paw curled up at once <strong>and</strong><br />
punched her in the face.<br />
31 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Cianna Martinez<br />
The Tainted Painting<br />
There’s a gallery,<br />
Paintings on the wall.<br />
You paint this picture,<br />
But it’s not like that at all.<br />
You paint the beauty<br />
Of what you want people to see,<br />
But why does it have to look bad on me?<br />
You paint with thick strokes<br />
That hide thin strokes of pain,<br />
Just like umbrellas<br />
Keep us from the rain.<br />
The shutters cover<br />
Everything you hide,<br />
No one sees what’s<br />
Really inside.<br />
Inside these walls<br />
Are screams of<br />
Sadness,<br />
But you hang your paintings<br />
And they hide the madness.<br />
Inside the gallery<br />
Sits a painting you hide.<br />
A painting,<br />
You want no one to find.<br />
It speaks so clearly<br />
It ruins your image,<br />
The most important thing to you<br />
that gives you privilege.<br />
You get exasperated,<br />
when the paint starts to fade.<br />
I’m your masked painting,<br />
That you can’t portray<br />
Robb Jackson Highschool Poetry 3rd Place (<strong>20</strong>21)<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
32
Dee Allen<br />
The Southern poor—La Raza**<br />
Climb & ride on a rather long back<br />
Of a large lumbering beast<br />
Rolling along the iron tracks<br />
Swiftly & steadily, colossal<br />
Heavy metal serpent chugs<br />
Far away from lives in disarray,<br />
Corrupt cops, thugs running drugs<br />
La bestia*<br />
Any life’s better than that—<br />
The Beast—sure means of transport<br />
Thoughts cast on money they will make<br />
Working in cities of the North<br />
Honduras, Guatémala, Mexico<br />
Long in rear view—<br />
More people climb & ride aboard iron skin<br />
Risk mortal danger they’ll run into:<br />
Injuries, deaths, deportations<br />
Could happen anywhere<br />
Prices they pay to see a better day<br />
Craving freedom from economic despair<br />
Despite their own hardships, Patronas***<br />
By the railroad tracks help riders on their way<br />
Bags of food & bottled water hold<br />
Deprivation at bay for each stowaway<br />
May fortune go to migrants, should their feet touch<br />
The domain of dreams immense<br />
L<strong>and</strong> of star-spangled expectations<br />
Separated from the South by border fence.<br />
*SPANISH: The beast<br />
**Spanish-speaking [<strong>and</strong> by extension, Portuguese-speaking] Catholic<br />
Brown people. Literal translation: “The race.”<br />
***A group of volunteer women in Veracruz, Mexico, usually twelve,<br />
who give food <strong>and</strong> assistance to Central American & Mexican migrants<br />
travelling northbound on top of export trains leaving from Chiapas.<br />
33 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
_
Dee Allen<br />
THE BLACK SHIPS<br />
At least nine in all:<br />
Six with vast sails<br />
That captured the wind,<br />
Another three powered<br />
By coals, released from stacks<br />
As billowing trails of engine exhaust,<br />
Left America’s gr<strong>and</strong>iose<br />
Shores, touched down<br />
On the edge of Edo Bay<br />
And brought with them<br />
Iron cannon diplomacy,<br />
An end to isolation<br />
And the age of shoguns,<br />
A commencing to trade,<br />
An opening of seaside ports,<br />
An acquiescence to a supreme<br />
Naval might local leaders<br />
Secretly longed to possess,<br />
A start to the<br />
Shared thought-train of<br />
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”,<br />
An introduction to<br />
A future in<br />
Flowing gowns & bonnets,<br />
Suits & tophats,<br />
Ladies’ corsets,<br />
Gentlemens’ capes,<br />
Alongside yukata* & geta,**<br />
Silk-made cravats,<br />
Walking canes with hooped h<strong>and</strong>les,<br />
Shoes with spats,<br />
European-style<br />
Ballroom waltzes,<br />
American-style<br />
Constitution<br />
Government<br />
Capitalism,<br />
Horse & carriage,<br />
Steamboats,<br />
Engines & turbines,<br />
Railroads,<br />
Factories & refineries,<br />
Wine & beer,<br />
The telegraph,<br />
The telephone,<br />
More reliance<br />
On the gun—<br />
Slowly,<br />
The Far East<br />
Began to look<br />
Like the l<strong>and</strong><br />
Of the nanban***<br />
_<br />
*JAPANESE: “Summer robes.”<br />
**JAPANESE: “S<strong>and</strong>als.”<br />
***JAPANESE: “Westerners.”<br />
Usually Americans.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
34
Dee Allen<br />
Morning Alarm<br />
It’s morning again<br />
And the first<br />
Sound I hear<br />
Rousing me from dreamless rest<br />
Pulling me back into consciousness<br />
Comes live <strong>and</strong> direct<br />
From nature<br />
From sky<br />
From long, pointy black beak<br />
Swift as the crow will fly—<br />
Short, sharp repetitions of caws,<br />
Calling the sleeping world to awaken.<br />
Sounds from a black bird’s throat,<br />
More effective than<br />
The round, battery-powered<br />
Clock on the shelf—<br />
Morning alarm<br />
From Brother Crow<br />
Stirs my limbs into rather sluggish movements,<br />
Enables my body to rise<br />
From the mattress on the cold brick floor,<br />
Take six steps to the lavatory in half-light,<br />
Flick of the light switch <strong>and</strong> my ritual begins,<br />
From towel rack to wash cloth<br />
To soap bar to hot shower to towel<br />
To sink to mirror<br />
To can of Barbasol cream to razor—<br />
Afterwards, I look<br />
Forward to<br />
My favourite<br />
Part of this new day:<br />
Meatless breakfast.<br />
Hash brown patties,<br />
Seitan bacon strips,<br />
Bowl of applesauce,<br />
Hot cup of peppermint tea<br />
And cherry-flavoured<br />
Liquid vitamin<br />
B-12 drops on my tongue,<br />
Vegan’s best friend.<br />
Savouring it all<br />
Like a soul kiss<br />
From a fine sister.<br />
Topping off the routine:<br />
Discussing the crow’s call<br />
During the blue hour<br />
With my pen<br />
Through adding the next poem to my<br />
notebook.<br />
_<br />
In response to the poem “Young African Man” by The Unrated Poet from Kenya.<br />
35 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Swapna Sanchita<br />
Banality<br />
The constant whirr of the fan<br />
The fan that hangs from wooden beams<br />
In the glass ceiling of the conservatory<br />
Keeps me from thinking<br />
Thinking all that I should create in my mind<br />
Keeps me from feeling<br />
Feeling the sting of empty, barren evenings<br />
And so, I let the fan be…<br />
Let it hang above me, playing out the incessant whirr<br />
The whirr that brings me the banality of peace.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
36
M. Alis Spencer<br />
The painting depicts<br />
a western version<br />
of creation, but the<br />
technique jumbles<br />
the story to show<br />
an alternative or<br />
companion version,<br />
the chaos that<br />
danced <strong>and</strong> settled<br />
into our environment.<br />
The elements are<br />
separation of light<br />
of dark, firmament<br />
swirling up from<br />
the waters, <strong>and</strong> the<br />
face of man with<br />
his flawed vision of<br />
right <strong>and</strong> wrong,<br />
symbolized by the<br />
apple. The gold is<br />
both blessing <strong>and</strong><br />
greed. The texture<br />
forms pools <strong>and</strong><br />
ridges, evoking the<br />
cartography of life.<br />
Inspired in part<br />
by Carl Sagan’s<br />
“Pale Blue Dot”<br />
thoughts <strong>and</strong> the<br />
corresponding<br />
photograph of earth’s<br />
position in space, the<br />
almost-postcard size<br />
of la génesis is an<br />
intentional reminder<br />
that we are but<br />
aspeck of stardust<br />
in a vast universe, or,<br />
in the words of Mr.<br />
Sagan, “Everyone you<br />
love, everyone you<br />
know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was,<br />
lived out their lives, on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”<br />
37 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
la génesis<br />
<strong>20</strong>18, 5 x 7 Alcohol ink, modeling paste, <strong>and</strong> gold leaf on canvas board<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
38
Zev Edwards<br />
Here Today<br />
Who would’ve thought that<br />
something so small could cause such<br />
a stir? Ten years ago, T.J. wouldn’t<br />
have believed it either—he would<br />
have said nah, no way, man—but<br />
things had changed. Times were<br />
different. Social media <strong>and</strong> all. The<br />
internet. Instant information in the<br />
palm of your h<strong>and</strong>.<br />
“Ain’t that right,” T.J. said. The<br />
wind answered by whipping against<br />
the faded brick walls, kicking up<br />
stray cans, <strong>and</strong> sending empty<br />
bags blowing like leaves. There<br />
was more trash in the streets than<br />
there used to be. Nobody cleaned up<br />
after themselves anymore. Sign of<br />
the times. Back in T.J.’s day, young<br />
folk had more spit. Theirs was a<br />
generation of doing, not sitting<br />
around waiting for somebody to do<br />
something they could do themselves.<br />
Nowadays too many people let<br />
things slip.<br />
T.J. bent <strong>and</strong> gathered up<br />
the scattered pieces of trash. He<br />
stopped only when both h<strong>and</strong>s were<br />
full, emptying them in a nearby<br />
dumpster. He scanned the street.<br />
Gems of broken glass <strong>and</strong> metallic<br />
objects glimmered like stars in the<br />
night. Too many to count. It’d take<br />
the better part of an afternoon to<br />
gather them all.<br />
A thankless job, a lesson in<br />
futility, but that didn’t stop T.J.<br />
from picking up a few more. Life<br />
wasn’t about completion. Life was<br />
a process. One step in front of the<br />
other. In the end, nothing left this<br />
world complete.<br />
“Ain’t that right,” T.J. said again,<br />
stretching.<br />
39 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
His little exercise in garbage<br />
collection had awoken pings <strong>and</strong> pangs<br />
in his back. Was it his gr<strong>and</strong>father<br />
who said old age was just a metaphor<br />
for aches <strong>and</strong> pains? T.J. couldn’t<br />
remember. Memory, just another<br />
casualty of getting older.<br />
“Ain’t that right?” T.J. shook his<br />
head. “Christ, there I go sounding like<br />
a broken record again.”<br />
T.J. put on his work gloves, yellow<br />
cotton speckled in a myriad of colors,<br />
<strong>and</strong> folded up his stepladder. He took<br />
one last look at the brick wall of the<br />
ab<strong>and</strong>oned building, not a single<br />
window unbroken. Not his finest piece,<br />
he had to admit, but another day’s<br />
work done.<br />
Cradling the ladder under his arm,<br />
T.J. walked back to his truck. Along<br />
the way, he whistled an old Sam Cooke<br />
tune, “Bring It on Home to Me.”<br />
That song always brought him<br />
back to Cheryl, the first girl to let<br />
T.J. slip his h<strong>and</strong> up her shirt. From<br />
there it had been hot <strong>and</strong> heavy until<br />
the song’s conclusion <strong>and</strong> then she<br />
asked him to stop. Her eyes pleaded a<br />
different story.<br />
Why, sugar?<br />
Because if you don’t, I don’t<br />
think I can control myself.<br />
T.J. had wanted nothing more than<br />
for her to lose control. That was all<br />
being a teenager was, losing yourself.<br />
Her words only got him more worked<br />
up <strong>and</strong> T.J. would’ve pressed it too, but<br />
his mama raised him right.<br />
Boy, if a girl says stop, you stop.<br />
I don’t care what those boys you run<br />
with say. A real man treats a woman<br />
right. You ain’t no animal. I raised<br />
you a man, not a dog, <strong>and</strong> you’ll<br />
behave like one or I swear I’ll take<br />
you outta this world faster than I<br />
put you in it.<br />
His mama wasn’t kidding either.
She had him when she was only<br />
sixteen, worked two, sometimes three<br />
jobs to support them. His daddy split<br />
right after hearing he was about to be<br />
a father. So, yeah, his mama knew the<br />
ways of men, the thin line separating<br />
them from the beasts.<br />
It wasn’t until later—when he was<br />
a man going on twenty years—that T.J.<br />
saw the worst of mankind. War was a<br />
terrible thing, especially for a black<br />
man in the sixties. Denied basic human<br />
rights in one country, he was sent off<br />
to another a thous<strong>and</strong> miles away from<br />
home to fight for those same rights he<br />
was denied.<br />
Poor folk killing poor folk, while<br />
somebody made a profit out of it.<br />
Whole history of the world was just<br />
one big fish swallowing up a smaller<br />
one. In the army, there was always a<br />
bigger fish in the sea.<br />
“Don’t you go off being no hero,”<br />
Mama had said. “Heroes die. This<br />
here’s a white man’s war so let him go<br />
fight <strong>and</strong> die for it. You just keep your<br />
head well hid <strong>and</strong> do your time <strong>and</strong><br />
come back to me, ya hear?”<br />
T.J. told her he would, but if the<br />
stories were true, those who came back<br />
were shells of their former selves. The<br />
streets of the east side of Detroit were<br />
littered with poor souls, w<strong>and</strong>ering the<br />
streets late at night, making threats<br />
out of ghosts, <strong>and</strong> losing themselves<br />
one bottle at a time. Even if war didn’t<br />
kill you out right, it still left its mark.<br />
In the army, color didn’t matter.<br />
Everybody bled equally. You were just<br />
a number, a body to be grinded up in<br />
the machine. Yes, sir. No, sir. Get in<br />
line. Shut up. Don’t think. Just obey.<br />
Follow orders.<br />
T.J. survived the war, barely.<br />
He was injured twice. Received two<br />
purple hearts. One just a flesh wound,<br />
but a real bleeder. The other, more<br />
permanent. T.J. still had pieces of<br />
shrapnel stuck in his back. They were<br />
the only things he brought back with<br />
him from the war besides his two<br />
purple hearts. T.J. still felt them too,<br />
especially when the weather was<br />
cold <strong>and</strong> rainy.<br />
Hell, he felt them now, his back<br />
crying out to be itched or rubbed.<br />
“Almost there.” T.J. shifted the<br />
weight of the ladder, thinking for<br />
every Cheryl in life, there were two<br />
or three pieces of shrapnel.<br />
What she was up to now?<br />
Married? Kids? Hell, T.J. didn’t even<br />
know if she was still alive. Sometimes<br />
he pictured the life they would’ve<br />
had together if they hadn’t gone<br />
down separate paths. Thoughts of<br />
Cheryl were sweet <strong>and</strong> dreamy. More<br />
of a hopeful teenager’s longing than<br />
that of a tired old man looking at the<br />
back end of his life. Nobody ever saw<br />
themselves in their fifties, sixties,<br />
or seventies until they were actually<br />
there.<br />
Cheryl. Sweet Cheryl.<br />
“If you ever,” T.J. crooned, his<br />
voice a low tenor. “Change your mind<br />
. . . about leaving, leaving me behind.”<br />
They sure didn’t make songs like<br />
they used to. Where was the talent?<br />
Nowadays anybody could churn out<br />
a beat on a machine, recycle an old<br />
song, auto-tune the hell out of their<br />
voice <strong>and</strong> call it music. Where was<br />
the soul in that? Sam Cooke would<br />
be rolling in his grave.<br />
With a satisfied grunt, T.J. placed<br />
the stepladder in the back of his<br />
rust-bottomed Ford. He patted the<br />
chalk dust from his gloves, stuffed<br />
them in his back pocket, <strong>and</strong> wiped<br />
the sweat from his forehead. The day<br />
sure was a hot one, especially for late<br />
October. That was the trend lately.<br />
Longer summers, tamer winters.<br />
He had trouble remembering the<br />
last time he saw a white Christmas.<br />
When he was kid, not having a white<br />
Christmas was a rarity.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
40
Last Christmas, it rained.<br />
Shaking his head, T.J. slowly<br />
climbed into the cab of his truck.<br />
It took a few cranks for the old<br />
Ford to fire up. T.J. rolled down the<br />
window <strong>and</strong> lit a cigarette. It dangled<br />
loosely from his lips as he surveyed<br />
his work. Looks even better from<br />
a distance, he thought <strong>and</strong> then<br />
frowned, noticing in the rearview<br />
mirror streaks of red <strong>and</strong> yellow<br />
powder along his face. He wiped them<br />
clean with a h<strong>and</strong>kerchief. Satisfied,<br />
he put the truck in drive <strong>and</strong> ambled<br />
down the street.<br />
The city sure had changed during<br />
the past few years. Old, decrepit<br />
buildings torn down to make room<br />
for trendier apartment complexes.<br />
A crack house replaced by a Whole<br />
Foods. Construction barriers just as<br />
numerous as ab<strong>and</strong>oned homes. The<br />
only thing that hadn’t changed much<br />
was the condition of the roads.<br />
T.J. swerved to the left lane to<br />
avoid a deep pothole. Soon, he was<br />
swerving to the right to dodge a bad<br />
patch job. The only way to get around<br />
Detroit was to take it slow.<br />
Detroit was one of those cities<br />
where location mattered. Park your<br />
car here, safe. Park it two blocks over,<br />
broken into. Walk on this side of the<br />
sidewalk, fresh concrete <strong>and</strong> cleancut<br />
grass. Cross the street, barely<br />
walkable. Street lights worked on<br />
one crosswalk <strong>and</strong> were out the next.<br />
Signs of prosperity kitty corner to<br />
poverty.<br />
Detroit, a once thriving city in<br />
decline, but still struggling <strong>and</strong> always<br />
hustling. Writers spoke of New York<br />
like an old flame, but nobody felt such<br />
tenderness for Detroit. Like Cheryl,<br />
it was mostly thoughts of what<br />
might’ve been. Whereas New York<br />
was one big dream, Detroit was too<br />
close to reality. And nobody wanted a<br />
constant reminder of that.<br />
“Ain’t that right.”<br />
Most people got Detroit wrong.<br />
Not many people got past what they<br />
heard on the news. Crime. Bankruptcy.<br />
Poverty. Corruption. Decay. What<br />
the headlines missed were grit <strong>and</strong><br />
determination. Detroiters had lived<br />
through the hardest times <strong>and</strong> yet<br />
carried on. “Detroit v. Everybody” the<br />
t-shirts read. More like Detroit is<br />
everybody. Who hasn’t struggled or<br />
been kicked around?<br />
Only people who were born<br />
<strong>and</strong> raised in Detroit—people like<br />
T.J.—understood it. Detroit didn’t<br />
need saving. Those who thought a<br />
city needed saving had too much<br />
Superman shoved up their ass.<br />
People <strong>and</strong> places endured whether<br />
anybody paid attention to them or not.<br />
Mama said you could always tell<br />
a real Detroiter from an outsider. If in<br />
passing, they looked you in the eyes<br />
<strong>and</strong> said hello or a greeting, then they<br />
were from Detroit. If not, they were<br />
from somewhere else. Simple as that.<br />
Mama was a wise woman, <strong>and</strong> like<br />
most wise women she never got the<br />
credit she deserved. No big obituary in<br />
the paper. No statue or monument or<br />
street named after her. Good people’s<br />
deaths were much like their lives.<br />
Ordinary <strong>and</strong> overlooked. Important in<br />
the everyday, barely a footnote in the<br />
pages of history.<br />
“Ain’t that right.” T.J. stamped out<br />
his cigarette in the truck’s ashtray <strong>and</strong><br />
pulled up next to a corner store. The<br />
sun was just a distant speck above<br />
the building tops. T.J. left the window<br />
down <strong>and</strong> truck unlocked—nothing<br />
worth stealing—<strong>and</strong> made his way into<br />
the store.<br />
“Afternoon, T.J.,” Halbert, the<br />
clerk, called. “Another beautiful day.<br />
Won’t be too many left. Got to enjoy<br />
‘em while we can.”<br />
“You can say that again.”<br />
41 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
“Say, my old lady said she saw you<br />
on the evening news.”<br />
“What for? I ain’t do nothin’.”<br />
“It was for something good. Those<br />
murals you been working on. You know<br />
the chalk ones that get erased every<br />
other day.”<br />
“Right, that.” T.J. made his way to<br />
the back where the beer was kept.<br />
“I still don’t underst<strong>and</strong> why you<br />
waste your time with chalk,” Halbert<br />
called after him. “Why not paint them<br />
murals so they last longer?”<br />
“That’s the whole point, Hal!” T.J.<br />
opened the cooler <strong>and</strong> pulled out a sixpack<br />
of Stroh’s. “Nothing lasts.”<br />
“Some things last longer than<br />
others. And it ain’t every day you<br />
make the national news. You oughta<br />
be thrilled. My little niece Martha<br />
said they was even talking about it<br />
at school. I guess one of her friends<br />
posted on that Instagram.”<br />
“I don’t even know what that is.”<br />
“What? Instagram? Doncha got<br />
one of them smart phones yet?”<br />
“If a phone that flips open makes it<br />
smart, then yes, I got one.”<br />
“Oh, hell no, T.J. One of them<br />
flip phones ain’t no smart phone. It’s<br />
outdated. I tellya what ya need is one<br />
of them screen touchy things like I got.”<br />
Hattie held up a black rectangle<br />
for T.J. to see.<br />
“What’s that thing, a calculator?”<br />
“No, man, it’s a smart phone.”<br />
“That thing even fit in your<br />
pocket?” T.J. placed his beer on the<br />
counter <strong>and</strong> reached back for his wallet.<br />
“Barely. Kids got it for me. Got the<br />
biggest one too. You know how my<br />
eyes are. With this thing, I don’t have<br />
any trouble reading things like I used<br />
to. Martha thinks you’ll be trending<br />
by the end of the week.”<br />
“I don’t even know what that<br />
means.”<br />
“Means you’ll be internet<br />
famous, T.J. Just look, that news<br />
video already has over <strong>20</strong>,000 views<br />
on YouTube <strong>and</strong> the Instagram<br />
picture has 500 likes.”<br />
Halbert held up the rectangle for<br />
T.J. to see.<br />
“I still don’t underst<strong>and</strong> what the<br />
big deal is. Just doing what I been<br />
doing for the last thirty years. Ain’t<br />
nothing special about that.”<br />
“Whoa, I misspoke. 501 likes now.<br />
Here, let me show ya something—oh<br />
shit! How do I get outta this screen?”<br />
Halbert pressed his fingers<br />
to the screen. The movement was<br />
reminiscent of how secretaries in<br />
T.J.’s day used to work a typewriter.<br />
T.J. held a ten in his h<strong>and</strong>, waiting<br />
for Halbert to figure out his device.<br />
Damn thing was only as smart as its<br />
user, T.J. thought with a smile.<br />
Ain’t that right.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
42
Steve Brisendine<br />
circuitous reasoning<br />
you ask me whether<br />
silicon might be the next<br />
building block of life,<br />
<strong>and</strong> programming give way to<br />
sentience; I say call me<br />
when a machine can<br />
contemplate (not calculate)<br />
one plus one, arrive<br />
at both infinity <strong>and</strong><br />
zero, shrug <strong>and</strong> live with it.<br />
43 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Steve Brisendine<br />
The Green Man in Autumn<br />
This metaphor business<br />
starts to wear on a fellow<br />
some nights.<br />
My joints are all stiff,<br />
creaking like old-growth oak<br />
in a strong wind,<br />
<strong>and</strong> my hair has gone brittle,<br />
crackling with a sound<br />
that never fails to remind<br />
of that first kiss, soft<br />
yet ravenous, of flame<br />
against stubble.<br />
Come three in the morning,<br />
I can feel my eyelids<br />
freezing shut.<br />
There is, I must confess,<br />
a sweet familiar rhythm<br />
to the slow onset of these<br />
brown days, the first turns<br />
of chill earth.<br />
My cheeks glow, even as<br />
they draw <strong>and</strong> wither, <strong>and</strong><br />
there are those to whom<br />
I look best in red <strong>and</strong> gold.<br />
Still, it is no easy thing<br />
to turn my back – weary,<br />
wind-bent, gnarled as<br />
it might be,<br />
upon a world of ripened fields,<br />
laden vines, lovers sharing<br />
orchard-fruit...<br />
No matter. My bed of earth<br />
calls; whether I will or no,<br />
I cannot but answer <strong>and</strong><br />
draw close my coverlet of<br />
frost-tinged leaves.<br />
I will dream of cracking<br />
river-ice, a first shy opening<br />
of peony buds,<br />
the scent of bread on the final<br />
morning of my next life.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
44
Steve Brisendine<br />
Nativity<br />
Identical, Eileithya said when she delivered twin<br />
brothers out of Night’s shadowed labors—<br />
but their mother knew better, even before they<br />
first drew in unlit air <strong>and</strong> wailed it out again.<br />
Sons of Darkness <strong>and</strong> gr<strong>and</strong>sons of Chaos<br />
on both sides: These two would not flee her<br />
embrace, as Brightness <strong>and</strong> Day had done in<br />
the instants of their births. These are good boys,<br />
she thought; they will never leave me. Hypnos<br />
cried a low soft music, <strong>and</strong> a black cat in the<br />
corner blinked twice <strong>and</strong> curled into itself.<br />
Thanatos flung out a tiny h<strong>and</strong> in his hunger;<br />
a passing moth circled it, counterclockwise,<br />
then flew off on silent wings to find a c<strong>and</strong>le.<br />
45 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
James T. Grissom<br />
The Water<br />
Take a dip they said<br />
And be br<strong>and</strong> new<br />
So I dove in head first<br />
But my feet never left the deck<br />
It was just water, after all<br />
Walk along the shore she said<br />
The waves will wash you<br />
Again <strong>and</strong> again<br />
But the riptide stole me<br />
And drowned my nerve<br />
Learn to swim he said<br />
This happens to everyone<br />
Learn to not fear the sharks<br />
But they ravaged me<br />
Left me bleeding<br />
They circled me<br />
A multitude of anguish<br />
On the precipice of consumption<br />
Take a drink someone said<br />
Surrender to the salt<br />
Quench your thirst<br />
On poison so sweet<br />
I fought<br />
Somehow survived<br />
An old one offered<br />
A bottle of joy<br />
Pure from a mountain stream<br />
As fast as it filled me<br />
Refreshed me<br />
It poured from the open wounds<br />
As I gave up the will to try<br />
You said<br />
Spread this on your emptiness<br />
Inside <strong>and</strong> out<br />
I choked on the iron tang<br />
Wiped sticky maroon all over<br />
Then I died<br />
And rose again<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
46
Gibel Amador<br />
Love’s immortality<br />
I find sanctuary within water<br />
yet the flowers did not<br />
Like lifeless fish in a bowl.<br />
I look back on what this once was<br />
And imagine its beauty with violent colors.<br />
Each petal is brought alive<br />
Continuously in my mind,<br />
I create my own fountain of youth<br />
And yet the flowers still die.<br />
Reminding me of our love.<br />
Why can’t I throw away these flowers?<br />
Their purpose is over,<br />
They are no longer alive nor beautiful<br />
right?<br />
Marathon<br />
Torn ligaments scatter towards the edge<br />
No time to cleanse<br />
A marathon that came to an end<br />
Words of affirmation<br />
Poured out ahead<br />
Drowning my thoughts<br />
Because I could not comprehend<br />
How love pushed me towards the edge<br />
47 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Gibel Amador<br />
Model: Aparna Mangadu<br />
Fleurs Violentes<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
48
Leonard Duncan<br />
An Epilogue<br />
It’s a cold <strong>and</strong> rainy day. I can imagine<br />
it’s befitting of a gray, storming ocean,<br />
or a thundering night sky – like the ones<br />
you’d like to watch on TV – even if it’s just<br />
a drizzle right now. It’s been a year since<br />
your memorial, but I can’t lie to myself.<br />
The weather is really like all those funeral<br />
days we saw in the movies on your father’s<br />
old VHS tapes; positively black-umbrella<br />
worthy. And yet I sit here with no umbrella<br />
in h<strong>and</strong>. The only thing that protects me<br />
from the rain is the tattered plastic shelter<br />
of this bus stop, hundreds of miles from<br />
where you died. I forgot my umbrella at<br />
home (or did I even mean to bring it?). I<br />
forget many things, now.<br />
But not you. Never you, even though<br />
maybe it would be better for me to think<br />
less of you. That’s what mom says, anyway;<br />
did you know I stopped mentioning you<br />
to her not long after the memorial? (I<br />
suppose you wouldn’t, since it’s not like<br />
I talk to her much at all). She tolerated<br />
it, but I could see the disgust in her eyes<br />
every time you were mentioned. I think<br />
that was worse than not talking about<br />
you at all, so I started holding you closer<br />
to my chest. It was easier to keep our<br />
precious memories untainted that way - to<br />
keep them untouched by the judgment of<br />
people who wouldn’t underst<strong>and</strong>.<br />
And, I suppose, that’s part of the reason<br />
why I’m leaving. I know my doctors<br />
certainly wouldn’t recommend it this soon<br />
—I’ve still got another CT scan scheduled<br />
for Friday, after all, <strong>and</strong> then my neurology<br />
appointment on the Wednesday after,<br />
<strong>and</strong> then there’s another one after that…<br />
I can’t recall, but that doesn’t matter too<br />
much now. I won’t be here for it, anyway.<br />
Medicine doesn’t matter too much when<br />
it doesn’t truly heal. I know you’d agree<br />
with me on that point, at least. After all, no<br />
amount of painkillers could heal the damage<br />
done to you after what your father did. What<br />
happened last year shows that, but don’t<br />
worry. I’m not bitter about it. I know that if<br />
I had tried a little harder, things might have<br />
been different. Of all the people to blame for<br />
what happened, I know I’m pretty high up on<br />
that list.<br />
Well, maybe that’s a lie. Not the blame, but<br />
the bitterness. After all, I could count on one<br />
h<strong>and</strong> the number of people I had in my life<br />
who I loved, <strong>and</strong> you took them all out in<br />
one fell swoop. I have a right to be a little<br />
bitter about that, don’t I? Don’t begrudge<br />
me this. Not when you made me wake up like<br />
that. You said you’d never leave me alone,<br />
but by the time I awoke there was nothing<br />
left for me but the unfamiliarity of distant,<br />
demeaning hospital staff.<br />
I wish I could remember it better, just to<br />
hold on to the clarity of the pain. That pain<br />
was better than anything that came after.<br />
But things are fuzzy from back then... There<br />
was astringency, sure; muted impressions<br />
of white, <strong>and</strong> hospital-scrub-blue; but<br />
everything else was kept hushed <strong>and</strong> warm<br />
under a blanket of morphine, or fentanyl, or<br />
whatever opiates they decided would keep<br />
me mollified for the day.<br />
One of the first things I do remember is<br />
seeing my mother for the first time since I<br />
was nine, <strong>and</strong> for the second time in my life.<br />
I thought if I ever saw her again, you would<br />
be there with me, a barrier between me <strong>and</strong><br />
the world; but, no. (I’m sure you see the irony<br />
that you were the reason I saw her again).<br />
I didn’t even recognize her, for a while; part<br />
of that can be attributed to the sorry mess<br />
that was my brain, but she also seemed like<br />
a whole different woman than when I first<br />
met her, more in manner than in appearance.<br />
49 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Oh, but that’s not to say she didn’t look<br />
different; she did. There were crow’s<br />
feet crinkled around her eyes, day-old<br />
makeup applied hurriedly (so unlike in<br />
that single image I had of her, the one<br />
you <strong>and</strong> I furtively peeked at when my<br />
dad wasn’t around). Her h<strong>and</strong>s were<br />
clenched anxiously around her phone;<br />
white-knuckled, but long-fingered <strong>and</strong><br />
willowy, just like mine. I hadn’t recognized<br />
it when I was nine, but my h<strong>and</strong>s were<br />
one of the things I inherited from her.<br />
All the worse for me.<br />
There are many things that have cycled<br />
through the list of things I don’t like<br />
about myself over the years, but my<br />
h<strong>and</strong>s have always been a constant. When<br />
I was a kid, it was because they were too<br />
spindly to let me grab onto the bugs <strong>and</strong><br />
lizards we chased down in the woods with<br />
the same ease yours did. (Your h<strong>and</strong>s were<br />
broad, <strong>and</strong> wide, calloused <strong>and</strong> could grip<br />
a skink with the same ease that you would<br />
grip my h<strong>and</strong>s so that I could hold on to<br />
whatever you gave me; but they always<br />
slipped through my fingers.)<br />
In high school, it was because they looked<br />
too feminine; though I doubt it was my<br />
h<strong>and</strong>s alone that made me look queer<br />
to that small population of immigrant<br />
children, rich kids <strong>and</strong> trailer park<br />
descendants,... they contributed to the<br />
general everything that made me feel like I<br />
wanted to crawl out of my skin when I got<br />
an uncomfortable side-eye from a jock or<br />
a nervous titter from one of the prep girls.<br />
Now, though, I hate these h<strong>and</strong>s because<br />
I feel like they weren’t strong enough to<br />
pull you up from whatever crevasse you<br />
were sinking into that I was too dumb to<br />
see. Or maybe see isn’t the right word;<br />
even if I couldn’t see it, I should’ve felt it.<br />
We touched every day, you <strong>and</strong> I; I would<br />
nudge you with my shoulder at school, give<br />
you a joking punch on the arm, brush our<br />
legs together for a brief, poignant moment<br />
when we sat across from each other at<br />
the cafeteria tables. And, when no one<br />
was around to look, or judge, I would feel<br />
your h<strong>and</strong> over mine, like when we were<br />
kids hunting lizards in the woods. But only<br />
sometimes. The winding mountain roads<br />
didn’t straighten out often enough for me<br />
to spare one h<strong>and</strong> from the steering wheel.<br />
I should’ve known, I should have known.<br />
It’s unbearable to me that your h<strong>and</strong>s,<br />
familiar to me as they were, rested in<br />
mine nearly every day—<strong>and</strong>, through that<br />
connection we shared, my h<strong>and</strong>s deem me<br />
someone too weak to hold you up when<br />
you needed it the most. I can’t tolerate it.<br />
I couldn’t tolerate it then, either, when I<br />
was finally conscious <strong>and</strong> not just awake. I<br />
spared no time asking after you. I couldn’t<br />
remember, of course, <strong>and</strong> they all knew<br />
that. My mother seemed hesitant to tell<br />
me anything, despite the fact that she<br />
was likely the one who had the most tact<br />
for it (at least, compared to your mother,<br />
who was the one who actually ended up<br />
breaking the news to me). The day she<br />
came in to tell me what happened is one<br />
of the few times from my months in the<br />
hospital that did not fade under that<br />
narcotic haze. There are times I wish that<br />
those crystalline details had fogged away<br />
just like so many other things I heard <strong>and</strong><br />
said, just to lessen the pain of knowing. The<br />
true pain is all in the details of knowing.<br />
“Morgan.” Was the first thing she said, <strong>and</strong><br />
then she stopped, as if all she could bear to<br />
do was say my name.<br />
I stayed silent in response, which was<br />
both a pointed choice <strong>and</strong> an involuntary<br />
reaction. I still could barely speak then<br />
without substantial effort, <strong>and</strong> when I did<br />
it was aphasic, garbled with a stutter or<br />
slur. Like always, your mother didn’t seem<br />
worth anything more than a small token<br />
attempt at politeness – let alone what it<br />
would require for me to greet her clearly.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
50
But she seemed so terribly tired, with<br />
her perpetually vibrant eyes dim, dark<br />
<strong>and</strong> sunken in. Impossibly older looking,<br />
much like my mother, as if I had been<br />
asleep for an eternity instead of a month.<br />
“Morgan,” She begun again, <strong>and</strong> I<br />
remember how she drew herself up<br />
straighter, stronger, like she always did<br />
on those occasions when your dad got<br />
mad; but not mad like yelling, those<br />
few times it happened, but like those<br />
stern, unbearable, disappointed lectures<br />
that came every other day. You always<br />
took them with an irreverent grace, but<br />
your mother made like she had to make<br />
herself sturdy, to bear the weight of<br />
what was coming. It was a posture I had<br />
never seen directed at me before. “You’ve<br />
already spoken with the police, right?”<br />
I had. It had been one of the first things to<br />
happen after the nurses deemed me safe<br />
for non-familial visitors. That frustration<br />
was all the more painful when they would<br />
tell me nothing about where my dad was,<br />
or where you were. “It’d be better to have<br />
his mom break the news.” I remember<br />
one officer saying in an uncomfortably<br />
loud voice, as if I couldn’t hear them<br />
rather than couldn’t speak.<br />
So I nodded.<br />
She took a deep, shuddering breath <strong>and</strong>,<br />
as if in response, the whole rest of her<br />
body began to shake too—fine, minute<br />
tremors that I can only see in my mind’s<br />
eye in hindsight. (Crystalline memories,<br />
<strong>and</strong> I still wish them gone). She walked<br />
– too slow – <strong>and</strong> sat, carefully, on the<br />
chair next to my hospital bed, as if to<br />
draw out the experience as long as<br />
possible. She shucked her purse from her<br />
shoulder, settled it on her lap, crossed<br />
<strong>and</strong> uncrossed her legs. My eyes were on<br />
her the whole time.<br />
Finally, she spoke again. “They told<br />
me you still don’t remember anything.<br />
Your mom wanted me to tell you, since…<br />
well, we’ve known each other longer.” She<br />
said this without any of her usual hemming<br />
<strong>and</strong> hawing. And for a glimpse: at the<br />
mention of my mother, her lips pursed<br />
in a disapproving line. Her expression<br />
smoothed out again shortly after – though<br />
I think more from tiredness than a lack of<br />
disapproval.<br />
She cleared her throat, <strong>and</strong> gently<br />
attempted to tell me. And her facetious<br />
gentleness meant nothing, then, just as<br />
it means nothing to me now. She told me<br />
about how you got your father’s Glock, <strong>and</strong><br />
took it to the grocery store. She told me<br />
how you shot everyone there. My father.<br />
Your father. Monica, the single mother.<br />
And Monica’s daughter, Charlie, who could<br />
have done nothing wrong other than being<br />
there.<br />
And me. I was there.<br />
It was said so plainly, I couldn’t help but<br />
believe it. Even if the last thing I could<br />
remember before the hospital was<br />
playing some video game with you in my<br />
room back in November, right after a big<br />
Thanksgiving meal – it made sense. It<br />
made sense, even though you shooting<br />
up a grocery store was nothing I had<br />
even had a passing thought of, before.<br />
And yet your mother still sat there,<br />
watching. Waiting. Her eyes were tearful,<br />
<strong>and</strong> expectant. I still don’t know exactly<br />
what she was expecting from me, then.<br />
Denial? Anger? Hysteria? More halfformed<br />
<strong>and</strong> misspoken words? Nothing<br />
would come, <strong>and</strong> nothing could. My mind<br />
was plain <strong>and</strong> clear with the acceptance<br />
that you were gone, <strong>and</strong> that my father<br />
was gone, <strong>and</strong> that my life then may as<br />
well be gone.<br />
“Morgan? Do you underst<strong>and</strong>?” She asked.<br />
I nodded. Her words rang unholy <strong>and</strong> true,<br />
just as they do now, recalling them for you.<br />
51 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Things like tears <strong>and</strong> anger had yet to come.<br />
Ethan. You told me that one day, we’d leave<br />
together. You wanted to see the coast, <strong>and</strong><br />
I thought I wouldn’t mind seeing anything<br />
as long as it was with you. You were always<br />
the one obsessed with everything nautical.<br />
It took you from when we were young<br />
<strong>and</strong> innocent <strong>and</strong> played pirates up in the<br />
treehouse your father built for us, to just a<br />
few years ago – an eternity too long – when<br />
you searched for bus tickets to Seattle<br />
with frenetic energy (a promise from your<br />
father for your birthday, never kept). I<br />
never understood it. We were mountainborn,<br />
you <strong>and</strong> I; true-blooded, raised-bythe-woods<br />
kids that didn’t know anything<br />
beyond the forests as our backyard until<br />
we were forced to learn otherwise. All of<br />
that innocence – like it never was – slipped<br />
away with an uncomfortable ease on the<br />
day your father shattered <strong>and</strong> broke.<br />
(And I do mean broke. No one ever called<br />
it that, but in all hindsight, with distance<br />
from his death, he broke. He collapsed<br />
upon himself, like some half-drunk flask<br />
of whiskey thrown at the edge of the yard,<br />
<strong>and</strong> the pieces got buried under layers of<br />
new grass, snow,... of rain <strong>and</strong> mud <strong>and</strong><br />
newer earth, until it was just old glass in<br />
a backyard.)<br />
Of course I couldn’t underst<strong>and</strong> it then –<br />
what six-year-old could? – but I can still<br />
choose to regret the way I never pushed<br />
further, or leaned in harder, to try <strong>and</strong><br />
tease out more of the truth. I guess I was<br />
just as fooled as they were, even if we were<br />
practically raised h<strong>and</strong>-in-h<strong>and</strong>. But all<br />
I saw, like everyone else, was that when<br />
your father gave in, <strong>and</strong> left those little<br />
glass pieces everywhere, people have been<br />
cutting themselves on them ever since.<br />
Especially you. Maybe only you. I don’t<br />
know if anyone was ever hurt more by him<br />
than you were.<br />
I’m sorry. Does it hurt to be reminded? We<br />
never really talked about it, even when I saw<br />
you in the hospital right after the accident.<br />
You were wrapped up <strong>and</strong> stitched up, cold,<br />
alone, while your father a few floors up was<br />
surrounded by family, friends, parishioners<br />
<strong>and</strong> clergymen. The people who should’ve<br />
been rallying for you instead. That was<br />
the first time we ever saw life as it was<br />
outside of Featherville, <strong>and</strong> it was like being<br />
born again. Of course, it wasn’t like we<br />
had never left before. This was all before<br />
my dad ran the grocery, <strong>and</strong> you know my<br />
opa <strong>and</strong> oma were notoriously rigid about<br />
stocking “unnecessary” things (like my<br />
dad’s favorite beer) – so excursions to the<br />
dinky little Walmart in Fredericksburg were<br />
unavoidable.<br />
But they were just that – excursions. They<br />
felt like little visits to a far away world, one<br />
that was filled with a multitude of curious<br />
things like neat rows of houses <strong>and</strong> shops<br />
<strong>and</strong> neatly curated trees in parks. It was<br />
a scene fit perfectly for a snow globe. It<br />
wasn’t truly real. Not until were we forced<br />
out there by your father, but also we came<br />
to realize that the people out there were<br />
just as real <strong>and</strong> true <strong>and</strong> fallible <strong>and</strong> awful<br />
as they were in Featherville.<br />
And fallible <strong>and</strong> awful were what they truly<br />
seemed to be when I first came into that<br />
hospital room, startlingly empty. Except<br />
for you. You were b<strong>and</strong>aged <strong>and</strong> wired up<br />
with tubes, <strong>and</strong> utterly alone. I think even<br />
my father was a bit shocked, then, despite<br />
his empathy for the pastor; I know I at least<br />
thought that you shouldn’t have been the<br />
one alone after your father’s break, <strong>and</strong><br />
my father <strong>and</strong> I were of the same mind<br />
on many things. The amount of empathy<br />
people can have for someone who they<br />
shouldn’t is astounding. After all, it wasn’t<br />
like the bottle tipped itself into his mouth<br />
on its own. But I suppose money talked in<br />
Featherville, just like it does everywhere else.<br />
And with that unspoken money you were<br />
there, left mostly alone except for a few<br />
token visitors who stopped by to leave a<br />
little gift or a pat on the head, or whatever<br />
adults give to hurt kids when they’re too<br />
ashamed to admit that they were wrong.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
52
(Apologies weren’t included— I can<br />
recall that much.) And me? I was too<br />
frightened to run to your side, like I<br />
should have. And it was frightening.<br />
One day, we were normal kids, playing<br />
in those woods <strong>and</strong> pretending we were<br />
pirates in our treehouse – <strong>and</strong>, then<br />
the next – the next you <strong>and</strong> your father<br />
were gone <strong>and</strong> nobody would tell me<br />
what had happened or why the whole of<br />
Featherville was in such an uproar.<br />
I remember trotting up to your bed with<br />
a careful slowness, saying “Hi, Ethan,”<br />
with a shyness that didn’t befit our<br />
friendship. Like we hadn’t known each<br />
other since we were in diapers. I couldn’t<br />
stop staring at the b<strong>and</strong>ages wrapped<br />
around your head, your arm, your chest,<br />
<strong>and</strong> wondering what lay underneath.<br />
My father seemed to have the opposite<br />
reaction; he wouldn’t look you straight<br />
in the eye, even as he said “Hey, kiddo,”<br />
<strong>and</strong> reached out to ruffle your hair<br />
like he normally did. But then he had<br />
aborted the motion halfway through,<br />
withdrawing his h<strong>and</strong> like he was about<br />
to put it in a bear trap. I don’t think you<br />
even noticed; you were too invested in<br />
me, us in each other, to take too much of<br />
a notice of the outside world.<br />
And still you smiled back at me, then,<br />
<strong>and</strong> even if you didn’t say a word I could<br />
see the glimmer in your silver eyes, <strong>and</strong><br />
think I knew what you meant. But I ruined<br />
it (very easy for me to do, it seems). I<br />
asked, “Ethie, what did’ju do?”, with all<br />
the naked bluntness of a child. Your<br />
smile faded, <strong>and</strong> you were silent; you<br />
wouldn’t say another word for months<br />
after. Not to me, <strong>and</strong> not to anybody.<br />
I would have to be told by my family,<br />
with Oma <strong>and</strong> Opa <strong>and</strong> Dad all sat<br />
around a table (to lie <strong>and</strong> pretend<br />
like everything was going to be okay).<br />
Pastor Jackson had an accident, I<br />
remember them saying; “He had a bit<br />
too much to drink, <strong>and</strong> that made him<br />
sick,” was something like what Oma said.<br />
“He thought he heard the devil raging<br />
inside Ethan, so he tried to get it out, <strong>and</strong><br />
they both hurt each other. That’s why<br />
they’re both in the hospital right now.”<br />
There was that infallible emphasis that<br />
Pastor Jackson was a good guy; that what<br />
happened was an accident, <strong>and</strong> no one’s<br />
fault, <strong>and</strong> everyone would just be taking a<br />
bit of time to recover <strong>and</strong> then everything<br />
would be okay again. I believed them. It<br />
was an easy mistake to make, you know?<br />
A stupid mistake, <strong>and</strong> one I hate myself<br />
for, but an easy one. Six years old was<br />
too young for me to start to question the<br />
adults around me in any way that really<br />
mattered. But I still can’t forgive myself,<br />
<strong>and</strong> I don’t want to make excuses for it.<br />
I find it hard to forgive myself for a lot<br />
of things, concerning you – as if I even<br />
deserve forgiveness. I can’t forgive myself<br />
for believing the lie that your father was<br />
anything more than a devil himself, for<br />
seeing one in you. I can’t forgive myself<br />
for trying to sell the lie that you <strong>and</strong> I<br />
were anything less than what we were –<br />
whatever we were. Codependent almostadults?<br />
Almost lovers? I can’t forgive<br />
myself for not agreeing to leave with you<br />
when you wanted to, <strong>and</strong> for not listening<br />
(or maybe just not believing) when you<br />
said you’d be better off dead then stuck in<br />
some shitty little mountain town for one<br />
more year. I should’ve listened to you. I<br />
should’ve believed you.<br />
I try to stop myself from wondering if<br />
things might’ve been different if I had left<br />
with you in August, when you wanted. I<br />
try to stop myself because I know there’s<br />
no going back <strong>and</strong> changing things, but<br />
during moments like this it’s hard to<br />
keep that wall between what is <strong>and</strong> what<br />
could have been. Moments like now,<br />
when I’m alone under a bus shelter in the<br />
now-pouring rain, it’s nigh impossible<br />
to push away dreams of what might<br />
have been if we had run away together.<br />
53 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Little glimpses of memories that never<br />
will-be keep haunting me, “Ethan. Ethan!”<br />
– <strong>and</strong> I wish it would just stop!<br />
I see things like us, together, on one<br />
of those beaches you wanted to visit;<br />
sometimes on the east coast, sometimes<br />
on the west, but always somewhere you<br />
had listed on the bullet-point list tacked<br />
to the corkboard in your room. We’d<br />
be there among the s<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> rushing<br />
ocean waves <strong>and</strong> gull cries <strong>and</strong> sea<br />
grass—all those things you yearned for,<br />
but never felt—<strong>and</strong> you’d finally smile<br />
at me again, scars <strong>and</strong> all, reflecting the<br />
ones you gave me.<br />
Or maybe in some big city somewhere –<br />
far away from everything rural that you<br />
ever hated. We’d walk together, brave<br />
<strong>and</strong> free, your h<strong>and</strong> broad <strong>and</strong> calloused<br />
<strong>and</strong> warm in my spindly can’t-hold-youup<br />
h<strong>and</strong>s that ended up ending us. We’d<br />
be able to do all those things you always<br />
wanted, but were never able—visit those<br />
big maritime museums, see shipwrecks<br />
<strong>and</strong> ride on museum ships, live on the<br />
docks in a houseboat with two cats…<br />
Or – or, I’ll see us back at my dad’s grocery,<br />
back when things felt easier <strong>and</strong> freer.<br />
How we’d sit behind the counter with<br />
sodas <strong>and</strong> c<strong>and</strong>ies pilfered straight from<br />
the aisles, doing homework with sticky<br />
fingers <strong>and</strong> wide smiles on our faces.<br />
Dad always pretended not to hear us<br />
play our Gameboys beneath the counter<br />
between algebra problems for the first<br />
hour or so, but then he’d crack down on<br />
us <strong>and</strong> say “Okay, boys, it’s time to get<br />
to work,” <strong>and</strong> we’d put our games in our<br />
backpack to finish up. And he really would<br />
put us to work – especially when it got<br />
busy during hunting season, he’d almost<br />
always have one of us manning the second<br />
cash register while another stocked the<br />
shelves on the weekends. “You have to<br />
earn your keep somehow”, he’d say with<br />
a wry smile whenever we complained,<br />
but always send us off with more soda <strong>and</strong><br />
c<strong>and</strong>y to sit behind the counter if we really<br />
got too tired.<br />
I can imagine us there—finally graduated<br />
from high school, visiting from some city<br />
on the coast, maybe Seattle or Portl<strong>and</strong>—<br />
<strong>and</strong> dad would embrace us, <strong>and</strong> ask how<br />
the drive up those winding mountain<br />
roads had been –<br />
God, I hate this. I hate that you did it, I hate<br />
that we can’t have any of this, because of<br />
you, because of me— maybe, because of<br />
each other.<br />
I never told you why I’m out here tonight,<br />
did I? Just that I was leaving. Well, I finally<br />
remembered. Remembered enough, at<br />
least, to know that you really aren’t ever<br />
coming back. Neither is my dad, or your<br />
dad, or Monica or little Charlie. It never felt<br />
real until I started remembering for myself;<br />
hearing that they were gone, that you<br />
were gone felt like some story everyone<br />
made up to fool me while I was too sick to<br />
fight back. Even when I took your mom’s<br />
words at face value, there was a part of me<br />
that must have always felt the unreality<br />
of it all, especially when I heard that I was<br />
there, too.<br />
That seemed to me the most unbelievable<br />
part, but I know enough now to accept<br />
that I was there. I was there, <strong>and</strong> I couldn’t<br />
stop any of it. I couldn’t stop you.<br />
Most of it is still fuzzy, <strong>and</strong> there are bits<br />
that aren’t clear enough for me to know<br />
that they really happened how they did.<br />
It feels dreamlike, misty, to think about,<br />
especially since the fog was the reason I<br />
was there in the first place. Nobody had<br />
told me that. It was December, <strong>and</strong> in<br />
preparation for the big winter storm, dad<br />
had sent me down to Fredericksburg to pick<br />
up some provisions from Walmart before<br />
the mountain passes were snowed in.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
54
I remember that half an hour down,<br />
the storm came early, descending in<br />
alarming rapidity from the dusky sky, in<br />
a flurry of clouds <strong>and</strong> mist <strong>and</strong> white. I<br />
knew it would only get worse from there,<br />
so I decided to turn back while I could.<br />
I don’t remember the drive back, but I<br />
remember arriving back at the grocery. I<br />
remember because I heard the gunshots.<br />
I arrived at just the wrong time, didn’t I?<br />
I thought it must’ve been some rogue<br />
hunter, or burglar, or really anyone but you,<br />
so I got the shotgun out of the back of the<br />
truck <strong>and</strong> ran in with boyish, heroic intent.<br />
I think I must’ve startled you, <strong>and</strong> that’s<br />
why you shot me. I’d like to imagine there<br />
was shock <strong>and</strong> recognition on your face<br />
when you turned <strong>and</strong> the gun went off.<br />
But I think it’s more likely that that was<br />
the expression on mine. I can’t remember<br />
what your face looked like, then. Maybe<br />
it’s because I haven’t seen you in so long,<br />
but even knowing it’s you— you, wearing<br />
your old puffy coat in that memory,<br />
the blue one that made that god awful<br />
squeaking noise when you walked too<br />
fast— your expression remains a mystery.<br />
It’s like there’s nothing there. Just the<br />
blur of your face, as if covered by mist,<br />
dark with some intent I’ll never know.<br />
From there, the integrity of my memory<br />
only deteriorates. I know there was noise.<br />
There was yelling, gunshots, <strong>and</strong> then<br />
all at once, quiet. (That must’ve been<br />
when I passed out.) I remember muted<br />
impressions of color – the whiteness of<br />
the overhead lights, blurred impressions<br />
of red, you with your damned blue coat<br />
with you st<strong>and</strong>ing over me. I think I<br />
might’ve heard my name – but if it came<br />
from your mouth, I don’t know. It might’ve<br />
been my dad. I remember there were rows<br />
of Campbell’s Tomato Soup on the shelf<br />
above where I fell, just within eyesight.<br />
I remember my h<strong>and</strong> spasmed around the<br />
barrel of the shotgun that came from the<br />
back of the truck— the only part of it I<br />
could reach. Still cold.<br />
Even with these memories waning back<br />
into my broken brain, I still don’t know why<br />
you did it. Nothing <strong>and</strong> no one can tell me<br />
why you thought you needed to take your<br />
dad’s gun to the grocery <strong>and</strong> kill everyone<br />
there. (Or maybe why you wanted to –<br />
perhaps it’s too naive of me to assume it<br />
was a need.) But they tell me that even<br />
then, you were the same boy I always<br />
knew. As much as I would like it to, nothing<br />
about that night st<strong>and</strong>s out as “not-you”.<br />
I can’t imagine it was anyone else in that<br />
coat, st<strong>and</strong>ing over me.<br />
And now, in the end, all I’m left with is<br />
those dreams of the ocean. If I really want<br />
to try <strong>and</strong> discover why you did what you<br />
did, I may as well start at square one, your<br />
lifelong obsession <strong>and</strong> one true love. If I’m<br />
to imagine that you did this for any good<br />
reason at all, I want to start somewhere<br />
we’ve never been before. I don’t even know<br />
where I’m going—Atlantic, Pacific, gulf or<br />
sound—but I can’t st<strong>and</strong> it here anymore.<br />
I can’t st<strong>and</strong> the not-knowing, so I’m going<br />
anyway. I’m going to the ocean, Ethan. And<br />
if I’m lucky, what I see there will explain<br />
things well enough for the two of us.<br />
55 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Charity McCoy<br />
Denial: Blurry<br />
Blurry mornings<br />
Are one of those days<br />
That you wake up<br />
And remember,<br />
All over again,<br />
That something in your world<br />
Has collapsed - crashed -<br />
And all is not good <strong>and</strong> well.<br />
Blurry mornings, for me,<br />
Begin in tranquility;<br />
Nothing on my mind <strong>and</strong><br />
No underst<strong>and</strong>ing of where I am or what context I exist in.<br />
Just peaceful bliss <strong>and</strong> total ignorance.<br />
Bliss which, usually, is short-lived.<br />
…<br />
A sinking of the heart<br />
Or dropping of the stomach<br />
Soon follow,<br />
As either what I have done<br />
Or what has happened to me<br />
Resurface back from the oblivion<br />
And into my conscious thought.<br />
Leaving me with remnants of regret<br />
Or pieces of pain<br />
From what has happened in prior days.<br />
…<br />
This is why<br />
The blurry mornings kill,<br />
Especially today<br />
When the absence of you<br />
Is my new reality.<br />
And because of that, I’d rather be asleep<br />
So that dreams of you could comfort me<br />
While I rest in the bed of my ignorance -<br />
Tucked into my subconscious world where emotional cohesion is all that I know.<br />
Where everything is still beautiful <strong>and</strong> whole,<br />
And you are here.<br />
Because you were never gone<br />
And you never had to leave<br />
To begin.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
56
Charity McCoy<br />
“The complexity of human relationships<br />
is never simple to follow; It is like intricate<br />
lacework, but lacework made of steel.”<br />
-Mignon G. Eberhart<br />
Anger: Complexities<br />
How can I miss someone<br />
I don’t want to be with?<br />
How can I love the way he is<br />
But want him to change?<br />
You are exactly what I wanted,<br />
Yet you missed the mark,<br />
And I did the same.<br />
…<br />
Lately,<br />
I find myself<br />
Window shopping at the love of other people,<br />
Wishing it could be mine.<br />
Wishing I could finally get it right<br />
That I could be happily in love, for the first time.<br />
But here I am:<br />
Amongst the collateral<br />
Of what could have been.<br />
We met our end before we could begin,<br />
Which is why at times, I wish we didn’t.<br />
Because<br />
You showed me a beautiful love<br />
But left me feeling overlooked.<br />
I may have opened your heart to love again,<br />
But in the process, threw you into emotional loops.<br />
You were so gentle <strong>and</strong> kind with me,<br />
But in the end, left me so confused.<br />
Which is why I say:<br />
We were compatible,<br />
But we were not good.<br />
You wanted all of me<br />
And I wanted you partially;<br />
We stayed longer than we should.<br />
57 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
57 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X
Charity McCoy<br />
Bargaining: Stolen Moments<br />
Things feel okay<br />
When you’re here.<br />
Even if just<br />
For a stolen<br />
fracture of a moment,<br />
That will inevitably<br />
evaporate into isolation<br />
From your departure.<br />
…<br />
When I steal moments with you,<br />
There are collapsing buildings<br />
And emotional car collisions<br />
That reverse in time.<br />
And restoration greets me<br />
Like a long-lost friend,<br />
Even if It has found me scattered<br />
under highways of concrete rubble,<br />
Or scorched by<br />
Graceful amber flakes -<br />
Set aflame in raging house-fires<br />
That dance like your lips do on mine.<br />
Those stolen moments are all I have<br />
To calm the raging house fires.<br />
Or st<strong>and</strong> up from under the ruin<br />
Of collapsed buildings<br />
And car collisions,<br />
that I relive over<br />
<strong>and</strong> over again,<br />
Each moment I realize<br />
That you’re gone.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
58<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X<br />
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Charity McCoy<br />
Depression: Clean Breaks<br />
According to Bella Swan,<br />
A full fracture is better than<br />
A partial<br />
Because<br />
Clean breaks heal quicker when<br />
There is no bone left intact.<br />
St<strong>and</strong>ard medical practice says<br />
That the bone, then, must be held in<br />
The correct position<br />
To allow<br />
A blood clot to form <strong>and</strong> callus -<br />
Allowing bone cells to begin thread-like formations<br />
On both sides of the fracture line;<br />
Usually taking 6-8 weeks to heal.<br />
…<br />
Like bones in the body,<br />
Our partial fracture<br />
Became clean-cut<br />
Leaving nothing intact.<br />
You selflessly seceded your desires<br />
To align with mine -<br />
After days of hair-line fracturing -<br />
After days of clinging to small moments with you<br />
So the effects of withdrawal would subside.<br />
Unfortunately, there are no painkillers for heartbreak,<br />
No morphine for separation anxiety.<br />
Only,<br />
Holding myself in the correct position -<br />
Which is together -<br />
And swallowing the clot of tears back down my sore <strong>and</strong> tense throat;<br />
Waiting to be emotionally calloused<br />
So that maybe, I could feel something other than the painful empty space from your absence,<br />
From our final break.<br />
…<br />
And I pray<br />
That the Lord would be so gracious<br />
To thread my heart back together<br />
Like the gentle surgeon he is,<br />
And allow my joy to grow greater than my sorrow<br />
That my bones may fully function again.<br />
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59 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X
Charity McCoy<br />
Acceptance: Slow Fade<br />
They say<br />
To those who grieve<br />
That it hurts until it doesn’t.<br />
That the agonizing thing will meet<br />
You each day until it departs.<br />
That you will feel that way<br />
Until you no longer do.<br />
And I believe what they say.<br />
I believe that it hurts until it doesn’t<br />
Because today is a better day.<br />
My stomach dropped a little lighter,<br />
My heart tightened a little less<br />
When the blurs of sleep dissipated<br />
And the realization of your absence<br />
Weighs back on my chest.<br />
Though it hurt, nonetheless,<br />
I am reminded that it lasts until it doesn’t;<br />
The pain aches until it dissolves away.<br />
I am reminded<br />
That though each morning<br />
I relive that same heartbreak,<br />
In due time, I will be okay.<br />
Because they are right:<br />
It lasts until it doesn’t,<br />
It’s there until it’s not.<br />
And one day you’re going to wake up<br />
And find that all your grief is gone.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
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<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X<br />
60
Jessica Grissom<br />
The Book with a Cup of Tea<br />
Where do you go when you feel<br />
your heart breaking? Do you stay in bed<br />
under the nice warm covers? Do you<br />
find a solitary field to gaze at nature?<br />
Do you climb a mountain <strong>and</strong> scream at<br />
the top of your lungs? Maybe you don’t<br />
do anything <strong>and</strong> go through the motions<br />
repeatedly because that sense of normal<br />
is at least routinely comforting.<br />
She was one of those introverted,<br />
extroverts. She liked being around other<br />
people if they energized her. She loved<br />
helping others, but to do that she had to<br />
have alone time. Most often that meant<br />
reading a good book <strong>and</strong> drinking a cup<br />
of hot tea.<br />
She found both things<br />
comforting in normal times, but during<br />
times of grief she further escaped into<br />
the world of reading <strong>and</strong> drinking tea<br />
lattes. Thinking she’d isolated herself<br />
long enough, she decided to leave her<br />
home <strong>and</strong> head outside. The town had a<br />
quaint little shop in the downtown area.<br />
It wasn’t ever overly crowded, so she<br />
went to browse <strong>and</strong> quickly got lost in the<br />
stacks.<br />
Her eyes filled with tears when<br />
she came to the section labeled “Grief<br />
<strong>and</strong> Recovery”. It was the last shelf at<br />
the end of the aisle. She glanced around.<br />
I don’t want anyone to see me <strong>and</strong> feel<br />
sorry for me. I didn’t want anyone to<br />
ask me awkward questions. Not seeing<br />
anyone, she descended to the floor <strong>and</strong><br />
began flipping through pages.<br />
The title “The Unborn” caught<br />
her attention. She picked it up <strong>and</strong> it was<br />
what she thought – a story of miscarriage<br />
<strong>and</strong> pregnancy loss. Again, she looked up<br />
<strong>and</strong> checked her surroundings. She felt<br />
like she was about to open a book that<br />
was scary <strong>and</strong> sacred. In doing so, she<br />
knew she would open a part of herself.<br />
Willing a deep breath, she opened the<br />
book <strong>and</strong> started reading.<br />
He moved slowly up <strong>and</strong> down<br />
the aisle reading every title. As he turned<br />
the corner, he saw her on the floor. Her<br />
head was bent over the book, but he saw<br />
her using a h<strong>and</strong>kerchief to wipe away<br />
tears. She looked up at him <strong>and</strong> jumped.<br />
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t<br />
mean to scare you.”<br />
“I was caught up in the moment.<br />
It’s fine,” she murmured with mascara<br />
running down her face.<br />
“Are you, though?” he asked<br />
tenderly.<br />
These words caused a sob to escape, <strong>and</strong><br />
she buried her face in the h<strong>and</strong>kerchief.<br />
“May I sit beside you for a while<br />
in silence?” he asked hesitantly.<br />
No one had asked her that yet.<br />
People said they were sorry. They offered<br />
comforting phrases that didn’t help. No<br />
one had asked to sit with her quietly<br />
<strong>and</strong> simply acknowledge the grief. She<br />
looked at his eyes. His expression seemed<br />
genuine. She shook her head yes <strong>and</strong> he<br />
sat down a foot away from her. He rested<br />
his head on the back of the shelf <strong>and</strong><br />
closed his eyes. She looked at him <strong>and</strong><br />
more tears flowed. This time, she didn’t<br />
feel the need to wipe them quickly away.<br />
The book lay open in her lap <strong>and</strong> she<br />
bowed her head.<br />
After several minutes, he looked<br />
at her <strong>and</strong> whispered, “Who did you say<br />
goodbye to too soon?”<br />
“My baby,” she whispered with<br />
more tears flowing.<br />
61 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
His eyes moistened <strong>and</strong> he held out his<br />
h<strong>and</strong> to her. She placed her h<strong>and</strong> in his<br />
<strong>and</strong> he held it gently.<br />
“My wife passed away from<br />
cancer. We went through this journey too.<br />
Not that any journey is ever the same. I<br />
wished I could take away her pain, but she<br />
told me she just needed me to be there<br />
<strong>and</strong> hold her.”<br />
“Can you just hold me for<br />
a minute?” she asked as she moved<br />
towards him, not waiting for an answer,<br />
but instinctively knowing it would be<br />
okay.<br />
He opened both of his arms<br />
<strong>and</strong> she placed her head on his shoulder.<br />
Gently, he brushed the top of her head<br />
with his lips <strong>and</strong> whispered. “It is okay. It<br />
wasn’t your fault.”<br />
“Wasn’t it?” she sobbed <strong>and</strong><br />
continued, “My boyfriend doesn’t want to<br />
be involved. I think we were on the verge<br />
of a breakup, <strong>and</strong> this happened. I was<br />
wishing I’d never ever gotten pregnant.<br />
Then a few days later, I started having<br />
horrible pain. No one had ever told me<br />
of the physical pain. I have friends <strong>and</strong><br />
was aware it hurt them emotionally, but<br />
I didn’t even think about the bodily agony<br />
until I was right there in the middle of<br />
everything.”<br />
Her body heaved with sobs. He<br />
was glad he hadn’t heard the bookshop<br />
doorbell ring. The owner, Carol, popped<br />
around the corner <strong>and</strong> gave a sympathetic<br />
look. She mouthed the words, “Is she ok?”<br />
He nodded his head <strong>and</strong> Carol moved to<br />
the other aisle.<br />
They sat for a while in each<br />
other’s arms, <strong>and</strong> he whispered,<br />
“Beautiful, you are loved. This will always<br />
be a part of you, but you will be able to<br />
breathe easier again.”<br />
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why<br />
I did that. I guess I’m not only grieving<br />
the loss, but also the comfort. My<br />
boyfriend has tried, but I don’t think<br />
he underst<strong>and</strong>s. We’ve been doing the<br />
long-distance thing for a while <strong>and</strong> this<br />
has made it worse. My best friend has<br />
been acting super weird too. Maybe<br />
just avoiding the awkward moments? I<br />
don’t know. Is it weird that sometimes<br />
the people closest to you seem the<br />
farthest away during grief? Here I am<br />
on the floor crying on a stranger’s<br />
shoulder.”<br />
“I underst<strong>and</strong> that. People<br />
were hovering the week my wife<br />
passed, <strong>and</strong> then disappeared. People<br />
sometimes remembered to check<br />
during the first holidays, but then it<br />
was as if life moved on. I was still not<br />
okay.”<br />
She reached for his h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong><br />
said, “When did your wife pass?”<br />
today.”<br />
Sighing he said, “3 years ago<br />
A look of underst<strong>and</strong>ing<br />
passed between them.<br />
He gave her a soft smile <strong>and</strong><br />
said, “Can I please buy the book for<br />
you? Also, want to get a tea? Or are<br />
you a coffee person?”<br />
She smiled <strong>and</strong> said, “Tea.<br />
Please. Yes, I’d love that.”<br />
He helped her off the floor<br />
<strong>and</strong> she held onto both of his h<strong>and</strong>s for<br />
just a minute longer.<br />
She whispered, “Thank you.”<br />
He kissed the top of her<br />
forehead <strong>and</strong> said, “Thank you, too.”<br />
She managed a heartfelt smile<br />
<strong>and</strong> looked directly into his compassionate<br />
eyes. Suddenly, she moved away from<br />
him.<br />
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Jesus Fern<strong>and</strong>o Ochoa Arreola<br />
Me Acuerdo de Ti<br />
Ahora que ya no estás aquí, todas las promesas de corazón, todos los días<br />
que no veremos juntos me pesan hoy. Las horas pasan y me acuerdo de ti.<br />
Aquellos días de verano cu<strong>and</strong>o el sol solía salir y sonreír ahora no son más<br />
que un buen sueño del cual he despertado. Los días pasan y me acuerdo de ti.<br />
Hasta entonces no conocía que era el horror; como el enfermero miró su reloj,<br />
el doloroso cabeceo negativo del doctor. Las semanas pasan y me acuerdo de ti.<br />
Aún te veo en mis sueños; todavía te siento en mis brazos acurrucada fuertemente<br />
y a través de tu piel siento tus cálidos latidos. Los meses pasan y me acuerdo de ti.<br />
Al amanecer despierto y recuerdo; que no daría yo por poder mover el tiempo atrás<br />
y poder decir te amo, y besarte solo una vez más. Los años pasan y me acuerdo de ti.<br />
A veces se me olvida tu rostro. Odio recordar y admitir que ya me acostumbré a vivir<br />
sin ti; vivir con mi vida sin Alma y mi alma sin vida. El tiempo pasa y me acuerdo de ti.<br />
Alma, día a día, querida, aprecio el milagro de haberte tenido en vida. Y me alegra pensar<br />
que, con Jesús en el cielo arriba, o estés donde estés, sé que tú, también, te acuerdas de mí.<br />
63 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Jesus Fern<strong>and</strong>o Ochoa Arreola<br />
En las Ruinas del Pensamiento<br />
El otro día recordé la escasez<br />
que abundó entre las riquezas<br />
en la ignorancia de mi niñez.<br />
Y así, desde mi ingrata infancia,<br />
hasta los falsos de la adolescencia,<br />
construí los estragos de mi conciencia.<br />
No existe la inteligencia<br />
que distinga su presencia<br />
sin humilde prepotencia.<br />
El otro día miré a mi padre en el espejo;<br />
sus mismas arrugas naciendo en mi reflejo<br />
compartiendo en mi rostro su silencio añejo.<br />
La apatía de la vida en ese momento<br />
me hizo sufrir perdido en pensamiento,<br />
ahogándome con arrepentimiento.<br />
No existe la ignorancia<br />
en plena abundancia<br />
que reconozca su existencia.<br />
El otro día descubrí las riquezas<br />
que en lo cotidiano quedan disfrazadas<br />
y que en mi mente dormían ignoradas.<br />
Me quedé sentado en las ruinas del ayer,<br />
entre los escombros en los que solía creer,<br />
contempl<strong>and</strong>o hacía a donde ir o que hacer<br />
y me tomó toda mi inteligencia,<br />
y también toda mi ignorancia,<br />
para terminar con mi vida de decadencia.<br />
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Jesus Fern<strong>and</strong>o Ochoa Arreola<br />
Routine Staccato<br />
I think it’s time for me<br />
to say,<br />
hello,<br />
to you,<br />
again.<br />
But, this time,<br />
I don’t want to come back there.<br />
Ring ring, ring ring,<br />
I ring the reception’s bell.<br />
Tap tap, tap tap,<br />
my fingers tap while I wait.<br />
Push, pull,<br />
the door’s open.<br />
Thump, click,<br />
the door’s closed.<br />
Nurse Mary guides me today.<br />
Tack tack, tack tack<br />
her high heels echo<br />
while we walk.<br />
Knock knock, knock knock,<br />
she knocks on the door,<br />
but there’s no one else<br />
but you<br />
in there<br />
lying on bed.<br />
Hey,<br />
I say.<br />
Won’t you<br />
forget?<br />
The laughs<br />
we shared,<br />
the tears<br />
we shed.<br />
Woosh woosh, woosh woosh,<br />
The wind outside goes wild.<br />
The silence’s so strong<br />
I can hear everything going on.<br />
Sigh...<br />
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The clock goes<br />
tick-tock, tick-tock,<br />
while we’re both just stuck.<br />
Your heart goes<br />
Thump-thump, thump-thump,<br />
yet your eyes won’t open up.<br />
The screen goes<br />
Beep, beep, beep, beep,<br />
but I wait in fear<br />
for it to beep just once<br />
loud <strong>and</strong> clear.<br />
Every<br />
day I<br />
see you,<br />
hear you,<br />
but you<br />
still won’t<br />
respond.<br />
Please<br />
wake up!<br />
Wake up!<br />
It hurts—<br />
it hurts,<br />
<strong>and</strong> that’s why I—<br />
that’s why I give up.<br />
Give up on waiting<br />
for you<br />
to wake up.<br />
***<br />
I think it’s time for me<br />
to say,<br />
goodbye,<br />
to you,<br />
again.<br />
But, this time,<br />
for sure,<br />
I won’t<br />
come back<br />
to see you anymore.<br />
moonlight beams dance<br />
along the crushing tide—<br />
s<strong>and</strong> castles rot<br />
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Jesus Fern<strong>and</strong>o Ochoa Arreola<br />
Mi Almohada ya no Ladra<br />
Repos<strong>and</strong>o en mi dulce cama<br />
duermo casi al nivel del piso<br />
escuch<strong>and</strong>o en tus uñas como<br />
te acercas con cada pasito.<br />
El lento rechinar de la puerta<br />
delata tus tiernas intenciones;<br />
Brincas acurrucándote dentro<br />
del vacío entre mis brazos.<br />
Vienes con tus besitos mojados<br />
y me despiertas, pero me dejas<br />
acarici<strong>and</strong>o mi almohada<br />
con una tristeza infinita—<br />
pues por fin me he dado cuenta que<br />
solo en mis sueños sigues aquí.<br />
67 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Liz Torres Shannon<br />
A Beautiful Goodbye<br />
There is an endearing warmth in<br />
watching someone gracefully slide into<br />
their golden years, but there is nothing<br />
quite as heart-wrenching as watching<br />
a loved one gradually slip away from<br />
reality. My dad was a cheerful, charming,<br />
full-of-life person incapable of meeting<br />
a stranger. His energy was boundless,<br />
always walking at least twenty feet<br />
ahead of his children as our little kid legs<br />
struggled to keep up.<br />
My parents left Houston, their<br />
home of more than fifty years, <strong>and</strong><br />
moved over three hundred miles away<br />
to Brownsville, Texas, to live out their<br />
retirement days. My mom started noticing<br />
little things, mostly forgetfulness at first.<br />
But, the week he repeatedly locked<br />
himself out of the house <strong>and</strong> flipped<br />
his SUV on the gravel road in their<br />
neighborhood, she realized it was more<br />
than just age-related forgetfulness <strong>and</strong><br />
forced him to see a doctor—something<br />
he hated to do. After just one very telling<br />
office visit, the doctor diagnosed him<br />
with Alzheimer’s.<br />
“What day of the week is it?” the<br />
doctor asked.<br />
“Sunday,” Dad answered<br />
hesitantly. It was a Tuesday.<br />
“Who is the president of the<br />
United States?”<br />
“Ugh, um, ugh, I’m not sure.<br />
Dad pauses for a long time, then asks,<br />
Kennedy?” It was Bill Clinton. As the<br />
doctor explained what to expect in the<br />
coming days, months, <strong>and</strong> years, Dad<br />
began to withdraw, <strong>and</strong> Mom struggled<br />
to hide her panic.<br />
Dad continued to retreat deeper<br />
within himself, refusing to talk about<br />
what was happening to him. His sullen<br />
muteness drove Mom crazy. She’d never<br />
been very patient, especially when it came<br />
to Dad. It was evident that although Mom<br />
loved him, her feelings of ill will toward<br />
him were also apparent, stemming<br />
perhaps, from his past indiscretions.<br />
She had no idea how to deal with what<br />
was happening, <strong>and</strong> she began to treat<br />
him more <strong>and</strong> more like a child, <strong>and</strong> he<br />
continued to disengage.<br />
At first, hints of the disease<br />
were subtle. There was the usual<br />
forgetfulness associated with<br />
Alzheimer’s. ¿Donde esta el barco?<br />
he asked me one day, referring to the<br />
large ships he worked on as a Merchant<br />
Marine. I stopped answering after<br />
about the fortieth time that afternoon.<br />
I would often find him engrossed in<br />
another reality as he tinkered with<br />
small objects. There were small trinkets<br />
between books, small wooden boxes,<br />
pottery, family photos, <strong>and</strong> souvenirs<br />
from my travels on a large bookcase.<br />
He would fixate on an object from the<br />
bookcase <strong>and</strong> pretend it was something<br />
on the ship that needed repair. His h<strong>and</strong><br />
would turn an invisible screwdriver <strong>and</strong><br />
swing an unseen hammer for hours at<br />
a time as he reverted back to being a<br />
Merchant Marine in the middle of the<br />
ocean. As time went on, his behaviors<br />
became more unpredictable. Some<br />
days he would unbutton his pants <strong>and</strong><br />
masturbate in a room full of people as if<br />
no one else was there.<br />
It became evident that Dad<br />
could not be left alone at home to his<br />
own devices. In fact, on a hot August<br />
afternoon, it became clear that we<br />
could not leave him alone—anywhere.<br />
It was an outdoor shopping mall, <strong>and</strong><br />
by the second store, he was tired. As<br />
we entered a sporting goods store, he<br />
went straight to a chair in the shoe<br />
department <strong>and</strong> found respite on an<br />
oversized cushioned chair. I agreed<br />
to let him rest. “Do not get up from<br />
this chair,” I said in my most stern <strong>and</strong><br />
authoritative voice.<br />
“No hijita, I’ll stay right here,” he<br />
assured me. I kept coming back to check<br />
on him every few minutes as I tried to<br />
shop with the rest of the family in the<br />
small store.<br />
I felt my heart skip a beat<br />
before it began pounding in my chest.<br />
My stomach immediately produced a<br />
wave of nausea so strong that I had to<br />
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steady my breath. Dad was gone. I scanned<br />
the store—he was nowhere in sight. We<br />
split up into two groups <strong>and</strong> searched the<br />
store, but there was no sign of him. We<br />
moved outside <strong>and</strong> began to inspect the<br />
shopping mall. We searched the adjacent<br />
stores <strong>and</strong> parking lot, asking passersby<br />
if they had seen him. No one had. Fearing<br />
the worst, we decided to call the police.<br />
Hours passed, <strong>and</strong> when it became<br />
evident that he was not in the area, a police<br />
officer approached me <strong>and</strong> said, “Ma’am,<br />
go home <strong>and</strong> wait for a call from the police<br />
department.” I feared the worst as I walked<br />
to the car with tears streaming down my<br />
face <strong>and</strong> my double breathing teetering on<br />
the verge of hyperventilating. That’s when<br />
another police officer appeared tenderly<br />
cradling a bedraggled, elderly gentleman.<br />
It was him! Dad’s face was as red as a<br />
summer ripe tomato, <strong>and</strong> his bright white<br />
hair stood straight up on his head. He<br />
resembled a sunburned, disheveled Albert<br />
Einstein! I burst into nervous laughter.<br />
We never found out what exactly<br />
happened that afternoon. We imagined<br />
that Dad must have convinced someone<br />
that he needed a ride. Then, when it<br />
became apparent that he was not in his<br />
right mind, they returned him to the<br />
shopping mall. Or, maybe Dad just climbed<br />
into the back of a parked pickup truck, <strong>and</strong><br />
once the driver noticed him in the back,<br />
they brought him back to the shopping<br />
mall. All we know is that he rode in the<br />
back of a pickup truck for god knows how<br />
many miles, white hair flying in the hot,<br />
stagnant, sticky Houston air.<br />
Later that year, Mom <strong>and</strong> Dad<br />
came to visit during the holidays. I knew<br />
Mom wanted to stay. I knew she wanted<br />
help with him, <strong>and</strong> being a stay-at-home<br />
mom, I felt I could offer her that. I thought<br />
between us, we could manage him.<br />
However, it quickly became apparent that<br />
taking proper, round-the-clock care of him<br />
was impossible. The time I was awakened<br />
in the middle of the night to find him going<br />
from room to room as he lit matches to see<br />
in the dark because he didn’t remember<br />
that he could turn the light on with the<br />
flick of a switch was the moment that I<br />
knew we had to do something.<br />
We began to discuss professional<br />
care in a nursing home. It took months<br />
of Dad’s crazy behaviors <strong>and</strong> many family<br />
discussions to finally make the painful<br />
decision. The decision was only made<br />
worse by my sister’s reaction to the news.<br />
She berated my mom as only she could<br />
do. Mom was devastated <strong>and</strong> depressed,<br />
but ultimately she knew what she had to<br />
do, <strong>and</strong> not even my sister’s hurtful words<br />
<strong>and</strong> actions would keep her from doing the<br />
right thing for her husb<strong>and</strong> of over fifty<br />
years. And finally, after much research <strong>and</strong><br />
government bureaucracy, we settled on a<br />
beautiful new facility just minutes from<br />
home. We knew it was best for him, but our<br />
hearts hurt from the thought of leaving<br />
him in a strange place with unfamiliar<br />
people. We explained, over <strong>and</strong> over, what<br />
his new living situation would be, but he<br />
just didn’t underst<strong>and</strong>.<br />
We arrived at the nursing home<br />
with big smiles to disguise our heavy<br />
hearts. It was a beautifully decorated,<br />
serene place, <strong>and</strong> Dad loved all the<br />
attention from the female nurses. Mom<br />
<strong>and</strong> I spent the entire day getting him<br />
settled in <strong>and</strong> showing him around the<br />
grounds. Then, when it came time to leave,<br />
he resisted very little, but enough to drain<br />
us of what little we had left in us to keep it<br />
together. “¿Me vas a dejar aqui solito?”<br />
he asked us, <strong>and</strong> the question shattered<br />
my heart into a million pieces. That night,<br />
however, I slept like a baby, not having to<br />
listen for the sounds of him w<strong>and</strong>ering the<br />
house or backyard. It felt good to know he<br />
was safe <strong>and</strong> in good h<strong>and</strong>s.<br />
The nurses <strong>and</strong> staff became<br />
family, <strong>and</strong> as time passed, it became our<br />
home away from home. I could bring him<br />
home on the weekends for the first few<br />
years. Dad would enjoy home-cooked<br />
meals <strong>and</strong> outings with the family, <strong>and</strong><br />
most importantly, he would spend quality<br />
time with Mom, cuddling, watching<br />
telenovelas, <strong>and</strong> working in the garden.<br />
The time came when he could no<br />
longer manage the step into the garage<br />
from the house. I watched as my husb<strong>and</strong><br />
tenderly picked him up <strong>and</strong> carried him to<br />
the car. At that moment, I knew this would<br />
be one of his last visits to the house. After<br />
that, the visits home began to dwindle.<br />
Every weekend turned into a couple of<br />
times a month, which turned into once a<br />
month, which turned into holidays, which<br />
eventually turned into one-way visits—<br />
from us to him.<br />
Dad began to share with me that<br />
he was ready to die. “Ya mija quiero<br />
morir, estoy listo,” he would tell me. Mom,<br />
however, refused to accept this. As a result,<br />
he would be in <strong>and</strong> out of hospitals for<br />
months. Finally, on one occasion, arriving<br />
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DOA. The nurse escorted us to a private<br />
room. We had no idea why. The room<br />
was small, <strong>and</strong> the lighting was terrible,<br />
but it was nice to be in our own area.<br />
Mom <strong>and</strong> I had coffee <strong>and</strong> made small<br />
talk until someone finally came in. “You<br />
can go in <strong>and</strong> see him now,” was all the<br />
nurse said to us. It wasn’t until the next<br />
day that we were told he had arrived<br />
at the hospital without a pulse the<br />
day before. The hospital had managed<br />
to revive him, <strong>and</strong> he survived. Still,<br />
Mom refused to sign a DNR order <strong>and</strong><br />
insisted that he be taken to the hospital<br />
whenever he appeared near death. So,<br />
the cycle began where he would be<br />
taken to the hospital when he became<br />
unresponsive, the hospital would pump<br />
him up with fluids, <strong>and</strong> Dad would be ok<br />
for a few days <strong>and</strong> then begin to decline<br />
again. Ultimately, we got the call that it<br />
was only a matter of time before he was<br />
gone.<br />
Mom <strong>and</strong> I arrived at his room<br />
that afternoon. He acknowledged our<br />
presence, <strong>and</strong> even on his deathbed,<br />
his face <strong>and</strong> eyes lit up when he saw<br />
Mom. He could no longer speak, but<br />
if he could, he would have said, “¡Ayyy<br />
me Negra!” referring to Mom. An<br />
endearment he, with his fair Spanish<br />
skin, would always call her because of<br />
her dark Mexican complexion. We sat<br />
with him <strong>and</strong> talked about the upcoming<br />
holiday. We watched CNN <strong>and</strong> the local<br />
news, <strong>and</strong> then I went to a nearby deli<br />
<strong>and</strong> got s<strong>and</strong>wiches.<br />
I remember being nervous about<br />
the hours to come. I had never seen<br />
anyone die before <strong>and</strong> wondered what it<br />
would be like. The nurses brought in two<br />
oversized recliners for us to sleep on. I<br />
positioned Mom’s recliner next to Dad’s<br />
bed <strong>and</strong> mine slightly further down<br />
from hers. We took turns sitting next<br />
to him <strong>and</strong> holding his h<strong>and</strong>. He could<br />
hear <strong>and</strong> underst<strong>and</strong> us, <strong>and</strong> although<br />
he could not respond verbally, his eyes<br />
said everything. The way he looked at<br />
us needed no words. With his eyes, he<br />
told us how much he loved us <strong>and</strong> how<br />
grateful he was that we could be there<br />
with him in his final hours. His eyes<br />
conveyed that he felt loved <strong>and</strong> safe. “I<br />
love you,” I whispered to him. “It’s ok to<br />
go when you’re ready. I will take care of<br />
Mom; you don’t need to worry about<br />
her,” I reassured him. The night was long.<br />
I would wake up <strong>and</strong> find him staring<br />
at me, <strong>and</strong> I would reach for his h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong><br />
gently whisper, “I love you.”<br />
His breathing changed in the early<br />
morning, <strong>and</strong> each inhale became a loud<br />
rattling, raspy sound. It was the sound of<br />
death, a sound I will never soon forget. Yet,<br />
even as we were witnessing his journey<br />
come to an end, Mom refused to accept<br />
what was happening. Instead, she began<br />
to aggressively spoon applesauce into his<br />
mouth as if the applesauce was what would<br />
keep him alive—as if she was willing him to<br />
live.<br />
“Mom!” I screamed. “He can’t<br />
swallow; he will choke,” I tried to explain. I<br />
couldn’t st<strong>and</strong> the thought of watching him<br />
die a violent death from a choking fit because<br />
of her antics. But, she simply ignored me in<br />
her state of denial. Finally, exasperated, I<br />
called for a nurse who came in <strong>and</strong> removed<br />
the food from his mouth <strong>and</strong> explained to<br />
Mom that she shouldn’t attempt to feed<br />
him. Mom looked tired <strong>and</strong> scared, her body<br />
language expressing defeat. Within a few<br />
hours, it was clear that he was struggling<br />
to take a full breath. Then, around ten in<br />
the morning on the 4th of July, he finally<br />
took the last, loud, raspy breath, which was<br />
followed by complete silence <strong>and</strong> a look on<br />
his face of pure, infinite peace.<br />
Mom wailed over his lifeless body<br />
<strong>and</strong> into the morning.<br />
Spending those last hours with him<br />
was a limitless blessing <strong>and</strong> an extraordinary<br />
honor. It has been one of my most beautiful<br />
<strong>and</strong> profound experiences in life. I was<br />
reminded that, at any given time, we are all<br />
somewhere on the so-called circle of life, of<br />
birth, living, <strong>and</strong> death. However, that day<br />
I also understood that death could be just<br />
as beautiful an experience as birth <strong>and</strong> that<br />
everything we do in-between matters.<br />
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70
Thảo Ðinh<br />
Butterflies are beautiful symbols of death <strong>and</strong> rebirth, from cocoons<br />
they shed their old selves to reincarnate into something breathtaking. In<br />
this acrylic painting, I tried the splashing method, something completely<br />
new to me that I was scared of trying. But I did anyway. The result was<br />
beyond my expectations. I realized that transformation can be scary <strong>and</strong><br />
overwhelming, but it will be worth it in the end.<br />
Rebirth<br />
-Thảo Ðinh<br />
71 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Coryna Trevino<br />
chrysalis<br />
eyes met from across<br />
a crowded room<br />
<strong>and</strong> time<br />
seemed to stop<br />
two hearts rejoicing in a synchronous cadence<br />
while no words were uttered<br />
their inevitability<br />
silent yet altogether too loud<br />
never had a single moment felt so<br />
earth-shattering<br />
green met blue<br />
in a cataclysmic waterfall both<br />
eroding the earth<br />
<strong>and</strong> granting oasis<br />
for those it shelters<br />
all it took was one glance<br />
as fragile as a<br />
butterfly<br />
causing a tsunami<br />
beauty <strong>and</strong> devastation<br />
filled the air<br />
in traditional love stories<br />
one glance would lead to<br />
green met blue<br />
heart met soul<br />
time froze<br />
love blossomed<br />
<strong>and</strong> then<br />
in an instant<br />
time marched away<br />
leaving that moment<br />
in a chrysalis<br />
but this was only ever<br />
one glance<br />
one momentfleeting<br />
never-ending<br />
devastating<br />
but oh so beautiful<br />
like a butterfly<br />
preserved foreverdevastatingly<br />
beautiful<br />
happily ever after<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
72
Coryna Trevino<br />
ocean blue eyes full of love<br />
<strong>and</strong> promises of forever<br />
but She promised forever<br />
jumbled words inside my<br />
grief-stricken mind<br />
never has an emptiness like this<br />
taken root in my bodya<br />
corporeal despondency ravages my fragile psyche<br />
one that reaches into my very soul<br />
<strong>and</strong> rips it apartindifferent<br />
to the inconsolable mess it will leave behind<br />
hour after hour<br />
phantoms of Her<br />
invade my system<br />
Her smile<br />
Her inability to dance<br />
Her whispered vows of love as the sun slithers slowly into our safe haven.<br />
all i can see is Her<br />
all i can feel is an earth-shattering, world-crumbling, apocalyptic ache<br />
to hold Her in my arms as She<br />
smiles up at meocean<br />
blue eyes full of love <strong>and</strong> promises of forever<br />
every fiber of my being<br />
down to the smallest, inconsequential atom<br />
yearns to hear<br />
Her voice<br />
Her laugh<br />
Her incoherent, two am, sleep-deprived mumbles<br />
73 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
ut She promised forever<br />
jumbled words inside my<br />
grief-stricken mind<br />
ocean blue eyes full of love <strong>and</strong> promises of forever<br />
incoherent, two am, sleep-deprived mumbles<br />
hour after hour<br />
fight after fight<br />
slammed doors <strong>and</strong> empty drawers<br />
a corporeal despondency engulfs my entity<br />
a little blue box protecting priceless emerald carats of forever<br />
mocks me as i replay<br />
the multitude of memories i have<br />
of Her<br />
who would have guessed forever had an expiration date<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
74
Elizabeth Motes<br />
“The Five Stages of a Near-<br />
Death Experience”<br />
One<br />
After nearly dying with her boyfriend, Rhiannon made herself promise to break up<br />
with him as soon as possible.<br />
Her second day of isolation in her bedroom gave her a lot of time to reflect, <strong>and</strong><br />
she decided breaking up with him was a form of healing. She didn’t sustain any serious<br />
injuries from the accident itself - just a sprained wrist, chest injuries, <strong>and</strong> a concussion. But<br />
her mother insisted she stay home <strong>and</strong> rest.<br />
Her mother also had her still bedridden, though she could walk perfectly fine. But<br />
every time her mother brought up her meals, she gave a stern look to her wrist, then her<br />
face, wracked with bruises. Rhiannon gave in.<br />
“What?” she asked, feeling powerless to her judgment while confined to her bed.<br />
Her mother clicked her tongue. “That boyfriend.” Her thin brows knotted together.<br />
“This is his fault.”<br />
For once, Rhiannon didn’t disagree.<br />
Two<br />
Rhiannon <strong>and</strong> Jason weren’t even supposed to be driving far that night. In fact, she<br />
hadn’t anticipated them having plans at all until he met her at her locker, a bright smile on<br />
his face, <strong>and</strong> told her they were going to dinner to celebrate their eight-month anniversary.<br />
She hadn’t been sure if they would celebrate it. When she brought up their sixth month<br />
anniversary, he gave her a grin <strong>and</strong> asked if they were going to be that kind of couple to<br />
celebrate things like that.<br />
But if he was offering dinner - she suggested the nice Italian place that was fairly<br />
close to both their homes, <strong>and</strong> he said that sounded great. She spent the next period<br />
thinking about what she was going to wear.<br />
The anniversary came <strong>and</strong> Jason picked her up. She’d settled on a black dress with<br />
spaghetti straps <strong>and</strong> a frill at the end, <strong>and</strong> he told her that she looked nice when she got in<br />
the car. He talked the whole way to the restaurant in that way he did when he was in a good<br />
mood. They arrived, <strong>and</strong> when the two walked up to the restaurant, Rhiannon felt like they<br />
were a real couple. Anyone who saw them would think so.<br />
When they entered the crowded waiting area, Rhiannon learned that Jason had<br />
not made a reservation.<br />
“It’s an hour wait,” he said to her when he returned. She was sitting next to a<br />
mother scolding her two boys for being rowdy.<br />
“An hour?” she repeated quietly. She didn’t ask why he hadn’t placed the reservation<br />
last week.<br />
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Jason shrugged his shoulders with a frown. “It’s never this crowded,” he said.<br />
“What do you want to do?”<br />
She looked down at her h<strong>and</strong>s. She’d gotten her nails done the day before. “I don’t<br />
want to wait for an hour.”<br />
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded, glanced back outside, then at her again. “Hey, Matthew<br />
just told me about this great Thai place that he went to the other day. We’ll check that out.”<br />
His smile returned, amused, like they were on a quirky misadventure. He was at his most<br />
h<strong>and</strong>some that way, with his blond hair making him look like a teenager in a movie.<br />
She followed him back outside to the car. After she buckled up, she slipped off<br />
her heels while Jason tapped away on his phone to get the restaurant address, his screen<br />
lighting up the dark car. A few minutes later, he put the phone in his cup holder <strong>and</strong> pulled<br />
out of the parking lot.<br />
Fifteen minutes into the drive, Rhiannon put her arm against the window <strong>and</strong> laid<br />
her head on her h<strong>and</strong>. “How far is it?”<br />
“Maybe another fifteen minutes or so,” he replied. “It’s downtown.”<br />
“We should call ahead <strong>and</strong> make sure they have a table.”<br />
“You can if you want.”<br />
She put her arm down <strong>and</strong> looked at him. Her stomach twisted with hunger; she’d<br />
skipped lunch thinking they would eat early. “Why didn’t you just call ahead at the other<br />
place?” she asked, the words slipping out without thought.<br />
He blinked rapidly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just didn’t think to. They’re not<br />
normally that crowded.”<br />
“It’s a Saturday night, Jason, of course they’d be crowded.”<br />
“What do you want me to do?” he asked. He glanced at her with wide, guilty eyes.<br />
“I asked if you wanted to wait.”<br />
“I wanted you to make a reservation last week.” Hunger made her bold, apparently.<br />
“Why are you getting upset over this?” he asked. The light ahead turned yellow<br />
<strong>and</strong> he sped up to reach it. “It’s not a big deal. Some people have, like, actual problems to<br />
deal with, you know? And you’re picking a fight because you had to wait a little longer for<br />
dinner?” He glanced at her again, then back at the road. “I was busy this week, too. I had<br />
practice <strong>and</strong> I was up late scrambling to do homework. So no, I didn’t make the reservation.”<br />
His anger echoed through the car. Rhiannon went silent.<br />
A few seconds passed, then Jason sighed. “Rhi, I’m sorry.” He spoke in a quieter<br />
voice, as if disguising the person who just snapped at her. Nothing to see behind the<br />
curtain.<br />
“It’s fine.” The fight had gone out of her.<br />
“I screwed this up. I always screw up.”<br />
“No, you don’t,” she muttered.<br />
“You know I do, Rhi. I was just trying to make tonight special for you, <strong>and</strong> I managed<br />
to ruin it.” His h<strong>and</strong>s gripped the steering wheel as he sped through a light that changed to<br />
red.<br />
“Let’s just get to the Thai place <strong>and</strong> enjoy dinner.”<br />
He kept shaking his head. “That’s not what you wanted. God, I’m so stupid.”<br />
“Jason, it’s fine.” He pulled up to a light <strong>and</strong> put on his blinker. “It doesn’t matter.”<br />
He didn’t turn the blinker off. “We already came all this way. There’s no point in going back.”<br />
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76
She’d been watching Jason, his brows furrowed with a stare cutting the road, so she<br />
saw that he didn’t look to the left before rushing into the turn. She also saw the headlights of<br />
cars speeding their way. She shouted at him to stop, <strong>and</strong> then there was the impact.<br />
To anyone who asked, she told them that she passed out immediately, or didn’t<br />
remember the seconds after the hit, but that wasn’t quite true. What she remembered was<br />
silence. Not a ringing, shocked silence, but pure quiet like she’d never heard before.<br />
Three<br />
Rhiannon hadn’t spoken to Jason in the week after the accident. They’d both<br />
been taken to the hospital, but she’d been dispatched before him given that he had<br />
taken the hit directly <strong>and</strong> got the worst of it. The phrase critical condition had been<br />
repeated around when she first woke up, weighing her down like an anchor. She wasn’t<br />
going to leave the hospital until he was alright, she decided. But the next day he woke up<br />
<strong>and</strong> began his recovery. She left without visiting him.<br />
He hadn’t reached out until three days after she went home, <strong>and</strong> in the<br />
meantime, she worried that he had gotten worse while she wasn’t watching. But she<br />
finally got a text from him:<br />
Hey.<br />
She thought about not responding. She thought about calling him. She<br />
responded, Hi.<br />
Are u ok?, Jason texted her.<br />
I’m fine, she wrote. Are you out of the hospital? That was something she<br />
should have already known, even if she was planning on breaking up with him.<br />
I left this morning. All good:)<br />
She wondered if he’d still be texting smiley faces if something had happened to<br />
Rhiannon in the wreck. She pushed the thought aside. Anger wouldn’t do her any good.<br />
He asked if he could see her, <strong>and</strong> Rhiannon agreed to meet him at the park by<br />
her house the next day. Close enough that her mother would let her go.<br />
After spending too long deciding what to wear - casual clothes seemed<br />
insensitive to the break-up, but then again she was still recovering <strong>and</strong> she couldn’t<br />
bring herself to dress nicely - she got in her car <strong>and</strong> drove to the park, with dread arriving<br />
in the pit of her stomach.<br />
Jason sat on a park bench staring down at his phone with his legs stretched<br />
out in front of him. He wore jeans <strong>and</strong> a t-shirt, <strong>and</strong> it took her a moment to register it<br />
as she walked up to him, but he wasn’t wearing any casts. No sign of injuries but various<br />
fading bruises <strong>and</strong> a scar on his left arm.<br />
He noticed her approaching <strong>and</strong> gave her a smile <strong>and</strong> a wave. “Hey.”<br />
She sat beside him. The breeze lifted her hair from her face, <strong>and</strong> she pulled it<br />
behind her ears. “Hi.”<br />
“You look like a million bucks. How’re you feeling?”<br />
“I’m okay.”<br />
“I got cut up pretty badly,” he said. “But I’m alright.”<br />
No apologies. Did he owe her an apology? He’d been the one driving. He didn’t<br />
check for cars before speeding into his turn. If the car that hit them hadn’t slowed in<br />
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time, it could have been fatal. But she’d been the one talking <strong>and</strong> starting the fight about<br />
the restaurant in the first place.<br />
Focus. The break-up was happening either way.<br />
“Jason,” she said, looking down at the pavement <strong>and</strong> watching their shadows.<br />
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” The words sounded like a suggestion,<br />
not a fact.<br />
She didn’t look at his face, but she saw his shoulders drop. “Why?”<br />
“I don’t feel like things are working between us,” she said. “And I don’t want to<br />
waste either of ours time if it isn’t.”<br />
She turned to look at him <strong>and</strong> his sad face. He held out his h<strong>and</strong>, but she shook<br />
her head. His h<strong>and</strong> fell.<br />
“Is this because of the accident?” he asked, perking up with clarity. “Because<br />
I get it. Like, it’s scary, right? Things could have ended just like that.” He snapped his<br />
fingers to signify just how quickly things could have ended. Rhiannon winced. “It makes<br />
everything seem so tentative. But it made me realize how much I need you.” He shifted<br />
toward her. “That’s all I’ve been thinking about these past few days. To help cope, you<br />
know?” He scoffed <strong>and</strong> shook his head at himself. “I even thought - I started imagining<br />
how I would propose to you. Not now, obviously, but down the line.”<br />
This was not what she wanted to be discussing in a break-up.<br />
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t be that for you.”<br />
“But you already are that.”<br />
“You’re not the guy I marry down the line.” The words came out too fast. She<br />
pulled her hair back again. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”<br />
“Wait -” He reached out <strong>and</strong> grabbed her wrist. She stayed sitting, not wanting<br />
him to pull her back down if she stood. “Can’t you just - give it a few day’s thought?<br />
You’re kind of rushing into this.”<br />
His fingers were cold on her wrist. “I’ve given it enough thought.”<br />
“But if you -”<br />
“Goddamnit, Jason.” She yanked her wrist free <strong>and</strong> stood, then stepped back.<br />
Confidence filled her - or rather, the fear left her, just for a few seconds, leaving a feeling<br />
of weightlessness. “I’m not - I’m not doing this anymore. It’s over. I’m sorry.”<br />
She hesitated, waiting for some sign she was doing the right thing. But there<br />
weren’t any signs. So she turned <strong>and</strong> walked back to her car.<br />
She kept on without looking back, not even when her surge of confidence left<br />
her alone with resounding doubt. She’d nearly died, her life was upturned, <strong>and</strong> now she<br />
was ab<strong>and</strong>oning one of her few constants. A constant who loved her. Maybe the accident<br />
had changed him for the better <strong>and</strong> she was being selfish in leaving him.<br />
She neared her car, but she stopped walking to try to slow her breathing. Black<br />
dots appeared in the edges of her vision, feeding on her panic. She couldn’t pass out, not<br />
in some parking lot five minutes from her house.<br />
She forced herself to her car, ignoring the black dots, then placed a h<strong>and</strong> on it<br />
to steady herself. She was okay. She would be okay. Taking Jason out of her life was her<br />
only option to keep going.<br />
She shut her eyes, drew in a breath, <strong>and</strong> opened her eyes again. There. She got<br />
in her car <strong>and</strong> drove home.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
78
Four<br />
A week passed with no word from Jason. The first day, Rhiannon nearly jumped<br />
every time her phone buzzed with a text <strong>and</strong> was relieved to find it wasn’t him. Then the<br />
worry set in. It wasn’t like him to let go of something so quickly. If he wasn’t writing her, he<br />
was doing something else.<br />
She tried not to think about it. It wasn’t worth worrying over literally nothing<br />
happening. But her absence from school bled into spring break, so she was stuck at home<br />
with little to do. Friends visited, bringing hugs <strong>and</strong> decorating her room with flowers <strong>and</strong><br />
cards. She didn’t go out, not after her dizzy spell at the park. And she figured her mother<br />
only let her leave knowing she was breaking things off with Jason.<br />
“Rhiannon!”<br />
She sat up on her bed <strong>and</strong> called back to her mother, “Yes?”<br />
“You have a visitor.”<br />
No one had told her they were coming. The thought made her anxious, but she<br />
told herself not to fear the worst. She rolled off of her bed <strong>and</strong> went downstairs, still in her<br />
pajama pants <strong>and</strong> tank top.<br />
Probably just Beatrice, she told herself. She’d asked her to bring a textbook for<br />
homework.<br />
Her steps slowed as she reached the bottom of the stairs, finding her mother<br />
gone <strong>and</strong> Jason st<strong>and</strong>ing at the front door, dressed in a white suit <strong>and</strong> br<strong>and</strong>ishing a<br />
bouquet of white roses.<br />
She froze at the last step.<br />
He met her with his usual wide smile. “Surprise,” he said. “Are you free tonight?”<br />
“I...what?”<br />
He held out the bouquet to her, though she was still too far away to take them.<br />
“We have dinner reservations. At that Italian place?” he said, like he was taking her to prom<br />
after not speaking to her for the first time since...<br />
“We broke up.” she said.<br />
His smile faltered for a second. “I know.” Disappointment seeped into his voice.<br />
“But I just thought - well, we’re still friends, aren’t we? We can go out. And I’m making up<br />
for our last dinner, since that didn’t go as planned.”<br />
“I’m not hungry.”<br />
“Come on.” He lowered the roses <strong>and</strong> stepped further into her home. “I just want<br />
to underst<strong>and</strong> what went wrong. I want to fix it.” He looked up at her with pleading light<br />
blue eyes. “Please, Rhiannon. Whatever happened, I want to make it right.”<br />
“I don’t…” Her breaths were coming in quicker, like an invisible h<strong>and</strong> was clutching<br />
her throat.<br />
“Neither of us wants to be alone,” he went on, stepping closer to her. “I’m going to<br />
make it up to you.” He reached out with his free h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> took hers. “Come on. We’ll talk it<br />
out at the restaurant.”<br />
He turned to go, still holding her h<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> for a second, she let herself take a<br />
step with him. It wasn’t a date, he said, <strong>and</strong> she could explain to him why their relationship<br />
wasn’t working. Just to soothe things over. It slowed her breathing for a moment at the<br />
thought of it. It would be easier.<br />
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She jerked her h<strong>and</strong> out of his. Jason turned around in startlement. “You need to<br />
leave.”<br />
He didn’t move. “Rhiannon–”<br />
“No.” She took a step back. “I already told you no.”<br />
Then his gaze shifted. His usual pout <strong>and</strong> sad eyes were replaced with something<br />
cold.<br />
“What do you think happens from here?” he asked, his voice startlingly calm.<br />
“You’ll find a new boyfriend, <strong>and</strong> you’ll realize he’s just like me. Maybe worse. And if you<br />
manage to leave him, there will be another to take his place because you can’t be alone.”<br />
He shook his head. “You’re not upset with me. You’re upset with the fact that you’re always<br />
going to be stuck with someone like me.”<br />
The h<strong>and</strong> around her throat gripped tighter. But she said, “You don’t know<br />
anything about me,” <strong>and</strong> then her breaths were coming in again. I’m not leaving. I’m not<br />
leaving. I’m not leaving.<br />
“I know how long you actually wanted to break up with me,” he countered. “I<br />
know you wouldn’t let yourself admit it to yourself at first, because you knew you wouldn’t<br />
do anything about it. I know that you cry after I yell at you but you still thank me for my<br />
apology the next day.” His eyes were glued to her. “If you’re going to live with a rope around<br />
your neck, why not just jump?”<br />
“I’m not. That’s not–” Rhiannon forced herself to hold his gaze even though he<br />
didn’t seem like Jason anymore <strong>and</strong> the thought terrified her. “You’re the rope. I’m cutting<br />
you off here <strong>and</strong> now.” He started to speak, but she took a breath <strong>and</strong> said, “Get out of my<br />
house.”<br />
Again, he started to speak. Rhiannon was louder. “Get out of my house. Get out<br />
of my house.”<br />
Her vision went black.<br />
Five<br />
Rhiannon loved weighted blankets ever since she was a kid. She’d bury herself<br />
in blankets <strong>and</strong> her mom would complain that she was going to get too hot, but she<br />
didn’t care. She liked that it made her feel grounded.<br />
When she came to, that was what she thought of - a weighted blanket. Her<br />
skin was warm <strong>and</strong> she felt heavy where she laid, like she’d finally settled somewhere.<br />
There wasn’t a blanket on her, just a thin sheet. But there was a h<strong>and</strong> smoothing her<br />
hair from her face.<br />
“It’s alright. I’m here. I’m here.”<br />
She blinked her eyes open at her mother’s voice. A harsh white light greeted<br />
her, <strong>and</strong> she had to shut her eyes again. Her mind was still groggy <strong>and</strong> unfocused, but<br />
she processed where she was. Hospital.<br />
Shaking, she reached for her mother’s h<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> then squeezed it.<br />
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Bitia Alanis<br />
“For the mockingbird that was shot seventeen times”<br />
81 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Bitia Alanis<br />
“10 things I hate<br />
about you”<br />
I hate the way you grip my wrists<br />
<strong>and</strong> make me shiver <strong>and</strong> shake.<br />
I hate the fact you control my mind<br />
<strong>and</strong> fake the fact I’m alright.<br />
I hate how you make me fear the power<br />
of my ever-racing mind.<br />
I hate how my face <strong>and</strong> fingertips<br />
tingle <strong>and</strong> pound to the rhythm of your<br />
own sound.<br />
I hate you…<br />
I hate our constant match between<br />
paralyzing fear <strong>and</strong> adrenaline that makes me soar.<br />
I hate how sore you make me feel after<br />
you’ve gone away.<br />
I hate how I distract myself with colors,<br />
shapes <strong>and</strong> sounds.<br />
I hate <strong>and</strong><br />
I hate…<br />
What am I to do with myself after you’ve gone away?<br />
Who will I be without you?<br />
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Alyssa-Rae Barrera<br />
A soft,<br />
hummed,<br />
melody<br />
My Last Dream<br />
filled my ears as I gently laid my head on the pillow.<br />
My eyes closed to hear the breeze of the wind<br />
as it spun in circles outside my window with energy of a younger me,<br />
The crickets of the night chirped<br />
as if tonight was a joyous occasion.<br />
The fresh smell of rain <strong>and</strong> dew<br />
l i n g e r e d<br />
on the grass <strong>and</strong> in the ground,<br />
along with the new h<strong>and</strong> washed sheets,<br />
filled my nostrils,<br />
making me reminisce of older <strong>and</strong> brighter days.<br />
The humming continued <strong>and</strong> grew slightly<br />
reverberating through massive wide halls,<br />
like a turn of a knob on a radio<br />
Echoing<br />
over <strong>and</strong> over,<br />
skipping like a thrown rock on an ALIVE blue wave<br />
that has dwelled on our Earth since the beginning of time<br />
A single tear rolled down my cheek.<br />
My mother came to mind<br />
She hummed the same melody<br />
so many years ago,<br />
but sadly,<br />
it is the voice of the one who cares for me now.<br />
I breathed a deep breath, <strong>and</strong><br />
E x h a l e<br />
all the worries of my lifetime.<br />
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The monitor started to beep<br />
Slower And slower<br />
Another tear.<br />
My<br />
Last<br />
Dream.<br />
Robb Jackson Highschool Poetry 2nd Place (<strong>20</strong>22)<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
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Eva Buergler<br />
EulogyforDr.BfinalFINAL.docx<br />
Draft 1: Week 2<br />
Screw this. This is stupid.<br />
Draft 2: Week 3<br />
Correction: I feel like this is stupid. Apparently, that means I can’t rule<br />
out the possibility that this may be, in fact, Not Stupid. Dr. Barret, I have nothing<br />
worth eulogizing. I know we went over some things people say in eulogies in the<br />
session, like being a loving partner or generous sibling. These categories require<br />
other people in them. I don’t want to be defined by other people. I don’t want<br />
to have value because of other people. If a tree falls in a forest <strong>and</strong> nobody is<br />
around to hear it, is it even a tree? Was it even there to begin with? I can try to<br />
be as good, <strong>and</strong> it won’t be enough for some people. I’m going to make mistakes, I<br />
already have, <strong>and</strong> those define me more than anything else. I don’t think my sister<br />
will ever look at me <strong>and</strong> not see what I did to myself. I don’t think everybody who<br />
knows will ever look at me as anything other than that dickhead who tried to kill<br />
themself <strong>and</strong> couldn’t even do it right. I don’t think my mom can even look at me<br />
anymore. What I mean to say is that I’ve messed up a lot already, <strong>and</strong> if there’s<br />
one thing people do it is mess up. I’ve gotten good at it, just give me a source of<br />
ignition <strong>and</strong> some flammable material. Here’s my eulogy: “Here lies Logan Waters,<br />
they certainly screwed up a lot, <strong>and</strong> hopefully they’re doing what they liked doing<br />
most, wherever they are: beating dead horses <strong>and</strong> asking stupid questions.”<br />
Draft 3: Week 5<br />
I feel like this is stupid. You say that means I can’t rule out the<br />
possibility that writing this is not stupid. How you feel about things is not always<br />
representative of how they are. But it sure does sting, doesn’t it? Feelings aren’t<br />
facts but we still feel them, <strong>and</strong> you can’t take that away. I tried. You didn’t like<br />
my last pass at this so I’m doing it again but this time, I’m focusing on myself, not<br />
others, <strong>and</strong> I’m not allowed to use words like “ever,” “enough,” “always,” or “never.”<br />
Nothing permanent or fatalistic. Which means half of my vocabulary is shot, I<br />
guess, though that makes me sound like some Holden Caulfieldesque asshole. I<br />
want to clarify I am not a Holden Caulfieldesque asshole. I feel like this new rule,<br />
nothing permanent, is stupid because death is something that’s permanent. Or,<br />
well, it’s supposed to be. It’s the only thing that’s permanent. I think you asked<br />
me “How would you want to be remembered when you die?” I don’t want to be<br />
remembered at all. My ideal funeral would be none. Or maybe getting my body<br />
catapulted into space for Science Purposes. Or used in some piece-of-shit art<br />
student’s avant-garde project. That’s not really a funeral though, that’s just what<br />
would happen to my body, which is fine because I don’t think my body is really<br />
mine.<br />
85<br />
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Being forgotten really isn’t all that bad, honestly, it’s preferable. The<br />
faster I’m forgotten <strong>and</strong> the sooner I die the faster everyone who has loved me is<br />
unburdened. Instead of throwing flowers my mourners will spit in my grave <strong>and</strong> leave,<br />
<strong>and</strong> everyone that mattered to me will play a game of loogie (do people play loogie<br />
anymore? I heard about it once, in some movie my mom <strong>and</strong> I watched). It’s just an<br />
idea that got stuck in my head <strong>and</strong> can’t leave. That happens to a lot of my thoughts<br />
these days. I think that’s what bothers me about it. I have all these thoughts <strong>and</strong><br />
memories with nowhere to go but down with me, where it’s safe. There’s not much a<br />
memory of a person can do on its own.<br />
But I guess there’s a lot of things that were inspired by someone dying. Like<br />
those PSAs about Whip-Its or charities against drunk-driving. I guess when I tried to<br />
kill myself I had this idea in my head that my school would have to do something like<br />
that. Something like taking kids’ feelings seriously. Maybe some kid could organize a<br />
memorial or club for mental health or whatever <strong>and</strong> have a hell of an essay. I guess<br />
that was just a way to console myself. A way to absolve the guilt. It was nice to think<br />
that I could be more useful after I was dead.<br />
I think I broke the rules here, maybe “every” applies to “everyone” too, but I<br />
think that it’s a dogshit rule anyway. If there has to be people at my funeral then I’d<br />
want them to say: “Who?” <strong>and</strong> the tombstone to say, “Here lies Logan Waters, they<br />
were worth more dead than alive, but at least they weren’t a Holden Caulfieldesque<br />
asshole.”<br />
Draft 4: Week 5<br />
I lied, I said I didn’t do it, but I did. I think you knew I was lying, Dr. B. I just<br />
couldn’t show you this yet, maybe one day I can. As it is now here’s what I got:<br />
I guess I just don’t see the point in writing a eulogy for myself. What am I<br />
supposed to learn from this? Am I supposed to see the person I want to be in the<br />
future? Am I supposed to struggle but keep going anyway? Is it just an exercise in<br />
excessive symbolism? If I eulogize myself, as I know myself at least, then it would kind<br />
of be like this version of me is dead. Like I’m committing myself to living a new life<br />
or to be better, if I can even do that. I don’t think I can. It’s scary to leave something<br />
behind, even if you have a place to leave it.<br />
I don’t remember any eulogies, though I must have heard one somewhere.<br />
The last time I went to a funeral I was seven <strong>and</strong> it was for my gr<strong>and</strong>father. I met him<br />
first in a hospital bed <strong>and</strong> then in an urn. I don’t think there was much that could be<br />
said about him. He lived a sad life, not in the way that is inspiring or pitiful, but the<br />
kind where his kids <strong>and</strong> wife left as soon as they could. The kind of sadness that reeks,<br />
the kind that isn’t tragic, just sad. He lived alone <strong>and</strong> he died alone watching westerns<br />
on his couch. I never think about him. He never thought about me. It only seems right<br />
to return the courtesy. Maybe he was trying to be forgotten too. I never understood it<br />
but Mom cried <strong>and</strong> so did her sister, at his funeral. I guess people can still be forgotten<br />
about <strong>and</strong> loved, even if you need a reminder. I have his name. Sometimes I think my<br />
mom named me after him to spite him. Like she wanted to take something lonely <strong>and</strong><br />
love it. Look where that got her.<br />
If I’m supposed to be eulogizing myself like I died tomorrow then I don’t think<br />
there’s anything I could actually say. If I’m supposed to be eulogizing myself after<br />
I’ve lived some full life then there’s things I could say but they wouldn’t mean a thing<br />
because I don’t know where my life is going to take me. The key part of that sentence<br />
is “where my life is going to take me” because I sure as hell am not leading the way.<br />
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In a way I’m supposed to be dead. There have been a lot of me’s that have<br />
died. The last death was just (almost) literal, <strong>and</strong> now I’m haunting. Really, I think<br />
that the me that could have gotten it right died already, or maybe never existed.<br />
I don’t know how to feel right. I don’t think I’m capable. Now that I’m not-dead I<br />
have to do therapy, I have to do the work. I know the work. I did it before. It didn’t<br />
stop me. I knew I would hurt people who loved me, <strong>and</strong> I loved them <strong>and</strong> I went<br />
ahead with it anyway.<br />
Maybe life isn’t suffering but that’s definitely a big part of it. So, it’s easy<br />
when you think about it like that, it’s easy to think killing yourself is rational <strong>and</strong><br />
once you do it it’s hard to not think of it as a solution for every kind of suffering.<br />
Even the mundane kind of suffering. I want to make a decision <strong>and</strong> stick with it, I’m<br />
tired of going back <strong>and</strong> forth. At least when I’m dead I won’t have a choice. I know,<br />
in a way, that things can get better, that I can have that life worth eulogizing. The<br />
issue is that even though I can feel happy it can still be taken away. If I come to love<br />
my life then I can lose something I love <strong>and</strong> that terrifies me. At least here I have<br />
nothing I care about to lose.<br />
People talk about self-love a lot. I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to say<br />
that I love myself, but I think that saying it doesn’t matter so much as doing it. In a<br />
world where I would love myself, I think it would look like this:<br />
I’ll break something <strong>and</strong> forgive myself. I’ll look at a mirror <strong>and</strong> just see<br />
me <strong>and</strong> a mirror <strong>and</strong> keep going. I’ll feel pain <strong>and</strong> I’ll let it sit <strong>and</strong> then I’ll move on.<br />
I’ll live my life <strong>and</strong> not just look at it. I’ll do what I need to do but don’t want to do<br />
because it’s for me. I’ll be alright with unraveling something <strong>and</strong> starting over again<br />
<strong>and</strong> again. I’ll want to stick around. I’ll be able to open my eyes in the morning <strong>and</strong><br />
see something that’s mine. This is how I would say “I love you.”<br />
In that world my eulogy would be this: “Here lies Logan Waters, they were<br />
a person <strong>and</strong> they loved themself.”<br />
Draft 5: Week 7<br />
When I was on the way to my gr<strong>and</strong>father’s funeral I was reading a book<br />
of fables for kids. I got to this one about a Persian king. He asked his wise men<br />
for something that would make him happy when he was sad <strong>and</strong> sad when he was<br />
happy. They gave him a ring inscribed with the phrase: “This too shall pass.” And<br />
when I read that I started to cry. Like bawling, snot dripping down my face <strong>and</strong><br />
everything. My mom had to pull over <strong>and</strong> she couldn’t get me to stop. Eventually<br />
my mom just let it all out too, climbed into the backseat <strong>and</strong> held me as we both<br />
just wailed <strong>and</strong> screamed. My aunt drove us the rest of the way.<br />
Everything I can think of saying sounds cliché. I say I’m sorry (I am). I<br />
explain why (you won’t underst<strong>and</strong>). I say goodbye (this is a goodbye). Every time<br />
I’ve tried to write something like this it ends a mess. I can’t do it. I know there’s<br />
something not right in me, something broken. Something that other people can<br />
have but I can’t. If I just knew what it was, if I just knew what it was then I’d be<br />
okay, because then I’d finally have an answer.<br />
This too shall pass; this too shall pass. I’m begging you to say it with me<br />
Dr. B, this too shall pass? Threat or promise?<br />
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Draft 6: Week 9<br />
Well, this is awkward.<br />
Let’s try again, why don’t we?<br />
I’ll tell you one last story. Then we can get to work. One day Logan was<br />
sitting in that chair they always liked <strong>and</strong> would compare every other chair they<br />
would sit in ever again to, whether they remembered or not. let’s say they were<br />
reading a book, or playing on their phone, or waking up from a nap. The important<br />
thing is they looked up <strong>and</strong> realized for the first time in their life they were happy<br />
they were alive. This was the first of many moments like these.<br />
It wasn’t because they found love, though maybe they did. It wasn’t because<br />
they found success, though maybe they did. It wasn’t because they found out all the<br />
secrets to all their inscrutable questions, they definitely didn’t do that. It was slow,<br />
<strong>and</strong> it hurt in that same commonplace way as when you bang your knee against a<br />
table corner. Some days it looked so close, <strong>and</strong> somedays it couldn’t be further away.<br />
And they would have hated everything I’m saying now because it sounds so simple<br />
when it wasn’t. To have everything fixed in the end. I’ll let you in on a secret, it wasn’t<br />
all fixed. The table corners of the world kept existing, <strong>and</strong> they had a knee still to<br />
bang against them, <strong>and</strong> the pain was there, so what changed? They never knew what<br />
exactly, the right combination of things that changed, <strong>and</strong> it became an inscrutable<br />
question they didn’t feel the need to answer. It was enough to be. How beautiful is<br />
that?<br />
Here lies Logan Waters: friend, child, sibling. They loved what they could not<br />
underst<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> understood it anyway. They were enough.<br />
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88
Congratulations,<br />
Barrio Writers <strong>20</strong>21<br />
Athena Armijo• Sophia Chapa• Ethan Clarke• Jacob A. Clauch •<br />
Janet Doe• K. Elise• Evolvere (Derek)• Sophie Johnson• Jasmine<br />
Martin• Leo Monsavais• Isadora Pak• Aleena Roy• Alisha Roy<br />
Hello again!<br />
We are fortunate as editors of the <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> to feature poetry produced<br />
by the Barrio Writer’s youth workshop in our collection of work. For many writers at the<br />
camp, this is their first publication; this may even be their first time creating poetry<br />
or prose at all in a workshop setting. Throughout a whole week in summer of <strong>20</strong>22,<br />
each writer practiced an extreme form of vulnerability in writing <strong>and</strong> submitting to<br />
an established literary journal. This feat is rarely attempted by most people, yet these<br />
young voices dem<strong>and</strong>ed an audience! As an attendee <strong>and</strong> mentor at a summer writing<br />
camp, there is nothing more exciting than the ability to project a writer’s budding voice.<br />
I started writing in a similar setting to the Barrio Writers camp: the summer<br />
after I turned 14, my mom registered me for a week-long writing workshop at TAMU-CC.<br />
Writing wasn’t an activity that I ever expressed interest in before, but because I needed<br />
something to fill time, she thought it would be worth a try. This was the beginning of<br />
something. Whether it was a lifelong love for poetry or an undying need to feel heard,<br />
this beginning is lush <strong>and</strong> fruited with so many beautiful experiences. I am now preparing<br />
for a MFA in Poetry at the Creative Writing program in Texas State, leaving behind a<br />
blossoming community of writers that extends all the way to the Antonio E. Garcia Arts<br />
<strong>and</strong> Education Center. Though the journey from that first summer camp has been long<br />
<strong>and</strong> winding, I know that I’m still at the start of something, something I can face with the<br />
support from those around me.<br />
“<strong>Beginnings</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Endings</strong>” is such a provoking theme for this journal because<br />
there isn’t a clear difference between the two concepts; where an ending dries out <strong>and</strong><br />
dies, a beginning springs up in its place. We are constantly in a state of flux, where<br />
boundaries are blurred <strong>and</strong> there may not be a clear vision of the path forward.<br />
Whichever direction you chose, I hope that you see the beginning of something take<br />
place. If you can’t find that beginning, create it. Create poetry, music, code, art, research,<br />
plans, schemes, or strategies to survive. Your imagination is the most powerful tool, one<br />
that people often forget to use once we dictate ourselves towards a certain goal. One<br />
step in the right direction could be the first foot down a rabbit hole of self-discovery.<br />
Above all else, remember that you are surrounded by a community of support at every<br />
point in your journey, <strong>and</strong> we are so lucky to see you be you in your primordial form. This<br />
letter itself is not an ending, but a portal to the beginning of a beautiful body of work.<br />
Thank you again to Dr. Robin Johnson of TAMU-CC <strong>and</strong> the Barrio Writers for allowing<br />
us to publish this next collection of pieces; your workshops sparked a connection with<br />
young writers that we cherish forever.<br />
Onto more beginnings,<br />
Raven Reese, Assistant Managing Editor<br />
89 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Athena Armijo<br />
Bio: Athena Armijo really likes cats. Okay seriously,<br />
She really enjoyed barrio writers,<br />
She hopes to be back next year!<br />
Untitled<br />
Under the sun<br />
Covered in leaves,<br />
There I see what used to be me.<br />
Truly, I’m not dead,<br />
Its only in my head.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
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Sophia Chapa<br />
Sophia Chapa has been creative since the day that they can<br />
remember. They have a passion for writing poetry, which they didn’t<br />
learn about until <strong>20</strong><strong>20</strong>.<br />
Only Human<br />
Crying <strong>and</strong> having so much pain, but smile.<br />
Angry because they want me to be something I’m not, but smile.<br />
Anxious <strong>and</strong> worried that it won’t work out, but smile.<br />
Exhausted, but smile.<br />
Smile, they say.<br />
Smile, don’t show your sadness.<br />
Smile, even when you’re angry.<br />
Smile, <strong>and</strong> you won’t be anxious.<br />
Faking it, but smiling.<br />
Don’t Grow up too Fast<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, but get a job.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, but pay for your own things.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, because you need to live your life.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, but I can’t buy the things you need.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, because you should enjoy your youth.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, because adulting sucks.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, but you’re so mature for your age.<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, they say,<br />
but I don’t know what being a child is so,<br />
Don’t grow up too fast, but I should have my life together.<br />
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Ethan Clarke<br />
Ethan Clarke is a grumpy introvert who’s disillusioned with the state of<br />
mainstream storytelling. He only writes when he’s got an idea that has<br />
a lot of potential, so he won’t release content very often. However, when<br />
he does, you can be sure it’s got quality.<br />
Alligators 2<br />
“What a day,” Thomas said, in awe, to his friend, Jeffrey.<br />
“Yeah,” Jeffrey replied, “What a day.”<br />
There was so much traffic on the streets that neither of the two alligators<br />
could see more than five feet ahead of them, that traffic caused by a new seaweed<br />
st<strong>and</strong> that opened up just last week. How exactly the st<strong>and</strong> got so much publicity<br />
baffled Jeffrey, as good, fresh seaweed could be found anywhere in the ocean free<br />
of charge. He wondered just how the Alligator species had survived this long if<br />
most of them were stupid enough to purchase from that corrupt st<strong>and</strong>.<br />
“Hey, Jeffrey,” Thomas started, “Do you think we should buy some<br />
seaweed?”<br />
Jeffrey struck his friend with a glare that could freeze fire. Had he gone<br />
insane? To ever consider wasting valuable s<strong>and</strong> dollars on something that could<br />
be acquired for free was nothing but lunacy! Jeffrey already knew that Thomas’s<br />
family could be a bit delusional at times, but Thomas himself was always somewhat<br />
logical. Until now, at least…<br />
“What?” Jeffrey hissed, “If you want seaweed, we can get it off the ground!”<br />
Thomas wasn’t convinced, “I know that, Jeffrey. But there wouldn’t be so<br />
many people at the st<strong>and</strong> if it really had nothing to offer.”<br />
“No. Buying from that godforsaken st<strong>and</strong> is out of the question. You can go<br />
burn your own bridges.” Jeffrey spat.<br />
Thomas frowned while picking up a batch of seaweed from the floor, “Look,<br />
how about this. We’ll take a bit of natural seaweed <strong>and</strong> then buy some at the<br />
st<strong>and</strong>. After we’ve got both kinds, we’ll compare the two <strong>and</strong> see which one tastes<br />
better.”<br />
“Hmm…” Jeffrey said as he considered the offer.<br />
It would be a valuable opportunity to prove Thomas wrong about the<br />
seaweed st<strong>and</strong>, but if he had to purchase an item from there anyway, it would<br />
defeat the purpose or proving his friend wrong.<br />
“Fine, but you’re paying for both of us. If you’re right, I’ll give you your s<strong>and</strong><br />
dollar back.”<br />
“Deal.” Thomas agreed as the pair began to walk toward the st<strong>and</strong>.<br />
Jeffrey grabbed his piece of natural seaweed as Thomas ordered two<br />
portions of the vegetable at the st<strong>and</strong>. It saddened Jeffrey that his dear friend<br />
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would be giving good money to the greedy st<strong>and</strong>, but he realized that some<br />
people just learn quicker than others. Oh well. At least it wouldn’t be his money<br />
getting wasted.<br />
Thomas walked back to Jeffrey with two trays of purchased seaweed in<br />
h<strong>and</strong>, “Here ya go.” he said as he h<strong>and</strong>ed one of them to Jeffrey.<br />
“We’ll taste the natural ones first.” Thomas explained.<br />
“Sure thing.” Jeffrey agreed as he took a large, juicy bite out of his fresh<br />
algae, producing an extremely refreshing briny flavor. He relished the light taste,<br />
the satisfying texture, but most importantly, he relished the fact that his food<br />
was completely, 100% free! Ha. Thomas was in over his head if he thought any<br />
processed, faux seaweed would be better than this.<br />
“Now we move on to the purchased version.” Jeffrey spoke as he finished<br />
his snack.<br />
Jeffrey looked at the abomination with visible disdain. It pained him to<br />
pick it up, for he was getting one step closer to selling his pride. And for what?<br />
A piece of seaweed? No, it was worse than that. He was selling his pride, his<br />
very soul, for a slab of algae that would inevitably, invariably, taste the exact<br />
same as the one he plucked right off the floor. Jeffrey trembled as he brought<br />
the accursed object closer <strong>and</strong> closer to his mouth, finally daring to put it in<br />
between his lips. He could feel the wasted s<strong>and</strong> dollar crumble to ash inside his<br />
jaw.<br />
But before Jeffrey had time to examine the piece of sacrilege’s taste, his<br />
thoughts were rudely interrupted by an unhinged gobbling noise. Upon further<br />
inspection, Jeffrey realized that it was coming from his friend, Thomas, who was<br />
currently chomping away at the piece of seaweed he bought from the st<strong>and</strong>. His<br />
mannerisms were that of a starved gator who hadn’t eaten for 3 years.<br />
Thomas looked up at his friend <strong>and</strong> paused his devouring of the algae,<br />
“You gotta admit, Jeffrey, this is pretty good.”<br />
And by that time, Jeffrey had fully experienced the bursting flavor, <strong>and</strong><br />
the unparalleled complementary texture of the purchased seaweed. And to his<br />
shame, he had to admit. It was good. Good enough to spend a s<strong>and</strong> dollar on.<br />
“Hehe!” Thomas laughed as he observed his friend’s expression, “I told<br />
you there was a reason people went to that st<strong>and</strong>!”<br />
“Yeah, yeah,” Jeffrey groaned as he h<strong>and</strong>ed Thomas a s<strong>and</strong> dollar, “You<br />
were right.”<br />
“You gotta have a more open mind, man.” Thomas smirked.<br />
“I don’t know about that,” Jeffrey said as he raised an eyebrow, “How<br />
many MSGs do you think they put in that seaweed to make it taste the way it<br />
does?”<br />
“Oh, come on, not this again.” Thomas complained, “MSGs are harmless.”<br />
“Hah!” Jeffrey exclaimed, “You may have been right about the seaweed,<br />
but not about MSGs!”<br />
And so the two alligators walked into the sunset, talking <strong>and</strong> bickering<br />
<strong>and</strong> laughing aimlessly. Nothing was certain in Jeffrey <strong>and</strong> Thomas’s<br />
conversations. However, there was just one thing that both of the gators knew<br />
for sure in the back of their heads. They would go to that seaweed st<strong>and</strong> again.<br />
93 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Jacob A. Claunch<br />
I am a Barrio Writer <strong>and</strong> I want to be a teacher who has way too many<br />
thoughts for them all to be written down, but I am trying to get as much<br />
done as I can to inspire the future generations.<br />
Book of The Reader’s Life<br />
If you go to a library <strong>and</strong> find a book with your name on it, you<br />
will most likely open it, but what would you find? Do you hope<br />
that in it will be a list of all of your accomplishments, or of all of<br />
your failures? A memory that you have lost, or one that keeps on<br />
popping into your mind? Do you want it to be a portal that allows<br />
you to go to your past self so that you can give them advice, or to<br />
tell them about the test answers they need to pass? But this book<br />
has none of that. In fact, the book is empty, because you have yet<br />
to write your story. Once you start writing your story the book will<br />
be filled <strong>and</strong> you will feel a sense of accomplishment because you<br />
know that one day the book you have just written will make its way<br />
into the h<strong>and</strong>s of someone who needs it, <strong>and</strong> they will learn from<br />
your life to help with there own.<br />
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Janet Doe<br />
Janet Doe, an upcoming 9th grader, enjoys the abstract <strong>and</strong> creative light<br />
of writing. She also enjoys scribbling <strong>and</strong> doodling diverse characters<br />
from your average teenager to an alien from a distant planet. Doe aspires<br />
to be a planetary researcher in the near future.<br />
Ignorance’s thievery<br />
In the dark of the night, illuminated by only a lit, full moon<br />
A sly figure slips from roof to roof stealing <strong>and</strong> robbing from us all<br />
The children <strong>and</strong> descendants of culture rich nomads, <strong>and</strong> travelers, <strong>and</strong><br />
immigrants, <strong>and</strong> foreigners all left in the dark<br />
No trace or sound of a fire lit by a torch that’s been carefully passed down<br />
Its name unknown but its affects worldwide to each <strong>and</strong> every house<br />
Burning the ends of hereditary ropes once woven oh so tight<br />
Ripping the once firmest of roots all in the dead of the night<br />
You’ve all said listen well, but listen you have not<br />
You’ve let go of an anchor holding the word family’s parts<br />
You’ve lost it all to this slippery, conniving snake<br />
Cunningly taking your family’s heart up, up <strong>and</strong> away<br />
Your identity, your color, your communication is gone<br />
Due to simple negligence, ignorance, ignoring among<br />
Your dances, left by the fire, your legends, left untold<br />
You’ve watched it take it from you all, it grasps a firm hold<br />
So get up, ask. Mom, Dad, who are we, what are we, <strong>and</strong> why<br />
For no longer let this creature’s gluttonous greed thrive<br />
No longer will this slippery snake, influenced by suppressors’ power,<br />
Cunning, conniving, covetous thief’s expert thievery linger<br />
You are who your family is, <strong>and</strong> your family is who you are<br />
Learn your identity to be it, don’t lose it in the dark<br />
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Let them be heard<br />
Regardless of a voice or a passion<br />
These nimble <strong>and</strong> worn h<strong>and</strong>s continue,<br />
Regardless of the many warnings<br />
A young ins’ youth inquires inquiries,<br />
Regardless of your mother’s, father’s <strong>and</strong> aunt’s <strong>and</strong> uncle’s<br />
You ran to this foreign light,<br />
Regardless of their manufactured teachings teaching you<br />
Meaningless meanings<br />
Did you ask “why?”,<br />
Despite the urge <strong>and</strong> hesitation<br />
To think nothing more than what’s given,<br />
“Regardless of what I have, <strong>and</strong> what I’ve got”<br />
Has never occurred,<br />
Regardless is not the question that should be asked or heard,<br />
It is the question your incredible <strong>and</strong> inexperienced voice,<br />
So quick to answer <strong>and</strong> quiver in fear,<br />
So bold to respond <strong>and</strong> dare to challenge,<br />
Must yearn to answer<br />
Regarded is what you are.<br />
Restlessness<br />
I am tired<br />
But I do not know it yet<br />
I am tired<br />
My eyes an appalling color red<br />
I am tired<br />
Like a lifeless leaf in the breeze<br />
I am tired<br />
Lulling me to deep sleep<br />
I am tired<br />
Like the hush of a voice in a hall where there is no sound, no noise<br />
I am tired<br />
Though I am still awake<br />
My eyes heavy<br />
At any moment I could break<br />
And return, <strong>and</strong> retire, <strong>and</strong> sleep <strong>and</strong> give in to the cushion of a dream<br />
<strong>and</strong> the bliss of a sin<br />
I am tired<br />
I am too tired to speak<br />
I am restless for the hours I can sleep<br />
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K. Elise<br />
Homeschooled her entire life she’s had trouble fitting in with others her<br />
age, However she’s always tried her hardest. Creativity was something<br />
that really helped her out, <strong>and</strong> it still does. The wild stories she made,<br />
when she had no one to play with, were abundant.<br />
Whisper I say.<br />
Whisper at night when the moon shines bright.<br />
Speaking our worries, we cast out the light.<br />
The pond so big has filled to the brim.<br />
Whisper at night when the moon shines bright.<br />
Whisper, I say, let out those cries.<br />
The sun <strong>and</strong> smiles, can’t mock you now.<br />
Whisper, I say.<br />
You survived.<br />
The Wild Woman…<br />
Fireflies danced alongside the bright haired woman,<br />
her cold accessories laid heavily against her skin,<br />
<strong>and</strong> the fabric ever so soft spread out as she danced.<br />
Her graceful figure attracted the eyes of many,<br />
the moonlight highlighting her warm skin.<br />
Her ‘unruly’ dance, although silent, spoke many words.<br />
While cries of outrage <strong>and</strong> profanity were screamed out.<br />
Her smile only grew wider.<br />
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Raison D’etre.<br />
Prologue...<br />
The cold morning dew splashed against her bare skin. Sharply she<br />
cursed in pain as she ran, hoping she could make it in time.<br />
If only she obeyed him, maybe then her brother wouldn’t be at stake.<br />
Her body finally gave into exhaustion, falling to the ground as she<br />
screamed in pain, her vision clouded <strong>and</strong> teary.<br />
Gasping heavily, she lifted her blood-soaked arms, attempting to<br />
crawl.<br />
“Give up,” a low voice nagged, “You’re too Late~” His words were<br />
laced with honey.<br />
A scowl, though short-lived, found its way onto her face.<br />
“No. No.. No! He can’t be gone. You’re lying!..you have to be!”<br />
He held a satisfied smile on his face, one she would have loved to<br />
slap off.<br />
“Oh, Mel…” He stepped closer to her crippled form as he continued,<br />
“This is what happens-<br />
When you decide you want to Dis-o-bey Me!”<br />
“Now, look at me. I want to see that pretty face of yours.” As<br />
stubborn as ever, Mel buried her face in her arms. It was her last attempt to<br />
defy him.<br />
His smile morphed into a scowl of displeasure. “I was going to allow<br />
you a painless death.”<br />
Mel’s eyes widened in fear, she knew what he had in mind, <strong>and</strong> it<br />
wasn’t painless.<br />
“But alas,” he continued, with false sorrow, “you’ve annoyed me one<br />
too many times.”<br />
“You’re sick.” Mel croaked out, her voice nearly gone. He chuckled<br />
darkly. He truly felt no remorse.<br />
A loud mutilated howl rang aloud across the town. “I’d say that<br />
would be My cue to leave.”<br />
.<br />
.<br />
He slowly walked away, smiling as the beast tore away.<br />
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Evolvere (Derek)<br />
Evolvere is his pen name; he has interests in common activities such<br />
as playing video games <strong>and</strong> watching anime, with some uncommon<br />
interests such as martial arts, history, <strong>and</strong> self improvement.<br />
World of Wars<br />
Loud courses filled with youth, scared<br />
<strong>and</strong> brave these soldiers are made.<br />
White tents, stained in dirt, crossed in<br />
red, many will live, others may not<br />
have such luck.<br />
Trenches stamped in blood, riddled<br />
with bodies, full of crushed hopes<br />
<strong>and</strong> distraught horror.<br />
Caskets are full but the contents are<br />
empty, with them gone some may<br />
forget but others will remember <strong>and</strong><br />
they will respect them.<br />
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Sophie Johnson<br />
A lover of neutrals, classical paintings, <strong>and</strong> sometimes kids, Sophie<br />
Johnson is a 17 year old aspiring art teacher. For fun she draws <strong>and</strong><br />
daydreams, but most of the time you can catch her in her bed or<br />
helping out at the Rockport Art Center.<br />
Existential Procrastination<br />
One day, I’ll have learn how to properly use the unit circle… <strong>and</strong> sine…<br />
<strong>and</strong> cosine <strong>and</strong> all of that dumb math stuff, but today is definitely not<br />
that day.<br />
One day, I’ll actually have to learn how to tell people no, because now<br />
I’m stuck in a dumb club, but I’m scared of hurting people’s feelings, so<br />
today is definitely not that day.<br />
One day, I’ll totally have to learn that giving people more than they give<br />
me is actually hurting me, but it hurts more to think about it, so today is<br />
definitely not that day.<br />
One day, I’ll most likely have to learn that talking about it is better than<br />
writing about it in my cute little diary where only I can see, but it’s kinda<br />
fun, so today is definitely not that day.<br />
Today, I noticed I do that alot… Push aside things for future Sophie to<br />
worry <strong>and</strong> bite her nails about so<br />
One day, I’ll probably have to sit down with my therapist Am<strong>and</strong>a <strong>and</strong><br />
learn how to not do that, but today is for sure not that day.<br />
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Sophie Johnson<br />
Tiny Little Creature<br />
I want to be a tiny little creature,<br />
but I was born a 5’9 girl with big feet <strong>and</strong> long freaky fingers<br />
Tiny little creatures can hide, <strong>and</strong> be tiny without say, but I poke out<br />
like a flyaway on my blonde ponytail<br />
And I can’t be tiny because I got h<strong>and</strong>ed down what my family calls<br />
their “Rowl<strong>and</strong> thighs”<br />
But tiny little creatures get eaten <strong>and</strong> hunted <strong>and</strong> at least that’s not<br />
me<br />
I mean sometimes it kind of feels like it when it’s just a tad bit too<br />
late <strong>and</strong> I’m wearing a tad bit too tight tank top <strong>and</strong> I see an old guy<br />
looking at me in Wal-Mart<br />
But for a majority of the time I have that one up on the tiny little<br />
creatures<br />
Tiny little creatures can’t punch their brothers<br />
And tiny little creatures can’t sing while almost throwing up in front of<br />
a bunch of rich people, so maybe I’m glad I’m not a tiny little creature<br />
because those are very valuable life moments for me.<br />
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Jasmine Martin<br />
Jasmine martin has had her first experience with barrio writers this<br />
year <strong>and</strong> found a love for writing while in this program she likes to write<br />
poetry <strong>and</strong> short stories <strong>and</strong> loves to read, especially historical fiction <strong>and</strong><br />
mystery. She was born in Colorado, lived in New Mexico <strong>and</strong> then moved<br />
to Texas 2 years ago with her family of 10 (I’m not sure if that’s correct<br />
but I think its 10) she has 2 dogs <strong>and</strong> 5 birds a lizard <strong>and</strong> a frog. She has<br />
a couple hobbies, roller skating, reading, playing sports, baking, <strong>and</strong> now<br />
writing. Her dreams are to go through college <strong>and</strong> become a psychologist<br />
<strong>and</strong> a baker. She hopes to be a successful published author in the future.<br />
She also hopes to attend barrio writers next year to keep pursuing her<br />
dreams.<br />
Finding Something Positive<br />
Finding something good,<br />
In a world full of so much bad<br />
Finding something happy,<br />
In a world that’s turning sad<br />
Finding something colorful,<br />
In a world of black & white<br />
Finding something sweet,<br />
In a world that’s turning bitter<br />
Finding something positive,<br />
In a world full of negative thoughts<br />
Why am I searching for something so difficult to find?<br />
Am I waiting for someone to tell us the good news?<br />
Or am I just scared to come to the light <strong>and</strong> fight the darkness.<br />
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Leo Monsavais<br />
Leo is fifteen years old. He is an experienced sailor. He loves his dogs,<br />
Panzon <strong>and</strong> Guera. Guera is a spoiled princess <strong>and</strong> Panzon is a little<br />
goblin junior. He plays the violin, video games, art, <strong>and</strong> makes music.<br />
For his profession, he wants to do robotics <strong>and</strong> coding.<br />
Falling<br />
Falling, falling, in the air with all despair<br />
Falling, falling, into endless abyss<br />
With all that I miss.<br />
I have fallen into this deep sea that I can’t escape<br />
Falling, falling, all I wish is for all these nightmares to go away.<br />
The pain won’t go away no matter what I do, this pain is like a knife<br />
That cuts endlessly into my heart. Falling, falling, in the air<br />
We will be okay don’t you fear. We may be falling apart but we are art.<br />
Blind Sins<br />
Cool shadows blanked dead cities, falling, electric anthills, where love<br />
was murdered.<br />
Sometimes life is crazy like me, the ashes of loved ones are tethered.<br />
Is life like the sea or is it pulling the ambition to fortune.<br />
Breathe into nothingness, I lie awake on the cutting edge of time,<br />
falling endlessly like a mountain.<br />
We live in a world that someone else imagined.<br />
Sins of lust, sins of death, sins of hunger <strong>and</strong> prosperity of greed.<br />
Humanity is becoming eroded into sins.<br />
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Relationships<br />
Relationships can be friends, loved ones or actual love.<br />
Relationships can be sweet but also unsweet.<br />
Life is a bunch of unfortunate events; they can become madness or be<br />
the cause of where love was murdered.<br />
Eyes seeping into a river of nothingness.<br />
Fake friends are a stain like ink.<br />
Loved ones are a very complicated math equation, but actual love is<br />
like losing a loved one or like learning a new language.<br />
It’s very complicated when you’re older.<br />
Including adults as well.<br />
As a teen my life is complicated,<br />
Drifting pulling loose ends, tugging, on my dreams.<br />
Stitching memories of the good days, presence is a present, when its<br />
where you want to be.<br />
Relationships <strong>and</strong> confidence is a recipe to overcome what has been<br />
lost <strong>and</strong> carry on freely.<br />
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Isadora Pak<br />
Isadora Pak is a first-time barrio writer, she loves animals <strong>and</strong> cute things. Isadora<br />
spends her free time drawing <strong>and</strong> sewing. She was inspired to write a children’s<br />
book, because of her many young siblings<br />
Sparks<br />
This is Sparks.<br />
She’s a little spotted gecko, <strong>and</strong> she sleeps all day. When<br />
she gets fed, she eats crickets.<br />
Sparks lives in a terrarium, she likes her glass home, but<br />
she’s always wanted to run around <strong>and</strong> explore.<br />
So, when all the humans are asleep, she escapes!<br />
She likes jumping from high places, <strong>and</strong> always l<strong>and</strong>s on<br />
her feet.<br />
She l<strong>and</strong>s in a room with tons of cabinets <strong>and</strong> shelves, that<br />
always smells good.<br />
In a room full of delicious scents there are bound to be<br />
roaches, Spark’s favourite food.<br />
She chases it all over the room <strong>and</strong> up the walls until<br />
*chomp*<br />
Sparks ran to find more bugs, but instead found a big<br />
fluffy puppy *sneaky*<br />
Better not wake it up...<br />
Uh Oh (*it wakes up*) Run!<br />
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Sparks ducks under the couch out of reach of the scary<br />
puppy.<br />
She’s safe, but if there’s a rampaging puppy on the loose<br />
what happened to the humans? And why do they only<br />
leave at night?<br />
Sparks searches the house for her owners, she finds a<br />
room full of toys, stuffed animals, little cars <strong>and</strong> trains, <strong>and</strong><br />
lots of plastic dinosaurs.<br />
There’re no humans in here, so she leaves<br />
The next room she finds is all white with a big tub <strong>and</strong> a<br />
sink, it’s also full of bottles <strong>and</strong> fake ducks.<br />
But she doesn’t see any humans in here so she leaves<br />
She slips under the door of another room full of beds. She<br />
climbs up one of them, <strong>and</strong> finds...<br />
Her Owner! Yippie!<br />
She jumps so high that she gets launched right onto the<br />
window.<br />
*yawn* the sun is coming up <strong>and</strong> the little gecko is very<br />
tired from exploring<br />
She slowly crawls back to her home, being careful not to<br />
wake the puppy up again.<br />
And when she gets back it’s good night!<br />
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Aleena Roy<br />
Aleena Roy is a 17-year-old senior who lives in Portl<strong>and</strong>. She hates<br />
horror but writes a lot about terror. With a reignited passion for writing,<br />
she comes to you today with two poetic pieces.<br />
Zombie carnival<br />
Tunnel of love for the undead<br />
Brain chili Frito pie, the usual sacrifice<br />
Rusty merry-go-round with finger flyways<br />
Bumper cars to steal their lover’s eye<br />
The ab<strong>and</strong>oned carnival, a zombie’s perfect date night<br />
Hearts decayed but love is in the air<br />
Touching your carpal gives me butterflies<br />
Let’s have eyeball gushers, green’s my favorite<br />
We get on the Ferris wheel, I’m about to forget your name<br />
Guess I didn’t eat enough brains<br />
I swat the flies around us <strong>and</strong> look into your eye<br />
You lean in <strong>and</strong> I fall through your stomach.<br />
Maybe zombies shouldn’t date<br />
Nadi<br />
Murky drop off<br />
I see eyes in the water<br />
What souls we’ve lost<br />
Another floating body<br />
Life moves on <strong>and</strong> time beats us to it<br />
The race from the monster<br />
I wash my clothes here<br />
I drink water here<br />
People die here<br />
I still live here<br />
107 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Alisha Roy<br />
Alisha Roy is a 14-year-old freshman attending Gregory-Portl<strong>and</strong> high<br />
school, she also likes to hang out with friends <strong>and</strong> likes learning about<br />
history.<br />
Disgust<br />
They said it didn’t matter to them<br />
They always told her to find comfort in them.<br />
They always used her<br />
They always begged for forgiveness<br />
They always promised they’d get better<br />
They always said she deserves better,<br />
They always asked her to never leave for they had no one else<br />
They had an unhealthy attachment to her, struck with delusional<br />
fantasies<br />
They acted like they cared for boundaries<br />
Her heart sank further every time they came back<br />
She hated every “compliment” they gave<br />
She hated that they would only be available at night<br />
She hated how they knew about the glaring issue but said, “it’s not a<br />
big deal.”<br />
“Your just my best friend” they would say.<br />
End of Barrio Writers’ section<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
108
Emily Hargitai<br />
Esther ‘98<br />
Ticonderoga <strong>and</strong> Staples are tied at<br />
first place for best pencils to chew, <strong>and</strong><br />
the kind Anthony Abi-nanti uses that have<br />
the blue metal by the eraser—those come<br />
in second. In third place are the kind my<br />
gr<strong>and</strong>ma orders special every Christmas, the<br />
red ones with my name “Esther” on them<br />
in shiny gold letters. And in last place, way<br />
down at the bottom of the list, are the ones<br />
called Universal Economy. I would rather<br />
chew a windowsill than chew a Universal<br />
Economy pencil. My dog’s name is Oliver,<br />
like the movie about the gruel, <strong>and</strong> that’s<br />
what he put in his first place: Window-sills.<br />
Maybe we’ll chew them together when I’m<br />
home from school.<br />
My school is Tappan Zee Elementary<br />
<strong>and</strong> Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz is my teacher. She<br />
is dressed up as Violet Beauregarde from<br />
Willy Wonka for Halloween—with her red<br />
cap, navy button-up jacket <strong>and</strong> pregnant<br />
belly sticking all the way out like a blueberry.<br />
She has painted her h<strong>and</strong>s <strong>and</strong> her nose<br />
with blue paint. In her mouth is a large<br />
wad of gum so that even her lips, teeth <strong>and</strong><br />
tongue are tinged slightly blue.<br />
While I rank the chewability of pencils<br />
in my writer’s notebook, Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz<br />
takes attendance. She has just written a<br />
reminder on the whiteboard: That at 12<br />
o’clock, after we take our spelling test, we<br />
will leave for our Halloween field trip down<br />
the road to the Old Dutch Church. The<br />
Old Dutch Church is where Ichabod Crane<br />
taught Sunday School before the Headless<br />
Horse-man got him. He is buried there now.<br />
They all are, I think. Even the horse.<br />
“Julio Gonzalez?” says Mrs. Rodrigo-<br />
Díaz<br />
“Aquí.”<br />
“En ingles, por favor.”<br />
“Here.”<br />
Our class has the English people <strong>and</strong><br />
Spanish people all mixed, which means we<br />
get to have two third grade teachers, not<br />
109 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
just one. Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz is the first<br />
teacher, <strong>and</strong> if you don’t dot the “i” in her<br />
name with a slash, she takes points off.<br />
She gives homework on Fridays <strong>and</strong> grades<br />
everything in red pen.<br />
The second teacher is Miss Eloise.<br />
She has giant, shiny black hair <strong>and</strong> five<br />
little Thing One dolls on her desk which<br />
she collected from the cereal boxes, but no<br />
Thing Twos. She says she’ll give a prize, a<br />
peppermint patty, to whoever finds a Thing<br />
Two, because if she keeps eating Cocoa<br />
Crispies herself, she might pop.<br />
“Daniel Fayette?” says Mrs. Rodrigo-<br />
Díaz<br />
“Here,” says Daniel, who is seated to<br />
my left <strong>and</strong> dressed up like a girl, while<br />
Anthony Abinanti is seated on my right<br />
<strong>and</strong> dressed like Elvis. I am dressed like a<br />
famous singer, too—in my grey T-shirt, tan<br />
jacket <strong>and</strong> black dreadlock wig—but the<br />
singer I am dressed as is not as famous of a<br />
singer as Elvis. The singer I am dressed up<br />
as is named Adam Duritz. He is in a b<strong>and</strong><br />
called Counting Crows <strong>and</strong> even though<br />
he is only a little bit famous compared to<br />
Elvis, he is still my favorite <strong>and</strong> my mom’s<br />
favorite. I think it’s a good thing that Adam<br />
Duritz is only a little bit famous because if<br />
he were a lot famous, it would make him too<br />
sad. I know this because of the song called<br />
“Mr. Jones.” Because of the way he sings:<br />
When everybody loves me, I will never be<br />
lonely. He repeats the words I will never be<br />
lonely three more times <strong>and</strong> the more they<br />
get repeated the slower the music gets, <strong>and</strong><br />
the slower the music gets the lonelier the<br />
words become.<br />
As for Anthony Abinanti, he is drawing<br />
a diagram on his desk of what he saw his<br />
hamsters doing before they had Peanut,<br />
our new class pet. The diagram has labels<br />
like “whiskers” <strong>and</strong> “scent gl<strong>and</strong>’. I make<br />
a diagram in my notebook of Anthony<br />
Abinanti making a diagram. I label the<br />
parts of his Elvis costume: “Hair gel”, “white<br />
jacket”, “red tassels”. I label the diagram:<br />
“Diagram”. And I add the caption: Anthony<br />
Abinanti knows everything there is to know<br />
about hamsters, covering my notebook from<br />
him with my arm.<br />
“Esther Menyhert?” says Mrs. Rodrigo-<br />
Díaz<br />
“Hamsters. I mean—”
I drop my pencil <strong>and</strong> cover my mouth<br />
with my palms. My earlobes burn. There’s a<br />
split-second of terrible silence in which I try<br />
to explain I meant “here”, I meant “here”, I<br />
meant “here”, but before I can get the words<br />
out, the volume turns up <strong>and</strong> the laughter<br />
begins. My classmates, my teachers all<br />
laughing. Miss Eloise, too.<br />
Somewhere inside me, I know their<br />
laughter is the friendly kind. I know they’re<br />
laughing at me the same way I laugh at<br />
Oliver when he does something cute <strong>and</strong><br />
a little dumb, like walk into a screen. But<br />
ever since third grade began, I’ve had a hard<br />
time figuring out what the difference is—if<br />
there is a difference, if the difference even<br />
matters—between cute <strong>and</strong> dumb, mean<br />
<strong>and</strong> nice, laughter <strong>and</strong> laughter <strong>and</strong> laughter.<br />
All I know is that lately I feel people laughing<br />
at me all the time. I feel them on the inside,<br />
even after the real laughing stops.<br />
Chewing my pencils is the third worst<br />
habit I have. I chew them almost as badly<br />
as my little brother Theo chews his fingers.<br />
Not his fingernails, but his actual fingers—<br />
mainly the cuticle region—the place where<br />
the nail connects to the skin. Theo chews<br />
his cuticle regions so badly his fingers look<br />
grated like cheese. I help him put B<strong>and</strong>-aids<br />
on them when they bleed <strong>and</strong> they bleed all<br />
the time.<br />
My mom started painting his<br />
fingertips with a special clear nail polish<br />
that’s supposed to taste like rotten eggs.<br />
She does this each morning outside on the<br />
deck so the polish won’t stink up the house<br />
<strong>and</strong> every night she coats my pencils with<br />
same horrible stuff. But I don’t think the<br />
polish tastes rotten enough because I still<br />
chew my pencils as bad as before <strong>and</strong> the<br />
other first graders still won’t hold Theo’s<br />
h<strong>and</strong> in the line.<br />
Before I begin the spelling test, I open<br />
my manila folder <strong>and</strong> make it st<strong>and</strong> up in<br />
an L-shape on the right side of my desk.<br />
This is not a regular manila folder, this<br />
is a privacy folder, which is also called an<br />
anti-cheating device. Every person in the<br />
class has their own anti-cheating device. I<br />
invented the name “anti-cheating device”<br />
but I did not invent the device itself. The<br />
first anti-cheating device was invented by<br />
Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz back when she first quit<br />
her job as a lawyer to teach the third grade.<br />
The devices make me think of the cubicles<br />
in mom’s old office before she was laid off.<br />
This week, the words we study all have<br />
the long “a” sound. Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz<br />
reads them off one by one <strong>and</strong> we write<br />
them down on the blank lines next to the<br />
numbers. The words start off easy—Bake.<br />
Cake. Gate. Place. Angel—but they get<br />
harder <strong>and</strong> harder the farther she gets<br />
down the list. Placate. Tornado. Abomination.<br />
Alligator. Verbatim.<br />
But this part of the test, the spelling<br />
part, is not the hard part for me. Neither is<br />
it hard for me to make sentences using the<br />
long “a” words: The mean boss confiscated my<br />
mom’s job. The angel baked a cake to placate<br />
the alligator. Sometimes my brain is a tornado<br />
of abominations. I know each song in the<br />
Counting Crows CD verbatim. The sentences<br />
come easily like that. The hard part comes<br />
after I finish the test, when I have to share<br />
my answers with Anthony Abinanti so that<br />
he can get a good grade, too.<br />
Anthony says I must share everything<br />
with him—my fruit snacks, my pencils, my<br />
answers, even my own brain. Otherwise, he<br />
says, he will fire me from being his friend.<br />
Otherwise, he says, he will tell Mrs. Rodrigo-<br />
Díaz about the picture, the bad one that<br />
lives inside the chest in my basement, the<br />
one that he <strong>and</strong> I discovered by accident<br />
the time he came to my house. And if he<br />
tells Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz about the picture,<br />
he says, then she will tell her old lawyer<br />
friends <strong>and</strong> my dad will be taken away, just<br />
like his mom was taken away when he was<br />
in kindergarten. My basement contained a<br />
mistake that we found on a playdate.<br />
What Anthony doesn’t know is that<br />
my dad has depression disease. He caught<br />
it because of my gr<strong>and</strong>ma in Hungary,<br />
my nagymama, who is old <strong>and</strong> has a<br />
remembering disease, so she does not<br />
believe any more that my dad is her son. He<br />
is in Hungary right now visiting her as we<br />
speak. But he’s coming home soon, I explain<br />
in my head, to Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz’ lawyer<br />
friends, who are also in my head, when they<br />
come to break down the front door of my<br />
house in my head. Do not take him away, I<br />
tell them in my head. My habits get worse<br />
when my dad is away in my head.<br />
Those of us who finish the spelling test<br />
early are allowed to spend the remaining<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
110
time deco-rating our manila folders. I am<br />
almost always in first place for fastest<br />
spelling test finisher, which gives me plenty<br />
of time to write down all the spelling words<br />
I can remember with a crayon on my manila<br />
folder. I write using big letters so that<br />
Anthony Abinanti, who is seated in the desk<br />
to my right, can copy them down verbatim.<br />
I can only share my brain with him for the<br />
words. To make the sentences, he has to<br />
use his own brain. As soon as he is finished<br />
copying, I color over the words on my folder<br />
with big, angry strokes of my favorite<br />
colors which are also Adam Duritz’ favorite<br />
colors—blue, red, black <strong>and</strong> gray—to make<br />
them disappear before anyone can see.<br />
The bus monitor who takes us to the<br />
Old Dutch Church for our field trip has<br />
two thumbs on her right h<strong>and</strong> instead of<br />
just one. It’s not a part of her costume for<br />
Halloween. It’s been like that since she was<br />
born. Anthony Abinanti had been telling<br />
me about it since the first day of school.<br />
I didn’t believe him at first, but there’s no<br />
denying it now that her h<strong>and</strong> is right in<br />
front of me, pressed against the back of the<br />
seat for balance. I can see everything—all<br />
her bracelets <strong>and</strong> both of her thumbs. I<br />
don’t look at Anthony, who is next to me<br />
in the window seat, because I can’t. I’m too<br />
embarrassed about his rightness. But I can<br />
still feel him staring at me staring at her<br />
thumbs.<br />
The bus monitor’s name is Gloria <strong>and</strong><br />
she is the nicest one there is. She knows<br />
the best stations with all the best songs,<br />
like the song “Gasolina” which always gets<br />
stuck in my head. I feel rude staring at her<br />
thumbs <strong>and</strong> a little bit sick, so I look away.<br />
I pretend to myself I’m just staring at her<br />
bracelets, which I half-am. The first bracelet<br />
is made of wood beads <strong>and</strong> each bead has<br />
a tiny portrait on it. One of the portrait’s<br />
is of Jesus <strong>and</strong> the rest, I think, are of his<br />
friends. The second bracelet is gold <strong>and</strong><br />
has her name, Gloria, in the middle in shiny<br />
cursive. All her fingernails are long <strong>and</strong><br />
painted with little designs, except for the<br />
nail on her second thumb which is blank.<br />
The second thumb is smaller <strong>and</strong> pinker<br />
than the first, attached to first thumb with<br />
skin. The second thumb looks like it lives in<br />
the first thumb’s pocket.<br />
I am too invested in Gloria’s thumbs to<br />
realize I am pulling my eyelashes out again<br />
This is the second worst habit I have. It is a<br />
disease with a really long name that begins<br />
with a “T.” Dr. Choi wrote the name of it down<br />
on a piece of paper for me <strong>and</strong> my mom. The<br />
disease makes people pull their own hair<br />
out all the time. It makes them have to wear<br />
b<strong>and</strong>annas to school so they don’t get made<br />
fun of by Kiera Williams for having a bald<br />
spot. It also makes them pull out the lashes<br />
that keep germs away, so their eyes always<br />
sting <strong>and</strong> turn pink even when they’re not<br />
crying.<br />
I do not realize I am pulling again until<br />
I feel a tug on my neck <strong>and</strong> turn around to<br />
see Anthony Abinanti tying the fringe from<br />
the sleeve of his jacket to the chain of my<br />
necklace, which is a Counting Crows necklace<br />
that my mom ordered me for my birthday last<br />
year. It is a silver guitar pick with the words<br />
I want to be someone who believes etched<br />
into it. “What are you doing, Anthony?” I ask<br />
when he ties the knot.<br />
“I’m making a leash. Every time you pull<br />
your eyelashes I’ll tug it.”<br />
“You can’t.”<br />
“Why?”<br />
“Because leashes aren’t allowed on the<br />
bus.”<br />
His sunglasses slide down his nose a<br />
bit, but he nudges them back up with his<br />
shoulder, the shoulder of the arm that isn’t<br />
tied to my necklace. Then with the arm that’s<br />
attached to me, he pulls at the exact same<br />
moment that Gloria the bus monitor turns<br />
around. When she looks at my necklace,<br />
connected by tassel to Anthony’s fist, she<br />
shouts the word “No” so loud that the whole<br />
bus goes silent. She unties me <strong>and</strong> her<br />
fingernails tickle my neck. Her face is so close<br />
to mine while she does it that I can see the<br />
black makeup on her eyelashes. She has the<br />
longest, blackest eyelashes I’ve ever seen.<br />
“Up,” she shouts at Anthony. Anthony<br />
unbuckles his seatbelt <strong>and</strong> st<strong>and</strong>s up. Gloria<br />
looks at him the way you look at somebody<br />
you are trying really hard not to hit. Then she<br />
looks at me. I try looking down at my lap, but<br />
she lifts my chin up with her finger.<br />
“Not ever,” she says, pointing to her<br />
neck, “The neck choking. Not ever. You<br />
underst<strong>and</strong>?”<br />
I nod without looking. I flinch when<br />
111 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
she moves her h<strong>and</strong> toward my neck—the<br />
h<strong>and</strong> with two thumbs—to unfasten my<br />
necklace. “I give to your teacher,” she says.<br />
“Psychiatric Help: 5 Cents” is what<br />
the sign says that Miss Eloise has on her<br />
desk. We are lined up here at the end of the<br />
day to h<strong>and</strong> in our writer’s notebooks <strong>and</strong><br />
get back our graded spelling tests. When I<br />
put my notebook on top of the stack, Miss<br />
Eloise looks at my costume <strong>and</strong> I look at<br />
hers. She has on a blue dress with a white<br />
collar. It reminds me of Wizard of Oz. “Are<br />
you Dorothy?” I ask.<br />
“Nope.” She shakes her head, smiling.<br />
“Lucy from Charlie Brown.” She kicks both<br />
feet out from under the desk so I can she’s<br />
wearing black <strong>and</strong> white Oreo shoes, not<br />
ruby slippers. “And how about you?” she<br />
says. “A pirate?”<br />
“Nope.” I shake my head so the<br />
dreadlocks of my wig dance around. “I’m a<br />
Counting Crow.”<br />
She slides herself back in her spinning<br />
chair, slaps her desk <strong>and</strong> laughs: “Of course,<br />
of course.” But when I ask, “Can I have back<br />
my test?” her smile goes away.<br />
“Esther,” she says softly. “About your<br />
test.” She leans over her desk <strong>and</strong> opens<br />
her mouth to explain, but then she closes<br />
it again. Then she taps my h<strong>and</strong> twice,<br />
mouths the words, Hold on, <strong>and</strong> calls Mrs.<br />
Rodrigo-Díaz over.<br />
Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz turns from the<br />
whiteboard <strong>and</strong> walks toward us. My heart<br />
races. I’ve never done badly on a test before.<br />
I’ve never done badly on anything besides<br />
attendance. I can hear her boot heels<br />
clicking in my stomach. If I did badly, that<br />
means Anthony Abinanti did badly, too.<br />
She bends down to make her face level<br />
with mine. I can see her tongue stained dark<br />
blue, can smell blue raspberry bubblegum<br />
on her breath. Up close, her eyes look more<br />
brown than black, more sad than angry.<br />
“Almuerzo mañana,” she whispers.<br />
“Tomorrow we’ll talk.”<br />
When Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz’ lawyer<br />
friends visit me again in my head, I tell them<br />
more <strong>and</strong> more good things about my dad:<br />
How when my dad is not in Hungary <strong>and</strong><br />
not having depression disease he helps<br />
Theo <strong>and</strong> I both with our habits by letting<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
us chop wood with him in the backyard. He<br />
bought a small axe for us to share, whose<br />
name is Barbie Axe. He shows us the right<br />
way to lift Barbie Axe using lower body<br />
strength, to hold Barbie Axe’s h<strong>and</strong>le while<br />
her blade drops through the air, <strong>and</strong> let our<br />
own weight combined with Barbie Axe’s<br />
weight split the log in half—instead of<br />
pushing the log to split with our backs <strong>and</strong><br />
our arms. That’s how you get hurt, he explains.<br />
But we’ve never gotten hurt chopping wood<br />
with him, or helping him pack the wood into<br />
the wheelbarrow, or rolling the wheelbarrow<br />
through the mud, or piling the wood in the<br />
trestle, or building the fire. We never get hurt<br />
doing any of those things with my dad. We<br />
only get tired <strong>and</strong> hungry <strong>and</strong> sometimes the<br />
next day we feel kind of sore, but the good<br />
kind of sore. The good kind, I explain. Case<br />
dismissed. Please depart from my head.<br />
Since I can’t chop wood during school,<br />
my mom started packing pipe cleaners—<br />
the sparkly ones—in my backpack every<br />
morning. That way, when I have the urge to<br />
pull, I can pick at the tiny little pipe cleaner<br />
fibers instead of my hair. We tried silly<br />
putty, stress balls, origami, herbal tea, even<br />
medication from the doctor that my dad<br />
doesn’t know I see. Finally we tried pipe<br />
cleaners—two different kinds. We found<br />
that the colorful, fluffy fibers on regular pipe<br />
cleaners are too soft <strong>and</strong> slippery to really<br />
pull out <strong>and</strong> therefore they don’t work. On<br />
the other h<strong>and</strong>, sparkly pipe cleaners have<br />
fibers that feel stiff <strong>and</strong> detach from the wire<br />
the same way my eyelashes detach from my<br />
lids: Easily with a “pop.” Easily with a “pop.”<br />
Easily with a “pop.” This is why my mom buys<br />
them, because they feel almost the same.<br />
After school, I right click the picture of<br />
Frank Zimmer—my mom’s boss from before<br />
she got laid off—<strong>and</strong> hit copy. Then I exit<br />
LinkedIn, open up Microsoft Word, right<br />
click <strong>and</strong> hit paste. I drag the top right corner<br />
of the picture as far as it goes, until Frank<br />
Zimmer’s face is wide as the entire screen.<br />
Then I drag the top of picture down <strong>and</strong> the<br />
bottom of the picture up in order to squish<br />
Frank Zimmer. Once Frank Zimmer is nice<br />
<strong>and</strong> squished, I right click the picture again,<br />
but this time I click “set as”, <strong>and</strong> then on the<br />
menu that pops up, I hit “wallpaper”. Then I<br />
leave the room until my mom comes back to<br />
her desk with her coffee. I wait outside the<br />
door for the sound of her laugh.<br />
112
Once she’s done laughing <strong>and</strong> the house<br />
becomes quiet, I quietly close her door <strong>and</strong><br />
proceed down the hall. In right-h<strong>and</strong> corner<br />
of my basement, between the washing<br />
machine <strong>and</strong> the foosball table, there’s a<br />
shiny, wooden bench. My gr<strong>and</strong>father from<br />
Hungary built it a long time ago when he<br />
came to our house. The flowery pattern<br />
on the part where you lean up against—he<br />
carved that himself with a special knife. He<br />
built it so that when you lift up the seat, you<br />
find it is not just a bench you can sit on: It’s<br />
also a chest. It’s a place you can hide secret<br />
things beneath more secret things.<br />
I open the chest <strong>and</strong> carefully begin<br />
digging through the photographs inside it.<br />
There’s one of my mom in a white T-shirt<br />
hugging a blanket to her chest while she<br />
sleeps. Her belly is pregnant <strong>and</strong> the room<br />
is full of sun. Beneath that one, there’s a<br />
black-<strong>and</strong>-white one of my dad with the<br />
words “Red Army, ’79” written in pen across<br />
the bottom. In it, he’s lying in a cot with his<br />
arms crossed behind his head. He looks<br />
tired <strong>and</strong> sweaty but also a little bit famous.<br />
After that, there’s one of Theo <strong>and</strong> me riding<br />
our tricycles through some puddles after a<br />
storm. The Tappan Zee Bridge is behind us<br />
<strong>and</strong> lit up white.<br />
At the very bottom of the my<br />
gr<strong>and</strong>father’s chest is where I find “Esther<br />
’98”. I need it in order to do the worst habit<br />
I have. It’s the size of a post-it note. It’s little<br />
bit dusty from living inside of that chest.<br />
And the worst thing I do is I pull it out, hold<br />
it <strong>and</strong> look.<br />
“Why is my face like that, mom?” is what<br />
I asked mom when I first found the picture<br />
inside of the bench that my gr<strong>and</strong>father<br />
built that is also a chest. After we came<br />
home from dropping off Anthony Abinanti<br />
was when I asked mom. I was yelling but<br />
soon I stopped yelling <strong>and</strong> the glue on my<br />
fingers made it so little strings came across<br />
that were sticky <strong>and</strong> white like a web. I was<br />
looking at mom through the web, with her<br />
face in my trap. My mom said the truth<br />
which was my face was hit by my mistake<br />
by my dad. “Dad got mad <strong>and</strong> confused,” is<br />
what mom said. That is why he got ice <strong>and</strong><br />
then took a picture to fit in his wallet. The<br />
ice was so my lip would not swell <strong>and</strong> the<br />
picture was taken so he could not get mad<br />
<strong>and</strong> confused anymore.<br />
The thing with my mom is that she<br />
has green eyes that look like they glow in<br />
the dark if you turn off the light. I love this<br />
about mom <strong>and</strong> also that she never lies.<br />
The next day at school for lunch, while<br />
the rest of the class eats in the cafeteria,<br />
I walk with Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz <strong>and</strong> Miss<br />
Eloise to Hollywood Pizza. Hollywood Pizza<br />
is right across the street from my school<br />
<strong>and</strong> they make the best Ziti slices in Sleepy<br />
Hollow. It’s where Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz <strong>and</strong><br />
Miss Eloise take us for lunch at the end of<br />
the month if we do all our homework. It has<br />
a pool table <strong>and</strong> lemon sorbet that comes<br />
in a lemon.<br />
But today’s not the end of the month,<br />
it’s November 1st, <strong>and</strong> as soon as we sit<br />
down—me on the one side, both teachers<br />
on the other—I can tell this isn’t a party. It’s<br />
a meeting.<br />
“Esther,” says Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz, “Do<br />
you know why Miss Eloise <strong>and</strong> I brought<br />
you here today?”<br />
I wiggle a ziti with my fork <strong>and</strong> shake<br />
my head.<br />
“You have absolutely no idea,” she says.<br />
“You have no idea at all whatsoever.”<br />
I give up on the fork, lift the slice to my<br />
mouth, <strong>and</strong> take a bite. “I’m—”<br />
“Swallow your pizza first, Esther.”<br />
I swallow. “I’m sorry.”<br />
Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz blots her pepperoni<br />
with a napkin. “If you don’t know,” she says,<br />
“then how can you be sorry?”<br />
“I don’t know.”<br />
She throws her h<strong>and</strong>s in the air <strong>and</strong><br />
shakes her head in Miss Eloise’s direction.<br />
“I think I did bad on the spelling test,” I<br />
say, starting to cry. “I thought I did well but<br />
I guess I did bad.”<br />
“Poorly,” says Mrs. Rodrigo-Díaz. “You<br />
did poorly.”<br />
“I did?”<br />
“No,” she says. “The correct way to say<br />
it is ‘I did poorly.’ Not, ‘I did bad.’ That’s what<br />
I meant. You scored very well on the test.”<br />
I am too confused to be relieved by this<br />
news. I look at Miss Eloise for guidance but<br />
she is busy with her pizza. When she tries<br />
to bite it, a long, blown-out curtain of dark<br />
hair falls in the way of her mouth. When<br />
113 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
she tucks some behind her ear, it bounces<br />
back out. “Good grief,” she whispers, <strong>and</strong><br />
ties it up over her head. I asked her once<br />
if she even needed a pillow to sleep since<br />
her hair was so big. She said yes, <strong>and</strong> that<br />
her pillowcase had Snoopy on it, like mine.<br />
“We saw you sharing your answers<br />
with Anthony Abinanti,” says Mrs.<br />
Rodrigo-Díaz. “We saw you pushing your<br />
manila folder close to his desk so he could<br />
see all your answers <strong>and</strong> copy them down<br />
as his own. There’s a word for this, Esther.<br />
One word. Do you know what it is?”<br />
My eyes <strong>and</strong> throat swell up with<br />
shame. “It’s cheating,” I manage to say.<br />
“Yes,” she says. “Even if you’re the one<br />
sharing the answers, it’s cheating. It’s an<br />
automatic zero.”<br />
I cry for a very long time. She h<strong>and</strong>s<br />
me a napkin to wipe off my eyes. Then<br />
she h<strong>and</strong>s me my test. I’m scared to look,<br />
so I flip it over <strong>and</strong> focus on finishing my<br />
slice of pizza instead, chewing every bite<br />
for as long as I can. It’s not until the slice<br />
is completely gone that I flip my test back<br />
over <strong>and</strong> make myself look.<br />
The first thing I see on the top of the<br />
page is a glittery, star-shaped sticker. The<br />
next thing I see is the grade: 100%. Mrs.<br />
Rodrigo-Díaz didn’t take off a single point.<br />
“There is time for la justicia <strong>and</strong> a time<br />
for la gracia,” she says. “I have given you<br />
grace today. Do you underst<strong>and</strong>?”<br />
I look at her, then at my test. I look at<br />
Miss Eloise, then at my test. I start crying<br />
again, saying, “Yes, yes, yes, I underst<strong>and</strong>.”<br />
My mom picks up Theo <strong>and</strong> me early<br />
from Tappan Zee Elementary in the red<br />
Subaru. We drive to JFK Airport to pick<br />
up my dad—Theo <strong>and</strong> me in the backseat<br />
with Oliver in between us. Oliver lies so<br />
that I get his head <strong>and</strong> Theo gets his butt.<br />
The drive is so long that the CD plays<br />
twice. The CD is my mom’s favorite one by<br />
the b<strong>and</strong> Counting Crows. It’s my favorite,<br />
too, especially the first song, which is<br />
the one that goes: On certain Sundays in<br />
November when the weather bothers me, I<br />
empty drawers from other summers where<br />
my shadows used to be. I like it when songs<br />
say the name of the month you are in<br />
while you’re listening to them. I like when<br />
the songs say the name of the place you’re<br />
in, too.<br />
“Remember when they played this<br />
song at Jones Beach?” I ask mom.<br />
“Of course,” she says. “Remember<br />
what happened when he sang the part<br />
about Long Isl<strong>and</strong>?”<br />
“Yes,” I smile remembering. “Everyone<br />
clapped.”<br />
While we sit in the traffic, I unzip<br />
my backpack <strong>and</strong> take out my writer’s<br />
notebook, which Miss Eloise h<strong>and</strong>ed back<br />
in the afternoon, full of her comments.<br />
Miss Eloise swears she’s the only person<br />
who reads them in the world. The reason I<br />
write the things I write is because I believe<br />
her. The reason I told her about Esther ‘98<br />
is because I believe her. Dear Miss Eloise, I<br />
had written that morning. One time there<br />
was a picture of a face that was hurt. The<br />
face in the picture was my own face that<br />
was hurt. I tried to stop looking but could not<br />
stop looking. I tore up the picture in millions<br />
of pieces to stop it. I did this because of the<br />
words of the Counting Crows’ song “The price<br />
of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it<br />
brings.” These are my favorite words of my<br />
whole life.<br />
When I had run out of my own things<br />
to say about the picture, I just kept writing<br />
that one line a million times over, because<br />
as soon as I wrote it once I just couldn’t<br />
stop. The price of a memory is the memory of<br />
the sorrow it brings...The price of the memory<br />
is the memory of the sorrow it brings...The<br />
price of a memory...I wrote until the page<br />
was filled up. And Mrs. Eloise wrote back<br />
in pen, That’s my favorite part, too.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
114
John C. Mannone<br />
una lección<br />
Los niños juegan en la zona de juegos, inocentes<br />
del color de la cara o la tez<br />
de las diferencias culturales, pero son culpables<br />
de amor como lo demuestra el sonido de su risa.<br />
El muchachito se desliza hacia abajo un tubo rojo<br />
hecho del plástico,<br />
él choca contra su amiga que está de pie a la apertura.<br />
Ella cae a la tierra, su cabello rubio azot<strong>and</strong>o, separándo<br />
en todo su cara pecosa con sonrisas rapsódica.<br />
La ayuda, y mientras ella cepilla la suciedad<br />
desde su jeans de color esligero, él la besa suavemente<br />
en la mejilla (así como él había visto a su padre besar<br />
su esposa tantas veces antes).<br />
En la misma manera, ella—cara con hoyuelos—le besa.<br />
Se ríen una risa tonta.<br />
Las madres vigilantes corren a sus niños<br />
llam<strong>and</strong>o sus nombres virtualmente al unísono:<br />
“Katie! Ven aquí, ahora mismo.”<br />
“¡Juanito, sin vergüenza!”<br />
La mexicana se enfrenta a la madre americana, dice<br />
en su acento tímido y grueso, “Lo siento.”<br />
Pero la otra miró con desdén.<br />
Los niños no ven<br />
la hostilidad, ni siquiera lo entenderían<br />
... todavía.<br />
Mateo: 18: 2-3: Y llam<strong>and</strong>o Jesús á un niño, le puso en medio de<br />
ellos, Y dijo: De cierto os digo, que si no os volviereis, y fuereis como<br />
niños, no entraréis en el reino de los cielos. (La Biblia Reina-Valera)<br />
115 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
John C. Mannone<br />
A Lesson<br />
Children play in the park, innocent<br />
of skin color or complexion<br />
of cultural differences, but guilty<br />
of love as evidenced by the sound of their laughter.<br />
A little boy slides down a red tube made of plastic,<br />
bumps into his playmate st<strong>and</strong>ing at the opening.<br />
She tumbles to the ground, her blonde hair flailing,<br />
splaying all over her freckled face rhapsodic with smiles.<br />
He helps her up, <strong>and</strong> as she brushes off the dirt<br />
from her lightly color jeans, he kisses her softly<br />
on the cheek (just as he had seen his father kiss<br />
his wife so many times before).<br />
She kisses him back, dimpled-face. They giggle.<br />
The vigilant mothers rush to their children<br />
calling out their names virtually in unison:<br />
“Katie! Come here, right now.”<br />
“Juanito, sin vergüenza!” (have you no shame?)<br />
The Mexicana turns to the American mother, utters<br />
in her sheepish, thick accent, “I’m sorry.”<br />
But the other mother only glares.<br />
The children do not see<br />
hostility, they would not even underst<strong>and</strong> it<br />
… yet.<br />
Jesus called a little child to st<strong>and</strong> among them. “Truly I tell you,” He<br />
said, “unless you change <strong>and</strong> become like little children, you will never<br />
enter the kingdom of heaven.”<br />
—Matthew 18:2,3 (Berean Study Bible)<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
116
John C. Mannone<br />
Tinted Glasses<br />
December 7, <strong>20</strong>21. For Emmett<br />
Sometimes we must remove our eyeglasses to see<br />
that the purple- or rose-tinted world is colored<br />
with the a different kind of sadness, a wrong hope.<br />
Today is a day of remembrance. We think<br />
of Pearl Harbor <strong>and</strong> of bombs dropped<br />
on our ships anchored in O’ahu. Incindiary<br />
attitudes ignited by arrogance, incompetance<br />
<strong>and</strong> racial stereotyping all precursors.<br />
But on August 28, 1955, there were no military<br />
to blame, no sudden arrival of mass destruction<br />
weapons, but there was death, one of thous<strong>and</strong>s<br />
in the deep South after the Civil War. Smoke<br />
from burning crosses <strong>and</strong> Black men’s ashes,<br />
<strong>and</strong> the ungentle wind that pendulumed<br />
the bodies in hate-filled lynchings. Even boys.<br />
Emmett Louis Till, 1941-born, was abducted<br />
from his family’s safe haven, beaten, mutilated,<br />
<strong>and</strong> shot in the head as a final insult before<br />
the body was discarded into the dirty Mississippi<br />
waters of the Tallahatchie River. He was 14<br />
accused of whistling at a 21-year-old white<br />
woman in a grocery store. Nothing new<br />
was found about his torture <strong>and</strong> murder<br />
though the killers confessed years later.<br />
They could not be retried, being protected<br />
against double jeopardy <strong>and</strong> a different kind<br />
of blindness—Janus too drunk to hold up<br />
the once silver, now tarnished scales of justice.<br />
Today, they closed the Emmett Till case.<br />
Nothing’s pure black, except the color<br />
of some men’s hearts. Nothing’s pure<br />
white, except the absence of hatred.<br />
Sometimes we should simply remove<br />
our eyeglasses<br />
to see.<br />
117 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Ariana Esquivel<br />
Diversity in Two Cents<br />
Mexican or American<br />
Which one may I proudly identify as<br />
Do I flip to chose my pride<br />
is one more dull than the other<br />
Was one pressed into me before the other<br />
Was one worth more than the other<br />
Yet both have made me who I am<br />
Mexican? But I don’t speak the language<br />
Ancestors say I’ve fallen into the westernized ways.<br />
Ancestors say I don’t truly underst<strong>and</strong> what effort it took to cross to America.<br />
Ancestors say I never truly will underst<strong>and</strong> the struggles of being poor<br />
Can I still be Mexican <strong>and</strong> be proud of that identity?<br />
American? But my body had more melanin than most.<br />
They say I brought taco Tuesday but then they say we’re aliens.<br />
They say I brought workers but don’t want to recognize them as citizens.<br />
They say I brought great parties but I don’t appreciate all aspects of our culture.<br />
They say I brought beautiful dances but don’t want to learn my language.<br />
They say I have an easy language but avoid coming into contact with someone who<br />
speaks it.<br />
Can I still identify as American <strong>and</strong> be proud?<br />
I want to be American <strong>and</strong> speak My Language<br />
I also want to be Mexican <strong>and</strong> be seen as equal<br />
Am I allowed to bring parts of me<br />
BUT<br />
still have the American dream<br />
Can I have unlocked gates to both<br />
Which one do I choose to keep<br />
which one do I let slowly lose it’s hold<br />
amoug my heart.<br />
Mexican or American which do I be proud of??<br />
Robb Jackson Highschool Poetry 1st Place (<strong>20</strong>22)<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
118
Corita Fern<strong>and</strong>o<br />
Mourning Loss<br />
“I miss you on some days more than others<br />
I envision your strong comforting hugs, <strong>and</strong> I manage to make this day<br />
about my loss of you...”<br />
My mother is in denial<br />
I too am in denial as we pull up through the all too familiar driveway (as<br />
familiar as one could get through brief annual visits)<br />
I see you st<strong>and</strong>ing in your long batik house coat<br />
With your h<strong>and</strong>s on your hips<br />
Watching us drive in<br />
Full of disapproval <strong>and</strong> chiding<br />
But as we pull closer you fade away <strong>and</strong> transform into your next-door<br />
neighbor.<br />
A white-haired woman who has established herself as the MC of all<br />
mourning proceedings,<br />
She flits from one mourner to another, fabricating stories of a kinder you.<br />
I walk in feeling unwanted <strong>and</strong> sit on a cracked sofa <strong>and</strong><br />
I try<br />
to limit<br />
my breaths<br />
afraid<br />
I’d smell death—<br />
Perhaps,<br />
more afraid I’d smell the vain attempts at preserving life.<br />
A bucket, rubber gloves <strong>and</strong> a man disappear behind the closed door.<br />
I watch my mother <strong>and</strong> her brother deeply in debate over which saree you<br />
should wear;<br />
They’re disappointed with the long-sleeved jacket... it should’ve been short<br />
<strong>and</strong> puffy.<br />
Once again, I think of him<br />
My own loss—a loss too insignificant to mourn in ceremony.<br />
What if he knew? Would he hug me?<br />
I angrily shrug the hugs he would offer me had he known.<br />
The day clocks by in a daze.<br />
Grieving people come by.<br />
People talk about their lives <strong>and</strong> their achievements—<br />
My mother recites where her children work.<br />
119 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
I st<strong>and</strong> by her feeling like a shabby trophy.<br />
Everybody is surprised that I am much older than I look, “you look too skinny<br />
to be a professor”, they tell me,<br />
And often these conversations end with them entreating me to eat more.<br />
I try to busy myself washing teacups <strong>and</strong> carrying biscuit trays...<br />
but when the monsoon rains made the ground muddy,<br />
I grew bored <strong>and</strong> disgusted <strong>and</strong> withdrew to the chair by the door next to the<br />
sanitizer.<br />
Love in the time of corona.<br />
Death in the time of corona.<br />
I grow exasperated watching people mindlessly trying to pump sanitizer out<br />
of a spray bottle, <strong>and</strong> I attempt to remedy it by spraying it onto the h<strong>and</strong>s of…<br />
guests? Funeral goers? Mourners? I’m not sure what the appropriate term is.<br />
This too would have been incomplete without the drunk uncle. The neighbor.<br />
Insisting on bearing the weight of sorrow.<br />
I wonder how often we’d visit now...<br />
now that you’re gone.<br />
I realize that as long as your gut lays buried in the backyard,<br />
you’re not entirely gone.<br />
But I doubt we’d visit your gut.<br />
My father appears more insensitive than ever.<br />
I wonder if that’s his way of grieving...<br />
Or had he too grown numb after all these years of grieving.<br />
He’s afraid of germs <strong>and</strong> I feel angry. He dem<strong>and</strong>s to ride back home<br />
Before the rain<br />
Before the evening prayer service<br />
I ask him to join us from the doorway as I enter <strong>and</strong> st<strong>and</strong> beside you;<br />
violating PHI Something Health Regulations.<br />
My peripheral vision affirms my father’s luminous raincoated presence<br />
looming by the doorway growing anxious by the minute as the hymns draw in<br />
crowds like moths to a lamp.<br />
I also wonder how we’d be,<br />
My brothers <strong>and</strong> I,<br />
When we meet after long years at funerals.<br />
I realize your generation has left... taking with it some others,<br />
Like my uncle,<br />
He had been 23.<br />
Younger than me.<br />
I wonder how today would’ve been had he been there,<br />
I’ve heard wonderful stories about him<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
1<strong>20</strong>
Today I learnt that you weren’t always this way—the way I knew you,<br />
Grumbling <strong>and</strong> bitter about things <strong>and</strong> people.<br />
Something had changed in you the day your son died.<br />
I remember you talking about him.<br />
I feel childish when I wonder, if it would be a reunion for you...<br />
would you meet my uncle, your son?<br />
I know you’d be the happiest if you did.<br />
My mother tells me stories I’ve heard before.<br />
Stories I don’t grow bored hearing on repeat<br />
Her ponderings about her father.<br />
She believes he was a leader of a movement.<br />
And maybe he was in hiding.<br />
After all he had his own family before them...<br />
his first wife who, unable to bear his unfaithfulness, jumped in a well <strong>and</strong> killed<br />
herself.<br />
These are unconfirmed stories,<br />
Perhaps A Loch Ness monster,<br />
nonetheless I am fond of these stories.<br />
Once, at a very young age,<br />
you snipped my mother’s curiosity at the bud,<br />
<strong>and</strong> she grew afraid to venture into the same waters.<br />
So, the truth behind those stories will die with you.<br />
And maybe it’s a figment of my mother’s childhood imagination that grew too<br />
old with her.<br />
I look down at the time on my phone,<br />
Perhaps, for a message,<br />
Sympathy,<br />
For my loss,<br />
And also,<br />
perhaps, for an explanation<br />
for leaving me<br />
So unceremoniously.<br />
121 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Kelly Talbot<br />
Meta Merging<br />
Droplets of now<br />
splash upon my face,<br />
spark in my why,<br />
meaning to be<br />
when there is no existence,<br />
only the humming<br />
possibility<br />
of quantum potential,<br />
dancing in maybes.<br />
In the next moment<br />
the world will change<br />
without being,<br />
neurons <strong>and</strong> synapses<br />
strolling h<strong>and</strong> in h<strong>and</strong><br />
with the void<br />
in the stasis<br />
of becoming<br />
without doing,<br />
without meaning.<br />
If matter has no<br />
substance, we sing<br />
without melody,<br />
in rhythm with chaos,<br />
soundless in our<br />
vibrations,<br />
<strong>and</strong> permeating<br />
in non-reality,<br />
we coalesce<br />
in soul fusion.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
122
Jacob Benavides<br />
Deep in the Heart<br />
Winter reaches for this body<br />
<strong>and</strong> San Antonio equally.<br />
Tracing the Rio Gr<strong>and</strong>e<br />
Texas is a h<strong>and</strong><br />
the outstretched crescendo<br />
bounding through Marfa lights into<br />
the l<strong>and</strong> between you <strong>and</strong> your sweater.<br />
We’re mementos of our time,<br />
Sharing sighs with the cicadas<br />
but morning comes, I breathe alone<br />
pounding my own lungs out of stone<br />
Bruises from a cathedral hurling through the starry sky<br />
A lone star picking through the mouth of a memory<br />
Index to Oklahoma, thumb in the light blue bleed<br />
Wading through ghosts, bones <strong>and</strong> fool’s gold.<br />
I remember you instead of the Alamo. I’m told<br />
it haunts our memories like an umber underpainting,<br />
but I’m a bluebonnet painted into a highway<br />
packed into the jaw of a jackrabbit<br />
hanging from a coyote’s maw,<br />
Extracted from Texas like a rotten tooth<br />
morning dew sealing the socket<br />
in glistening sheaths <strong>and</strong> hues,<br />
Fragrant sage <strong>and</strong> bloom,<br />
Perfume dropped in cups of mud,<br />
Swirling with milky eyes of cowboys<br />
swaying in the moonlight<br />
drunken roses draped in Levi’s<br />
Both l<strong>and</strong>locked <strong>and</strong> forever.<br />
Texas is a phantom,<br />
The fingerprints between you <strong>and</strong> your skin.<br />
Winter reaches for this body<br />
<strong>and</strong> San Antonio<br />
silently.<br />
123 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Jacob Benavides<br />
hereafter<br />
What beckons me past yet another stoplight?<br />
Skimming the road like a vein<br />
strapped to the flesh of some body of mine<br />
amid waves breaking the skin of a frigid lake<br />
Back onto the dingy patio where dead nicotine<br />
dances into homespun gossamer air, taken<br />
by tongues of wind into the bloodlines<br />
of fecund mesquites.<br />
The whisp of your simmered sigh,<br />
The catastrophic heave of your chest<br />
so tell me, Will you still love me tomorrow?<br />
You, the balmy carol for every beat of my heart,<br />
You. Like summer syrup coating every wall<br />
through the windchill like singing cellophane<br />
willing you to love me wholly right now<br />
before we are nothing once again.<br />
In a childhood bedroom sunrise rips through<br />
shredding the morning into ribbons untying<br />
our bodies seeking solace from the other<br />
releasing the albatross of a shivering truth<br />
shattering in the shimmer of a late winter lake<br />
my Lazarus touch <strong>and</strong> the shadow of you.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
124
Jacob Benavides<br />
To The Grounds We Trample,<br />
The Skies We Are<br />
I meet myself on that hill<br />
The hill rolls through you too<br />
That hill l<strong>and</strong>locked<br />
By the coffee shop.<br />
By the Ocean <strong>and</strong> a sea<br />
There was once a grass lit knoll<br />
Now, ravaged by a chemical golf course.<br />
In this industrial myth,<br />
Pollen screams, sinuses seek<br />
Reprieve from bodies we knew<br />
In deadening daffodils, reeking roses<br />
December winds through phantom snow.<br />
We know not ourselves anymore<br />
No.<br />
Red brick <strong>and</strong> rosy asphalt prunes<br />
Stamen, pulling petals<br />
Away-<br />
Yanking apart<br />
Tenuous leaves from fragile stems<br />
The manicured field is greasy,<br />
Its soil cold<br />
Waves of briny seagulls dive into, below<br />
floating amongst memory, frosty florals<br />
Burnt espresso<br />
Grass dried brittle,<br />
Rolling, a constant foil.<br />
In the tumult, running in its shadow<br />
Like a river<br />
The knoll, it dances, it shivers<br />
It remembers every skip, breath<br />
Languid liquor poured from you<br />
That December of perfect vision<br />
Remember the season,<br />
How a forecast<br />
Cut<br />
Us<br />
Down<br />
Gnashing thunder striking like you,<br />
Like me.<br />
pinning us down,<br />
Opening to scribbled out pages<br />
Pen me as a rolling wave on that parchment sea.<br />
What trickles<br />
What bleeds,<br />
Resounds in both you<br />
And in me.<br />
You remember that hill<br />
Two youthful moods<br />
Unspinning, salted <strong>and</strong> bloomed<br />
On open orchards, pockets of ole<strong>and</strong>ers,<br />
sweet syrup down winter’s chin<br />
The soil soured now<br />
In seeping liquid, vascular, vapid<br />
Milk the honeysuckle before it spoils<br />
Strip <strong>and</strong> bleed its woody meat.<br />
Its bursting boils.<br />
Lucidity floods slowly,<br />
(Open the plains)<br />
(Drink them dry)<br />
Bursting towards the silent sun<br />
Stomata upon the knoll,<br />
Each cell, each nucleus lulls-<br />
Breathe in the senses, syphoning us free<br />
We weep <strong>and</strong> wallow in both<br />
Our burgeoning adulthood<br />
Our newly bloomed identity<br />
Haphazard with young blood.<br />
125 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
However, in that gap<br />
Nature that once was<br />
Every oxygen<br />
Every breath<br />
Every tear<br />
Ever wept<br />
Is mine.<br />
In the Oso,<br />
The wind tidal flats<br />
There are no woods<br />
No prey<br />
No predators<br />
To be misunderstood<br />
Undone is our “normalcy”<br />
(Which we’ve never had the pleasure)<br />
for we are the skies<br />
upon the grounds that we trample,<br />
ramming ourselves repeatedly<br />
down, into the whirl<br />
those repeated senses.<br />
Another caffeinated stain<br />
Two smashed hibiscuses<br />
On that hill, smashed into its dirt<br />
Amidst timely slaughter<br />
We found ourselves<br />
Nobody’s sons<br />
Nobody’s daughters<br />
In us, veins, earthquakes.<br />
Wanting,<br />
Anything but to stake a claim<br />
Wanting<br />
To forego making a secret of your name<br />
Wanting<br />
Still, I felt shame<br />
For I was the ground<br />
Before melting into the sky<br />
unwinding like a ribbon<br />
a sound.<br />
That body of grass, the special knoll<br />
Now, a commercial building, a busy street<br />
The only consistency in every storm<br />
Rain spread on our heads, buried in concrete.<br />
The sunset smokes, drowns<br />
In drifting peony intoxication<br />
The Corpus, our Colossus<br />
Lowers into faded emotions,<br />
bespoke in memory<br />
Its drowning not only confined<br />
To calcified motions<br />
To stagnant history.<br />
We are a living sea<br />
Undead with gulls <strong>and</strong> stinging rays<br />
Dulling with this Sparkling City.<br />
Two blue bodies<br />
Fading.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
126
Amairani Llerena<br />
And So Lived Dad<br />
I’m at the point where<br />
I want to bash my head against the wall until my brains are smeared.<br />
I want to rip my limbs off one by one by one.<br />
I want to reach into my chest <strong>and</strong> pulverize my heart in my h<strong>and</strong>s<br />
so as to no longer hear the<br />
abnormally rapid beat.<br />
Anxiety’s become my lover<br />
Stress has become my friend<br />
Loneliness my mistress <strong>and</strong><br />
Depression my husb<strong>and</strong><br />
But you see, I’m a mother<br />
I’m trying my very best<br />
To raise a better human being than all the rest<br />
It starts from day one.<br />
The kind of person they’ll be<br />
And the last thing I want is for him to end up like me<br />
I’m the epitome of broken<br />
battered <strong>and</strong> beat<br />
My heart’s been abused while my love’s left on the street<br />
yet, I had the awful habit of giving it all away<br />
but now that I’m a mother, I can’t afford the same mistakes.<br />
“Guard your heart,” I always preached<br />
while I wore it boldly on my sleeve<br />
<strong>and</strong> expected the rest of the world to respect that about me.<br />
So touching back on motherhood, you have to be more firm.<br />
Show them how to be tough<br />
in a world that’s twisted at each turn.<br />
Yet I’ve never learned how to stop<br />
from loving even when it’s wrong<br />
How to stop from singing when they’re tired of your song<br />
How to not let the gloom wash away any joy<br />
127 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Because the moment you do, you’ll become a toy<br />
to your emotions <strong>and</strong> your thoughts,<br />
they’ll toss you out just anywhere<br />
And you’ll be left with the mess<br />
that was a hopeless dreamer’s cross to bear.<br />
Each day I wake with heavy heart, my soul more dark<br />
the sky won’t part<br />
there is no silver lining<br />
no sun among the clouds<br />
All I see is endless darkness<br />
all I hear are static sounds<br />
Until I look over at the face of innocence <strong>and</strong> remember<br />
what true love is,<br />
remember that sweet bliss.<br />
My frown becoming a smile<br />
My dark becoming day<br />
But that doesn’t mean this joy is forever going to stay<br />
Because<br />
Anxiety’s become my lover<br />
Stress has become my friend<br />
Loneliness my mistress <strong>and</strong><br />
Depression my husb<strong>and</strong><br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
128
Amairani Llerena<br />
Woe Is Me<br />
I wallowed in self pity,<br />
Ate nuts out of a can.<br />
Formulated depressing names<br />
to title my grunge b<strong>and</strong>.<br />
I stopped taking showers<br />
<strong>and</strong> wore Chanel drenched in depression;<br />
I forgot to water the flowers<br />
so they were dead by our next session.<br />
The expression<br />
that they had on their face<br />
was the same one I’d get from those<br />
who’d come visit my place. The disgrace<br />
that they feel as they walk in the door<br />
is the same one I saw in the mirror<br />
hours before.<br />
129 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Tiffany Lindfield<br />
Enough<br />
1968<br />
Peggy opened a book: The Sot-Weed Factor, sliding her finger over a r<strong>and</strong>om line<br />
from the book:<br />
“Man’s lot? He is by mindless lust engendered <strong>and</strong> by mindless wrench<br />
expelled from the Eden of the womb to the motley, mindless world. He is<br />
Chance’s fool, the toy of aimless Nature - a mayfly flitting down the winds of<br />
Chaos!”<br />
She liked the quote, but only partially understood it. She pulled the book to her<br />
face. It smelled old; how many fingers had turned the pages, how many mouths hung in<br />
awe over its words, how many tears had fallen over its pages?<br />
Ink <strong>and</strong> tears.<br />
She marveled over the time the author must’ve worked, pictured him bent over an<br />
old typewriter banging keys, a cigarette in his mouth, a bottle of bourbon on his wood<br />
desk. They all drink, don’t they? Authors, that is.<br />
She went down another aisle. Self-help books. Psychologists—or the-rapist—on<br />
the covers smiling with glasses covering their eyes. Old men. A few women, but the<br />
women were pretty, <strong>and</strong> did not have glasses on. Women had to be pretty for someone<br />
to listen; Peggy knew that.<br />
Another aisle. Books on the human body, the bodies of gazelles, sting rays, <strong>and</strong> a<br />
book about a woman who lived with deer for ten years. Peggy squinted her eyes at the<br />
woman on the cover who wore a real cowgirl hat, <strong>and</strong> boots for rugged terrain.<br />
Some kid ran down the aisle she was on with a frazzled father behind him.<br />
“Sorry, ma’am,” the man wheezed, his hair a jet black.<br />
Peggy wished he would chase her down an aisle, walk her down an aisle, or just<br />
kiss her over wine. She bit her lip, pushing her pelvis against one of the books poking off<br />
the shelf. She was that desperate. No one she wanted had wanted her. She was an old<br />
maid, thirty a week ago, unmarried, <strong>and</strong> no bastard children to chase in libraries. A virgin<br />
against her will.<br />
She walked down another aisle to get a better look at the man. He was walking<br />
away with the little boy in his arms. Embarrassed probably. She could walk fast, catch up<br />
to him <strong>and</strong> pretend to trip. Would he help her up?<br />
She didn’t try. It felt pathetic, <strong>and</strong> she figured it wouldn’t work. Maybe if she had<br />
smaller hips, <strong>and</strong> a curtsy in her smile, but neither. Besides, he was probably an idiot, she<br />
told herself. Otherwise, he could control a toddler.<br />
She went down another aisle. Cassette tapes. She marveled over them. They were<br />
all secure in shiny new cases. She picked one up.<br />
‘You are Enough.’<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
130
She said the words, whispered them, <strong>and</strong> they stuck in her throat like honey. She<br />
said them again.<br />
‘You are Enough.’<br />
She cradled the tape like an infant to the counter. At home, she fed her mom<br />
dinner, tucked her into bed, all the time, wanting to hear the words on the tape; the<br />
mystery luring her. She pulled a new cassette player from the entertainment center <strong>and</strong><br />
dusted it off. It had never been used.<br />
“Honey, I need a glass of water,” her mother feebly called.<br />
Peggy sighed but went to her mother’s side with a smile. “Yes, Mama.”<br />
She pulled a clean glass from the cupboard <strong>and</strong> filled it with water, <strong>and</strong> three icecubes<br />
just as her mother preferred. H<strong>and</strong>ing it to her mother, “now sleep, Mama.”<br />
Peggy went quietly with the cassette player in one h<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> the tape in her pocket<br />
into the yard. Her mother—before losing a lung—used to garden but now the yard was<br />
all growed up, but under a harvest moon, moonflowers elegantly bloomed. Their white<br />
faces were enchanting. Peggy put the tape inside, pressing play, dust on the button.<br />
‘You are the captain of YOUR ship! Take the wheel! Do not let anyone get in<br />
the way! You are Awesome! You are enough! No,’ the man on the tape screamed,<br />
‘YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH. You are the best!’<br />
Peggy repeated the words: I am MORE than enough. I am the Best!<br />
She listened to both sides, soaking in the words like a sponge. She went to st<strong>and</strong><br />
after sitting for two hours, finding her body stiff. She kicked one leg out, then the other<br />
to wake them up. She then rubbed the sore spot in her back with a fisted h<strong>and</strong>.<br />
She put the player up, then her body in bed. She couldn’t sleep though. Her<br />
mind was spinning. She was ready to do what the tape said. Cut sugar from your diet.<br />
Exercise every day, st<strong>and</strong> in the mirror, <strong>and</strong> tell yourself how great you are! She<br />
sat up, nearly jumping out of bed, then jogged into the kitchen <strong>and</strong> wrote out her goal<br />
plan—just as the tape had suggested.<br />
1) Get married. Have a child--5 years (guy from library?)<br />
2) Have family home--5 years<br />
3) Lose weight--1 month to 1 year<br />
4) Get a job (someone else will have to care for Mama)--1 month to 6 months<br />
****<br />
Peggy had only slept a few hours but had more bounce in her step than before. She<br />
returned tape one, picked up tape two, <strong>and</strong> used money she took from her mother’s bag<br />
to buy a smaller cassette player with headphones, <strong>and</strong> her first pack of cigarettes; ones<br />
she bought for energy. She sat outside the pharmacy. Smoked one cigarette, <strong>and</strong> then<br />
another, picking up the habit easily. She soaked up the warm air as the man on the tape<br />
rattled in her ear:<br />
You must love yourself! No one can love you better than yourself!’<br />
131 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
She then tilted her eyes to the sun. The tape had said this would increase her levels<br />
of serotonin. She imagined her brain manufacturing the little neurotransmitter, making<br />
them a dime a dozen. A smile formed on her lips. She ran back inside the pharmacy <strong>and</strong><br />
bought a tube of red lipstick. She applied it to pale, trembling lips.<br />
Then she arrived at her mother’s house, she spotted her sister’s car in the driveway.<br />
Her sister ran out of the house, “Peggy, where have you been? Mama nearly died<br />
getting out of bed trying to get food <strong>and</strong> water.”<br />
Peggy forced a smile. “I had to run some err<strong>and</strong>s. I told her when I was coming back,<br />
<strong>and</strong> she was fed <strong>and</strong> all before I left.”<br />
Her sister shook her head. “Peggy, you promised us you’d care for her. You got free<br />
room <strong>and</strong> board, <strong>and</strong> Rich <strong>and</strong> I paid for your caregiving certificate, <strong>and</strong>—”<br />
“—I am taking care of her. I just had a few things to do.”<br />
“It’s almost one-o’clock though. She said you left early this morning!”<br />
Peggy sighed, walking in the door. Her nephew <strong>and</strong> niece were bouncing around on<br />
the furniture. Her mother was in the bedroom, consoled by her brother-in-law, who halfheartedly<br />
patted the old woman’s back. He looked to the ground as Peggy walked in the<br />
room, <strong>and</strong> then he ducked out. Peggy envied his ability to slide like water over the family<br />
terrain.<br />
Peggy’s sister was behind her, then at the old woman’s side. “Mama, Peggy’s here<br />
now <strong>and</strong> she won’t do this again. Will you?”<br />
Peggy nodded, remembering the man on the tape who warned against people<br />
expecting too much. He called them time wasters. Peggy looked at her sister <strong>and</strong> mother<br />
in this new light.<br />
When they left, her mother sat in the bed, <strong>and</strong> in between puffs of oxygen, whined.<br />
She had always been a sensitive woman who cried a lot. Before ,Peggy would console her,<br />
but now that she resented her as an obstacle, as a time waster, she refused.<br />
Peggy looked at her mother apathetically, “Stop bubbling like a child! I’ll bring dinner<br />
when it’s done!”<br />
She then put the headphones over her ears. She turned the volume so high; she<br />
could hear the man screaming in her ear:<br />
‘Stop taking care of everyone BUT yourself! Learn to say NO!’!<br />
She could see her mother from the peripheral of her eye dragging her walker <strong>and</strong><br />
cord to the front room. Peggy ignored her, pulling a casserole from the oven. She smiled at<br />
her mother with a cigarette in her mouth.<br />
She then saw the old woman crawl back to her room, defeated, the cord dragging<br />
behind her.<br />
Peggy made her mother a dinner tray complete with a cookie for dessert. Peggy<br />
would have fruit. Her new slim figure was only a few apples away, she thought.<br />
Her mother took the tray. “Peggy, those cigarettes are making it hard for me to<br />
breathe. There can’t be cigarettes around my oxygen tank. Sweetie, you know that...<br />
sweetie...what is…?”<br />
Peggy couldn’t hear her mother, could only see her lips moving. She listened,<br />
instead to the man on the tape.<br />
‘What are YOUR dreams?’<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
132
That night Peggy began rummaging through the old woman’s papers until she<br />
found her mother’s insurance policy. She practiced the woman’s signature over <strong>and</strong><br />
over, <strong>and</strong> then reworked the will to read that all her mother’s inheritance—not large<br />
but big enough to give her a start—will go solely to her because she had been the<br />
caretaker.<br />
She then sat outside, smoking two cigarettes with coffee, then exercised to a<br />
Jane Fonda tape. Finally, she fell asleep with the man still in her ear.<br />
‘YOU are so wonderful. You are capable!’<br />
****<br />
Peggy opened the bay window in her mother’s room. Her mother sat up in bed.<br />
“Sweetie, what are you doing?”<br />
“We need sunlight in this house.”<br />
Peggy smiled at the sun running across her mother’s bed. It sliced her mother’s<br />
face, scrunched in a helpless scowl. “Sweetie, I called for you all night. I... think…. oh<br />
dear…” Her mother began to cry.<br />
Peggy rolled her eyes. “Mother, what is it? I have a lot of work to do today, so<br />
whatever it is, tell me!”<br />
“I wet myself.”<br />
Peggy yanked the covers off her mother. Peggy gritted her teeth. “Dammit. I’m<br />
picking up diapers <strong>and</strong> you’re wearing them. No more of this.”<br />
“Why are you treating me so badly?”<br />
Peggy rolled her mother onto the mat, <strong>and</strong> wheeled her to the washroom,<br />
spraying her with chilly water. Her mother screamed, but Peggy just covered her ears<br />
with the headphones, volume turned up.<br />
‘Are you wasting time helping others when YOU have GOALS to<br />
accomplish?’<br />
Peggy situated her mother back in the bed. “Now please stop getting in the way!”<br />
Peggy went into the garden, pulling weeds violently <strong>and</strong> picking up sticks,<br />
throwing them in the neighbor’s yard. The tape said to do something outside every<br />
day. She didn’t particularly like gardening, but it was something to do outside. She<br />
then gave her mother a slab of potted meat with stale crackers <strong>and</strong> left to get the<br />
third tape.<br />
She had more money from her mother’s cash box <strong>and</strong> would buy herself more<br />
lipstick, a dress, <strong>and</strong> perfume, too. These things would help secure goal #1, she<br />
thought, smiling.<br />
As Peggy returned home, her sister Donna <strong>and</strong> her sister’s terrible children were<br />
back at the house. Donna moved a cushion on the couch as if to look for something.<br />
“Peggy what the Sam hill is going on?”<br />
One of Donna’s kids, a four-year-old boy, poked his finger in the bird cage <strong>and</strong><br />
got pecked. “Mama!!!”<br />
Donna patted him. “Son, leave the bird alone,” then she turned to Peggy, ``What<br />
the heck is going on here? Mama called me in tears. Says you are treating her badly, <strong>and</strong><br />
133 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
twice I have come here, <strong>and</strong> you aren’t here. What is going on? Do I need to hire a nurse?”<br />
Peggy smiled, the lipstick showing on her teeth. “Nothing that I’m aware of. Was<br />
just about to get Mama her dinner when you walked in. But since you’re here, you can<br />
do it. I’m sure y’all want to spend the time together?”<br />
Donna cocked her head <strong>and</strong> squinted her eyes. “Why are you acting like this?<br />
Something’s off with you...what’s going on here?”<br />
Peggy sighed. “You are here. Do you see something going on?”<br />
Donna nearly dropped her son, her face going pale. “Peggy, you agreed to take<br />
care of Mama in exchange for help. We’ve all been helping you. Then suddenly you stop<br />
caring for her. I need to know—<strong>and</strong> now, what the hell is going on?”<br />
Peggy straightened her spine. “Would you <strong>and</strong> the children like to stay for dinner?<br />
There will be enough for everyone.”<br />
Donna stared at Peggy for a long time, as if to search her face for a clue, then<br />
disappeared into their mother’s room with the children. Peggy put her ear to the door<br />
but could only hear her mother crying <strong>and</strong> Donna’s children acting up.<br />
Peggy shrugged her shoulders, put tape three on <strong>and</strong> busied herself cooking<br />
dinner. The man screamed in her ear:<br />
‘Take the wheel of your ship! Is there something that You need to do to<br />
make YOUR dreams a reality? Do it! Do you!’<br />
Donna finally came out of the room, her children tagging behind her. “Do you have<br />
Mama’s food ready?”<br />
Peggy pulled down the earphones.<br />
Donna sighed, looking over the tray of beef tips, peas, <strong>and</strong> potatoes. Peach pie for<br />
dessert.<br />
Peggy smiled. “Is this acceptable?”<br />
Donna grabbed the tray. “You better snap out of whatever cloud you’re on or<br />
you’re gonna be out on your ass!”<br />
Peggy laughed. “A hot bath calls my name. See yourself out after you feed Mama.”<br />
On that note, Peggy turned her heel, then swiveled back around like a ballet<br />
dancer, “oh, <strong>and</strong> please have a pleasant night.”<br />
‘Take the wheel!! Stop waiting!!!’<br />
****<br />
Peggy laid in bed until the moon peeked in the sky. This was planned. The house<br />
was quiet when she crawled out of bed, slipping her feet into warm slippers.<br />
She tiptoed to her mother’s room where she could hear the old woman snoring.<br />
The room was pitch black. Peggy turned the small flashlight she held ON. She shifted a<br />
pillow under her arm.<br />
She slipped the flashlight into her skirt pocket, so it would shine on the floor. The old<br />
woman coughed, then opened her eyes. Peggy could see the white of her mother’s eyes.<br />
Time Waster.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
134
“Who goes there?” The old woman said but Peggy rushed her, holding the<br />
pillow over the woman’s face.<br />
She held the pillow snug enough to make breathing hard. The old woman<br />
kept shifting her head back <strong>and</strong> forth, so Peggy used her arms to fence in her head,<br />
holding the pillow snugger. Peggy felt an ache in her back forming, <strong>and</strong> she wondered<br />
how long she could stay bent, but she knew she couldn’t stop until the woman died,<br />
<strong>and</strong> finally, after several fits, the woman gave up.<br />
Peggy held the pillow over her mother still, wanting to make sure. Waited until<br />
the ache in her back was unbearable <strong>and</strong> then she shifted upwards with a moan,<br />
rubbing her back with a fisted h<strong>and</strong>.<br />
She picked up the pillow, left the room <strong>and</strong> sat in the living room, waiting until<br />
sunrise. She would discover the body at sunrise, she planned.<br />
“Poor Mama...well, at least she died peacefully in her sleep,” she rehearsed to<br />
the pillow.<br />
****<br />
Peggy <strong>and</strong> Donna sat across from the lawyer. Donna’s knuckles were white,<br />
rolling over each other as the lawyer once again explained that her mother’s assets<br />
would go solely to Peggy.<br />
Peggy touched her sister’s h<strong>and</strong>. “I was her caregiver.”<br />
“But we paid you. Me <strong>and</strong> Rich are still paying off—”<br />
Peggy smiled. “—I deserved it!”<br />
Donna’s mouth dropped. “Who have you become?”<br />
Peggy stood up. “I am more than enough! I’m the best!!”<br />
“You’re batshit crazy is what you are. You need a damn therapist!”<br />
“Speak for yourself,” Peggy said, exiting the lawyer’s office. She heard her sister<br />
screaming from behind her.<br />
“You are not my sister anymore. You will never see me, Rich or the kids again!”<br />
****<br />
Peggy sat at the new breakfast table. The house smelled of fresh paint, new<br />
light fixtures hung from the ceilings. Her dress was new <strong>and</strong> starched.<br />
She walked to her bedroom where a new floor length mirror stood. Peggy<br />
pointed at the image in the mirror.<br />
‘You don’t need anyone! Just you! Be you! Do you! You are more than<br />
enough! You are the best!’<br />
The words echoed as if she were in an empty cell. She sat on the bed.<br />
Everything was so quiet that she could still hear her words vibrating, bouncing off<br />
the walls, <strong>and</strong> contemporary furniture.<br />
She hung her head, mumbling the mantras from the tape to no one listening.<br />
135 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Suzette Bishop<br />
The Manta Ray<br />
My body spreads <strong>and</strong> folds like a gray silk scarf<br />
Or hovers, a h<strong>and</strong> once stroking the ocean floor.<br />
When I pass the aquarium windows people shout to me—<br />
Their words passing through the glass <strong>and</strong> water<br />
Change to slight vibrations in the current.<br />
I am a dancer’s skirt spinning, the hem like waves<br />
Rolling to shore, a soprano’s voice spiraling toward<br />
Voicelessness.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
136
Suzette Bishop<br />
After Class<br />
A floating hallway,<br />
Dropped pendants<br />
Sinking into the lake under this Titanic,<br />
Lost in deep, poisonous water.<br />
An empty parking lot,<br />
Then South Texas brush, September.<br />
Over there, in another campus building,<br />
You are teaching, too.<br />
I won’t have to explain<br />
What this is like when we get home<br />
Because you know.<br />
You lost hours of work yesterday<br />
When your online test failed,<br />
Forty minutes of another class wasted<br />
Trying to get the recording going<br />
After it crashed.<br />
This time last year we sat in a windowless<br />
Doctor’s office holding h<strong>and</strong>s<br />
As the doctor described the mass<br />
He found on your left kidney.<br />
We both taught against a riptide<br />
Of more scans, more doctor visits<br />
Until your surgery in December.<br />
This fall, a p<strong>and</strong>emic to teach through.<br />
What a year,<br />
People flooding into the hospital<br />
Right after you were released,<br />
One kidney gone,<br />
Your other kidney filtering poison<br />
Twice as hard for both.<br />
In here, there are ghosts in all of our classrooms.<br />
And failures. And crashes.<br />
Out there, quarter horses<br />
L<strong>and</strong> in a thorny brush,<br />
Their large bones drifting up from the s<strong>and</strong>y soil.<br />
During summer’s ever-so-slight turn<br />
To fall, it’s still too hot,<br />
But it breaks from the boiling sun,<br />
And rain you can smell gallops toward you,<br />
A pent-up, lashed fury.<br />
137 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Mose Graves<br />
When I Die Just Let Me Go To Texas<br />
for Janice<br />
Forty years romancing Herefords <strong>and</strong> Gerts<br />
around snakeroot <strong>and</strong> sneezeweed all over<br />
the Rio Gr<strong>and</strong>e—br<strong>and</strong>ing the calves,<br />
gelding the bulls, doling out salt licks <strong>and</strong><br />
hay bales in their season he must’ve looked<br />
to them like God, if God rode a buckskin<br />
<strong>and</strong> kept a plug of Red Man in His cheek.<br />
The first time his lasso missed its mark<br />
he chalked it up to too much Jack the night before,<br />
but then the numbness commenced to spread<br />
like resin oozing down a pine.<br />
“MS,” they said, <strong>and</strong> by <strong>and</strong> by<br />
even his pony knew better than<br />
to cut too quick at his comm<strong>and</strong>.<br />
Unhorsed, he took up saddlery,<br />
h<strong>and</strong>crafting mounts for others to ride.<br />
Slow work at best: carving the tree,<br />
stitching the gullet, shaping <strong>and</strong><br />
trimming <strong>and</strong> tooling the cantle,<br />
layer upon layer of leather to holster<br />
the loss of his old rawhide nerves.<br />
“When the Lord closes the door,<br />
He opens a window,”<br />
the old saw goes,<br />
<strong>and</strong> soon<br />
savvy wranglers from<br />
Kingsville to Sheridan<br />
tipped their brims to his skill.<br />
His chart reads “90 yrs, irrit., conf.” when you<br />
answer the call. The only chaplain on the ward,<br />
the past two hours found you shrouding a body<br />
in linen <strong>and</strong> psalms as per the ancient rite.<br />
Inured to the hospital’s icy light, tonight<br />
the flatscreen’s lacquered l<strong>and</strong>scapes <strong>and</strong><br />
cool, curated soundtrack sets your teeth on edge.<br />
“What kind of music do you like?”<br />
you ask the old man as the TV blinks to black.<br />
“Country <strong>and</strong> western,” he smiles.<br />
“Both kinds,” so you sing him his favorite<br />
cowboy song. He closes his eyes,<br />
<strong>and</strong> in the morning you are not surprised to learn<br />
he never felt the need to open them again.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
138
Carlos Rodriguez<br />
Coyote Lullaby<br />
Dawn paints his cheeks<br />
in fluid pinks <strong>and</strong> greys.<br />
H<strong>and</strong>cuffed to the rusted car’s bumper,<br />
night before last,<br />
he listens<br />
to coyote lullabies that<br />
echo amid a Texas desert’s<br />
s<strong>and</strong>y-sweet fragrance.<br />
Water bottle, still half empty,<br />
rocks as a newborn<br />
next to the sage bush <strong>and</strong> the ocotillo<br />
ten feet away from a tongue swollen,<br />
a mouth frozen in hundred degree<br />
screams. And the dinero<br />
he borrowed in Juarez for this passage,<br />
it flies past the lullabies,<br />
sails between cerveza symphonies<br />
<strong>and</strong> topless lap dances<br />
two nights before last.<br />
Even as his breath is<br />
a child’s rasp, he caresses<br />
pitted, sunburned lips.<br />
If he’s found,<br />
maybe the blanqueador<br />
of his bones will match<br />
the pale stones<br />
at his feet...<br />
he wishes for one last lullaby.<br />
139 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Carlos Rodriguez<br />
Spill<br />
There are poems in high gloss, silk satin,<br />
<strong>and</strong> mat finish—dribbled on the floor<br />
while painting the room<br />
in off-white <strong>and</strong> grey,<br />
these poems are small splats <strong>and</strong><br />
bigger dollops in baby blues, rumbling reds,<br />
quiet chocolate, <strong>and</strong> cinnamon abbreviations,<br />
turpentine cannot wash them away,<br />
scrubbing only spreads their<br />
message, inuendo, <strong>and</strong> liminal<br />
reach to all corners, <strong>and</strong> now<br />
I’ve tracked their wisteria purple<br />
<strong>and</strong> d<strong>and</strong>elion yellow to other<br />
areas of the house, on<br />
stoops outside, in cobblestones<br />
of once immaculate streets,<br />
foxfire-red-verses invade police stations,<br />
cerulean-sky-blue-rhymes pepper<br />
town halls <strong>and</strong> once grey-neutral<br />
federal buildings. My haiku h<strong>and</strong>prints<br />
celebrate on flag poles in sunset orange <strong>and</strong> hunter<br />
green. These poems stain sidewalks with<br />
lazy pinks, fuzzy-maroon-pantoums drizzle<br />
on Covid-empty arenas <strong>and</strong><br />
cast a pall over silver sparkling highways,<br />
rainbow-plaid-rivers rush through<br />
valleys glowing in gold <strong>and</strong> copper sonnets,<br />
pour into luminescent lakes rippling<br />
over my iridescent living<br />
<strong>and</strong> breathing room<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
140
Carlos Rodriguez<br />
Martel Deserts<br />
A broken Martel station<br />
by the tracks<br />
grips the desert s<strong>and</strong>,<br />
dark tattoos on its face<br />
smile at the camera,<br />
black birds flood a white cross<br />
as a woman throws bread<br />
next to empty wine bottles too many<br />
miles from Paris,<br />
too many lies<br />
from the suited businessman<br />
on a New York street corner<br />
while above them,<br />
in the high rise,<br />
another woman sits<br />
in an apartment she can’t afford,<br />
but the fruit drips on the carpet<br />
as she exposes herself<br />
to the tree of life.<br />
The floods warp the houses,<br />
the sky in Dali-esque colors<br />
as they carry her lifeless<br />
through the desert of roses,<br />
hills in the distance<br />
made of sleeping faces<br />
as she rests<br />
her legs across the<br />
lion grass,<br />
the air made of birds.<br />
Jesus of Three Gazes<br />
Martel Deserts II<br />
Jesus of Three gazes<br />
at their backs <strong>and</strong><br />
freezes as Sabina’s<br />
puppy of cotton<br />
stares, surprised<br />
by the Man of Spiders<br />
taking his lunch break<br />
outside the prison.<br />
A paper-thin sports athlete,<br />
Jose glowers at<br />
old men walking<br />
toward gourmet hot dogs,<br />
but Maria keeps throwing<br />
bread at the birds<br />
in her cell,<br />
frantic to get<br />
out of the way.<br />
She cries at the injustice<br />
of Martel diners<br />
lost to age <strong>and</strong> deserts,<br />
<strong>and</strong> clouds hiding<br />
dancing children<br />
in flower print dresses.<br />
Who decides when<br />
borders are no longer<br />
cages for a Maria, a Jose,<br />
a Sabina…a Jesus of three gazes?<br />
141 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Carlos Rodriguez<br />
Soil <strong>and</strong> Ashes<br />
Gets in the bones, icy tendrils deep in the marrow even before<br />
the machine has stopped. Even before prayers <strong>and</strong> nonsensical<br />
“lived a good life” or “loved by so many” or “hated like no other.”<br />
Then the soil, it makes a soul-deep thump, gathers <strong>and</strong> accumulates<br />
by degrees, granules assuming a deep frost en masse, black muffles<br />
“in o-r hea-ts a-d minds” or “Go- w-ll prov-de” or “a l-sson to -s all,”<br />
of gathering dirt punctuating the growing, chill stillness. Voices,<br />
distant, faint, understood more for their receding presence,<br />
than for any clear notions. Muscles begin to break down, mold<br />
takes root, blossoms in the mouth, the eyes, the heart. The arms<br />
that held: sons <strong>and</strong> a daughter, a belt to beat them, grudges against<br />
the children’s absence, these arms melt into cold fabric of the casket.<br />
Legs, which carried the body to one bar after another, one drink<br />
to the next, bow <strong>and</strong> darken, eaten from without by worms <strong>and</strong><br />
bacteria. The brain: last to ashes, last to love, last to bring: surcease<br />
to childish scrapes or fights over why “you never deserved us!” or<br />
a mother’s accusing “Why didn’t you see him at the hospice?”<br />
It remains in these glacial, soundless frames of our regret.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
142
Ron Pullins<br />
Reiner<br />
Reiner’s father was a Nazi.<br />
They were all Nazis. You had to be a<br />
Nazi to work on Third Reich missiles<br />
— <strong>and</strong> he worked on their gyroscopes,<br />
their timers, their directionals, the radio,<br />
the signals.<br />
In the end our side rounded<br />
up their scientists <strong>and</strong> brought them to<br />
New Mexico to work on our missiles, our<br />
gyroscopes, our timers, our radios, our<br />
signals. We brought their families, too.<br />
Then begat, begat.... And in such a way<br />
Reiner came to be.<br />
She cheats on me. I know it.<br />
I’m pretty sure anyway. It feels like it.<br />
All signs point that direction. The time<br />
she spends away from me. The time<br />
she spends alone. The silences that<br />
punctuate the time we spend together.<br />
But who knows anything,<br />
really? Really knows? Unless a person<br />
sees a thing itself, witnesses a thing<br />
itself, an act, a cold, hard fact, how<br />
certain can one be they know it? A<br />
thing that one suspects is merely words,<br />
opinions. Mere supposition. And once<br />
you start supposing, there is no end to<br />
doubt.<br />
I will come home unexpected<br />
on a weekday, for instance — surprise,<br />
surprise — a change in my routine, to<br />
glimpse a bit of truth, but I have yet to<br />
find anything out of place, or suspicious.<br />
She’s either not at home. Where is she?<br />
Or she’s asleep. Why’s she so tired? Or<br />
she’s at work, waiting cocktails. What kind<br />
of job is that? Why must she commute to<br />
work in another city? Is that where, as she<br />
says, the money is? Or does that distance<br />
give her freedom? Safety? Which is why<br />
she’s away so many nights, she says.<br />
Which is why some nights she comes<br />
home so late, she says. Which is why she<br />
sleeps all day, she says. So, she can say<br />
that nothing’s happened, there’s nothing<br />
for her to tell, there’s nothing to confess,<br />
nothing to explain. She says. Etc. Etc.<br />
Why, dear, you’re home early. I<br />
was just leaving, she says. Goodbye.<br />
We live on a hillside in<br />
Morgantown, West Virginia, above<br />
the river which runs sometimes red,<br />
sometimes green, depending on the<br />
recent rains or snow melt which drains<br />
acid from the ab<strong>and</strong>oned mines.<br />
It has come to this: I sit outside<br />
in the overgrown grass <strong>and</strong> shrubs on up<br />
that hillside above our house, in a place<br />
across the street concealed <strong>and</strong> level with<br />
our second floor, where I can look straight<br />
into our bedroom window, waiting,<br />
watching, to see if she’s inside, to catch a<br />
glimpse of anyone else. I sit there in my<br />
blazer <strong>and</strong> my khakis <strong>and</strong> my hat, up to<br />
my waist in weeds <strong>and</strong> shrubs, looking in,<br />
looking on, seeing nothing untoward, no<br />
clue of unfaithfulness, not yet.<br />
It’s dark inside the room.<br />
In the weeds up to my chin, I<br />
contemplate the nature of love, what it is,<br />
<strong>and</strong> does it last, <strong>and</strong> how do we measure<br />
the price that love exacts. I sit there in the<br />
weeds. I don’t mind the weeds. I spend<br />
the time imagining all the possibilities.<br />
Morgantown sits in the<br />
Appalachian Mountains, a college town<br />
where I teach. Darkness here creeps<br />
143 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
early across the valleys. The river cuts<br />
through moving slow. Long barges<br />
slide up <strong>and</strong> down the Monongahela<br />
River, fetching coal for Pittsburgh, then<br />
plowing back upstream to be refilled.<br />
It is autumn. The air is heavy, cold, <strong>and</strong><br />
the leaves are darkening. Sitting in the<br />
brush on the hillside, I see a few corners<br />
of houses above the foliage, a widowwalk<br />
or two that seems to float across<br />
the treetops, the dark chimneys of the<br />
factories, the roofs of the buildings on<br />
the older campus. I live next door to<br />
Reiner who is always home.<br />
It is late afternoon when I<br />
climb the back steps to Reiner’s house.<br />
The back door opens to my touch.<br />
Reiner never locks his doors. Nothing<br />
inside is underst<strong>and</strong>able enough to<br />
steal. An old television set drones in<br />
black <strong>and</strong> white the monotony of late<br />
season baseball. Piles of clothes <strong>and</strong><br />
magazines. Technical journals. Financial<br />
strategies. A copy of today’s Wall Street<br />
Journal. A gallon jar of dark jalapeños<br />
floating in gray brine.<br />
A high-intensity lamp makes<br />
a small circle over Reiner’s dining room<br />
table. Smoke rises from a ciagarette<br />
which Reiner has lit but isn’t smoking.<br />
His thin pale fingers twist wires <strong>and</strong><br />
solders them to boards. He smoothes<br />
the solder with his finger without<br />
flinching. Then he butts his nose into<br />
the cone of light, a gray pale nose<br />
between an ungracious <strong>and</strong> unshaven<br />
moustache <strong>and</strong> tired red eyes. He nods<br />
— to himself — approving his work <strong>and</strong><br />
sniffs, then approves with another nod,<br />
<strong>and</strong> takes a drag from the cigarette.<br />
Reiner is always working on<br />
something. There are no empty spaces<br />
on his table, nor on his countertops or other<br />
surfaces in his dark rooms. Transistors,<br />
boards, clamps, resistors, diodes, dials,<br />
clamps, chips, boards, wires, nuts, bolts,<br />
the carcasses of dead <strong>and</strong> degutted<br />
instruments, computers; finished rough,<br />
clumsy things, some of which work, others<br />
not. Then, too, there is a pistol on the<br />
tabletop, bullets within reach, a rifle on<br />
the wall, guns parts, <strong>and</strong> powder, shells to<br />
be filled, a machine used to fill them, <strong>and</strong><br />
shells filled <strong>and</strong> arranged in boxes. Scopes<br />
<strong>and</strong> lenses, tubes, pedestals, tripods, <strong>and</strong><br />
telescopes with which Reiner surveys the<br />
night. Open boxes overflowing with tools<br />
<strong>and</strong> screws <strong>and</strong> parts of everything. Kitchen<br />
things. Things for cars. A Geiger counter.<br />
A machine for finding metal buried in the<br />
earth. Reiner is working on a radio. The<br />
room smells of burnt solder. Nearby are<br />
television tubes, cameras, a scattering of<br />
books, catalogues <strong>and</strong> manuals, <strong>and</strong> the<br />
jalapeñoes floating in a brine. From time to<br />
time, he grabs a jalapeño <strong>and</strong> chomps it off<br />
at its stem.<br />
“What are you making now, my<br />
friend?” I ask Reiner who shows no surprise.<br />
“Low power broadcasting.” Reiner<br />
sighs. “I’m setting my own station,” Reiner<br />
says. Reiner returns to his soldering. “I will<br />
be a voice in the wilderness. I will use it to<br />
communicate.”<br />
Reiner volunteers for the local Civil<br />
Defense. The walls of his living room <strong>and</strong><br />
kitchen are papered with maps: of prevailing<br />
winds <strong>and</strong> anticipated nuclear strike zones,<br />
<strong>and</strong> where fallout from the bombs will fall;<br />
airways, river ways, highways, evacuation<br />
routes, flight patterns, stars; <strong>and</strong> all the<br />
known geological resources of West<br />
Virginia. They give him tools <strong>and</strong> internet,<br />
access to army surplus, pass codes.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
144
From time-to-time Reiner showers them<br />
with proposals which they never act on.<br />
Not that he seeks approval to start any<br />
project. They are too complicated <strong>and</strong><br />
gloomy for the local self-defense. He<br />
does what he wants, does what he thinks<br />
needs to be done. Twice a year, the Civil<br />
Defense lets him test the sirens over<br />
Morgantown. This mournful exercise<br />
echoes far into the mountains.<br />
I think of her <strong>and</strong> imagine this:<br />
I will touch her lightly on the arm <strong>and</strong><br />
say, “It’s all okay, my dear. That’s behind<br />
us now. Let’s forget the past <strong>and</strong> go on<br />
from here.” I imagine I will hold her then<br />
<strong>and</strong> she will cry, <strong>and</strong> afterwards we will<br />
go together, stronger for all the pain.<br />
A large black water bug races<br />
across a map of fallout spread across the<br />
counter. Reiner picks up the pistol <strong>and</strong><br />
shoots. The bug no longer is.<br />
As the West Virginia fall turns<br />
cold, black waterbugs retreat up from<br />
the river. The end of their migration is<br />
houses. Mine. Reiner’s. At night from<br />
time to time Reiner will turn off his<br />
lights, then flip them on again <strong>and</strong> fire at<br />
the waterbugs who have crawled out of<br />
hiding. I can hear the gunfire next door. I<br />
think he prepares himself for the worst.<br />
What else can one do?<br />
Reiner reaches in the jar <strong>and</strong><br />
grabs a jalapeño. It is little known that<br />
New Mexico jalapeños are the hottest on<br />
the planet. Reiner doesn’t flinch. Perhaps<br />
our man sees his eyes begin to water, as<br />
if Reiner’s eyes are in a universe distant<br />
from his tongue.<br />
I imagine what my first line will<br />
be to her. I will start with explanations;<br />
why I’ve spied on her, an apology of<br />
sorts, what it was — really was — I was<br />
doing in the weeds across the street.<br />
Then, second, I will say a line — some<br />
line — filled with my pain, said with such<br />
heart that she will know all I feel without<br />
me needing words of explanation. She<br />
will be overwhelmed with all my grief. Oh,<br />
perhaps I’ll have made her cry. Okay. But I<br />
will remain above such pettiness. Ready to<br />
forgive. Ready to move on. Then, third, I will<br />
give the coup de grace, in which I will give<br />
shape to equal bits of grace <strong>and</strong> wit, a line<br />
that will unravel all her lies, her defenses,<br />
<strong>and</strong> bring them tumbling down, ending in<br />
confession, her shame will be exposed, so<br />
the healing can begin, <strong>and</strong> love will arise<br />
forever more.<br />
A calmness has crept in like<br />
night from off the river. Shadows sink the<br />
mountains as day subsides. It’s evening<br />
now, <strong>and</strong> we grow old.<br />
Reiner has taken a break. He likes<br />
me, <strong>and</strong> even in Reiner’s solitudinarian<br />
heart, he needs a break from time to<br />
time <strong>and</strong> he has me, <strong>and</strong> only me, I think,<br />
to whom he can talk. He needs to touch<br />
another from time to time, as don’t we all,<br />
to remind himself that he is not alone.<br />
We st<strong>and</strong> on Reiner’s back porch<br />
which sits in the very center of the dome<br />
of night, for a moment letting the silence<br />
overwhelm us.<br />
“What should I do?” I ask. Reiner<br />
knows my secrets.<br />
Silence.<br />
“The way things are,” I say, “if they<br />
stay the way things are, they will just go on<br />
<strong>and</strong> on.”<br />
Silence.<br />
“Yet I’m also afraid of how things<br />
might change,” I say. There. I’ve said it. The<br />
reason for this stasis, for tolerating the<br />
moment.<br />
Reiner leans against the railings,<br />
145 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
his elbows resting on the railings, his<br />
head resting on his elbows. His cigarette<br />
is lit <strong>and</strong> glowing from its red tip, which<br />
glows brighter as Reiner draws on it, then<br />
lets smoke linger from the corners of his<br />
mouth. The smoke is sweet <strong>and</strong> comforts<br />
us as if the night should linger on.<br />
I man yearns for a response,<br />
<strong>and</strong> that’s not the way the two of us<br />
are normally, stepping into the other’s<br />
shadow.<br />
“You, of course,” I say. “You live<br />
with the enormity of how things might<br />
change. Watching, waiting for those<br />
missiles. Looking for the streaks as they<br />
decend. The thought of how it might end.<br />
You’d know. You’d be alone in knowing<br />
that it was ending. You’d have just time<br />
enough to get your hat <strong>and</strong> push the<br />
switch that turns on your darling sirens.”<br />
Next door a light comes on in<br />
my house. It’s the second floor. She must<br />
be home. She always comes back. It’s just<br />
how long I’ll have to wait. A silhouette<br />
moves against the orange curtain which is<br />
closed. Hers, I suppose.<br />
“There will be no time, then,<br />
for regrets,” I say. “No time then for<br />
apologies.”<br />
His voice softened by the rustle<br />
of the trees, the sounds of the night,<br />
the hum from the cars along the streets<br />
below, a man <strong>and</strong> woman in the house<br />
below them on the mountain arguing, a<br />
long train passing somewhere along the<br />
River.<br />
Reiner so gently, thoughtfully,<br />
expels smoke from his cigarette that<br />
sweetens the night air.<br />
“No,” Reiner says. “What I fear is<br />
that they’ll never come. Nothing will ever<br />
happen. That I’ll st<strong>and</strong> here night after<br />
night <strong>and</strong> wait.”<br />
Our man is silent.<br />
“But things will just go on <strong>and</strong><br />
on. No sirens, for me. No final broadcast.<br />
‘I told you so.’ Just me out here waiting,<br />
night after night while things go on<br />
<strong>and</strong> on. Tomorrow will be the same as<br />
yesterday.”<br />
As usual I go home later that<br />
evening. I always do. She’s undressing<br />
from her waitress job somewhere some<br />
miles away. I remove my hat <strong>and</strong> sit <strong>and</strong><br />
fluff the evening paper.<br />
“How was your day?” one of us<br />
finally says.<br />
“Fine,” the other says. “And<br />
yours?”<br />
“Fine.”<br />
Nothing changes as we go on,<br />
<strong>and</strong> we never know.<br />
<strong>Beginnings</strong> X <strong>Endings</strong><br />
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Jean Hackett<br />
Elegy For the One that Got Away<br />
Jars of nails, burned-out radio tubes, <strong>and</strong> crumbling manuals<br />
concealed a carelessly placed confession,<br />
orphaned atop a dusty shelf in Gr<strong>and</strong> pa’s workshop:<br />
The Story of My Life, <strong>20</strong>02.<br />
Thirty-two pages of sadness sweetened by memory<br />
recounted by Gr<strong>and</strong>pa the weekend Lily died,<br />
<strong>and</strong> Gr<strong>and</strong>ma was out of town.<br />
In 1954 Gr<strong>and</strong>pa got his chance,<br />
met Lily at a marry-go-round picnic<br />
courtesy of First Baptist.<br />
Bravely dared to ask out the tall girl<br />
who always walked her smile to Sunday services.<br />
On restrained date nights,<br />
without h<strong>and</strong>s held in public or questions<br />
about why she left her husb<strong>and</strong>,<br />
their eyes <strong>and</strong> minds met across cheap burger joint tables<br />
to play what-if games of happily-ever-after.<br />
The well-paid bookkeeper,<br />
promising she could give up job <strong>and</strong> status<br />
for life with a World War II vet <strong>and</strong> his mother<br />
in a tumble-down duplex on one meager salary.<br />
A year later, she turned commitment-shy,<br />
cutting things off without explanation,<br />
leaving Gr<strong>and</strong>pa heartbroken,<br />
then married to Gr<strong>and</strong>ma five months later.<br />
Leaving Gr<strong>and</strong>ma sitting unwittingly<br />
next to Lily in Sunday school for fifty years,<br />
never once entering Gr<strong>and</strong>pa’s workshop.<br />
147 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Jean Hackett<br />
I Watch Too Many Movies<br />
For a moment I believed<br />
I was viewing an outtake<br />
from a ‘70’s disaster movie,<br />
the soaring soundtrack would kick in<br />
as a plane hit the building,<br />
<strong>and</strong> the hero swung survivors to safety.<br />
For a moment I believed<br />
aliens swooped down from space’s outer reaches,<br />
hid the Challenger Shuttle behind an Oort Cloud,<br />
absconded with it to a galaxy far, far away.<br />
For a moment I believed<br />
Southside girls rushed up to hug each other<br />
because Selena survived,<br />
that no one would shoot a child<br />
armed with a toy gun,<br />
or lock babies in cages.<br />
For a moment I believed<br />
sunlight rays would rouse us every morning,<br />
yellowing blinds <strong>and</strong> wallpaper,<br />
as we woke wrapped around each other<br />
for the next 50 years.<br />
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Arik Mitra<br />
Arid Breast<br />
No great secret,<br />
No lost trench,<br />
Holding undecayed bodies still,<br />
To be found midst my memories....<br />
Buried plutonium<br />
sends up its rays to stir my<br />
sleeplessness....<br />
A war; another war,<br />
So many, so many wars,<br />
Sinks down the bloodshed,<br />
The crying faces, <strong>and</strong> I yearn<br />
for just another image....<br />
More images, not war,<br />
Not perhaps even Man;<br />
Just leaves,<br />
That from my tears had dropped,<br />
That had found seeds<br />
Upon my arid breast....<br />
Let’s leave for<br />
those to come<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
a fresher air to breathe<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
a richer soil to reap<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
a home where nobody starves<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
no profit-machines making war<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
no religious conflicting streets<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
no racial divinely feats<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
a space to build serene minds<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
lush green, nature’s intended wine<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
an education for human pains<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
to think beyond the quickest gains<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
as we do, to make for after their time<br />
Let’s leave for those to come<br />
better than we received, a better rhyme<br />
149 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Arik Mitra<br />
Peace talks with locust swarms<br />
Transversal,<br />
St<strong>and</strong>s the living code to be breached<br />
far across a terrain of s<strong>and</strong>s.<br />
Barren — a lifeless struggle to live.<br />
Comes this infiltration like a killing storm,<br />
Dunes, to be made of massacre from brutal force.<br />
Takes Nerkh,<br />
the first doubtful wave.<br />
Zarang’s children will be born on roads.<br />
Their mewlings<br />
will feel the searing heat of escape<br />
their nostrils<br />
will feel refuge’s dust.<br />
Kunduz, Mazar-i-Sharif shan’t give to more pleasing fate,<br />
Pul-e-Alam, Jalalabad,<br />
The silence of the frothing fangs take the day-night space.<br />
Kabul,<br />
the shivers are felt — the convulse,<br />
Maniacal heavy engines grunt.<br />
Screams; baffled cries;<br />
The muffled cries, that sit upon those raped faces<br />
with noseless tremors.<br />
Marriage, peace,<br />
Funny terms laughed at over a campfire song;<br />
where roasted flesh <strong>and</strong> heavy rifles<br />
join the merry warmth.<br />
Merry<br />
for the silent torn moon dares not shed its tears.<br />
Gunshots;<br />
Gunshots echo into the endless s<strong>and</strong>-seams<br />
between the dunes. Respite<br />
as would an oasis tempt,<br />
merely a mirage in midst of the scorching stench<br />
Of blood <strong>and</strong> shock;<br />
Tongues have ripped out their words<br />
Now rustling screams, screech<br />
over the leafless realm.<br />
Escape, escape,<br />
the world again sees a deluge of running bloody feet <strong>and</strong> tears.<br />
Burning help-cries run in the shaking veins,<br />
A boiling thrash;<br />
Rises, embers of mortally wounded ink<br />
in anger by rebellion’s blood.<br />
Smiles,<br />
At peace-talks with the locust swarms.<br />
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Arik Mitra<br />
The rose returns to bloom<br />
It was a day<br />
Yet to be, summer sworn<br />
The morning chill<br />
surfaced on my waking eyes<br />
My diary<br />
holds still the withered rose<br />
That kept your semblance<br />
under quiet trees<br />
Whereupon a grave<br />
I had seen your name<br />
Mine beside it<br />
in just a decade’s time<br />
A decade,<br />
a decade between our breaths<br />
For ten years<br />
I tread the path<br />
Till our union<br />
on the 13th night<br />
Centuries now,<br />
comes the auspicious date<br />
Old times again,<br />
the rose returns to bloom.<br />
151 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Robin Latimer<br />
Comber<br />
Of nowhere, the shore is meager map- the gulls,<br />
the piper, the ray, where to run is<br />
to come to a walk, sounds out of shot,<br />
<strong>and</strong> the places groomed by wind <strong>and</strong> grit.<br />
Here, we pick up pieces of jaws,<br />
bone, pretty shells, <strong>and</strong> nothing<br />
we are looking for ends up in<br />
our sack, sliding against a<br />
broken s<strong>and</strong> dollar.<br />
But, oh that golden girl who<br />
said this sadness fell from<br />
your eye <strong>and</strong> h<strong>and</strong>ed me a<br />
pearl. –RML<br />
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Daniel Rodrigues-Martin<br />
A GRAIN OF SAND IN AN<br />
HOURGLASS<br />
I don’t know when I first loved NB. I’d never met her in person before I PM’d<br />
her online in <strong>20</strong>11, having seen a thread of hilarious comments she posted on my old<br />
roommate’s—her cousin’s—Facebook page that left me guffawing. She made me laugh<br />
before I ever knew her.<br />
I don’t know that I expected us to get along so well, or that she would have<br />
even bothered talking to me, but we did, <strong>and</strong> she did. That first PM turned into years of<br />
daily messages between us, each laced with clever words meant to make the other smile.<br />
Through all our late-night chats, our conversations on the phone, watching Miyazaki<br />
movies together on Skype, I loved her. From Chicago to Atlanta I loved her.<br />
I never told her that I loved her almost from the start, that I loved her despite<br />
the eleven-hour car ride dividing us, despite the skepticism of those who deeply cared<br />
for me. Nothing else mattered—where I lived, what I did for money—none of it mattered<br />
when I thought my life with hers.<br />
Everyone close to me knew NB. They’d seen our exchanges online. They’d seen the<br />
screenshots of us, red-faced, belly laughing at each other about some inside joke clothed in<br />
layers of nuance. They’d seen the photos of us with flat rate USPS boxes full of gifts we’d<br />
mailed each other across state lines <strong>and</strong> time zones.<br />
So when NB accepted my invite to Chicago in <strong>20</strong>14, my friends practically went<br />
into a collective Star Trek yellow alert.<br />
Penny, one of my oldest Chicago friends, looked at me like I was a dog with a<br />
wounded paw when I told her NB was coming.<br />
“Didn’t you go see her in <strong>20</strong>12?” she’d asked in her native Illinoisan accent, hardly<br />
masking her concern. “I remember you complaining about the heat.”<br />
True on both counts.<br />
“Why didn’t you guys get together back then?”<br />
I never told NB how I felt when I’d spent a long weekend with her back in <strong>20</strong>12.<br />
We’d each been halfway through our graduate programs at the time, <strong>and</strong> I feared that if<br />
I tried to force the matter at the wrong moment, I’d lose her altogether. It’s possible to<br />
meet the right person at the wrong time, <strong>and</strong> I assumed that’s why our romance had been<br />
so long in limbo.<br />
I started writing at eighteen—mostly poetry, mostly about unrequited love for<br />
a dark-haired girl who danced ballet <strong>and</strong> never did properly break my heart (sorry for<br />
the cliché; it’s just the truth). My mother left me when I was a boy, which has plenty to<br />
do with unrequited love <strong>and</strong> unresolved emotions finding their way onto paper. Feeling<br />
unloved <strong>and</strong> misunderstood are recurring themes for me because they’ve been my life. It’s<br />
why I often dove headfirst into romances <strong>and</strong> had spent so much time in the deep ends of<br />
pools I had no business swimming in. Penny once told me I reminded her of some verses<br />
from the American poet Sara Teasdale:<br />
When I am dying, let me know<br />
That I loved all lovely things<br />
And tried to take their stings<br />
That I loved with all my strength,<br />
To my soul’s full depth <strong>and</strong> length,<br />
Careless if my heart must break.<br />
153 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong>
Penny had seen what it took me years to see in myself: relentless, selfdestructive<br />
hope placed where it did not belong.<br />
“I’m just giving her some breathing room,” I’d lied to Penny, careless if my heart<br />
might break.<br />
#<br />
In May <strong>20</strong>14, NB emerged from terminal two at O’Hare, brown hair tucked<br />
up in a messy bun, mischief dwelling in her hazel eyes as she wore a sweatshirt that<br />
read, “No one calls it Hotlanta!” She reminded me of Jessica Day from New Girl not just<br />
for her looks, but for her genuineness <strong>and</strong> little peculiarities. I, on the other h<strong>and</strong>, was<br />
often compared to the tailor in Fiddler on the Roof not just for my looks, but for my<br />
kvetching <strong>and</strong> big peculiarities.<br />
She spotted me waving beside my Chevy <strong>and</strong> waved back. “What’s this come up<br />
from down South?” I said. Always a bit of spice <strong>and</strong> drama between us.<br />
NB came up to me, roller bag trailing her. “Danny!” she replied, cheeks flush<br />
with the smile she hid. She motioned at her feet. She wore the shark socks I’d mailed<br />
her a couple years back. “Don’t I look socksy?” she asked in her Atlantan accent,<br />
snorting at her own pun.<br />
“Oh.” I winced. “I’m gonna need you to turn around fly <strong>and</strong> back home with<br />
that mess.”<br />
“Haha! Shut it!” She slugged me in the shoulder <strong>and</strong> grinned. “It’s so good to<br />
see you!”<br />
The walls came down <strong>and</strong> we threw our arms around each other with nothing<br />
wrong between us. It was only the second time we’d met in person.<br />
We got onto I-90 <strong>and</strong> headed home.<br />
“Do y’all have a cat at Parsonage House?” she asked, referring to the<br />
remodeled church parsonage I shared with five other grad students.<br />
I side-eyed her.<br />
“Ugh! Why did I ask? You won’t change my mind.” She sipped from an airport<br />
Aquafina.<br />
“Look,” I said, “if you want a fuzzy animal that struts on all fours across your<br />
keyboard while you’re trying to work on your computer...I’ll move to Atlanta.”<br />
NB spit her water all over my dashboard. She silent laughed, h<strong>and</strong> to her chest,<br />
face beat red. It had been a gift to see her so comfortable in my passenger seat, sitting<br />
beside me in real time, no screens or speakers needed. She did some Lamaze breathing<br />
techniques <strong>and</strong> eventually stopped gasping.<br />
“Since there are no pets, what have you planned for my entertainment?” she<br />
asked, trying to sound like she came from money.<br />
“We’ll go to the house from Home Alone,” I said, mouth open with glee.<br />
NB clapped her h<strong>and</strong>s to her cheeks. I snickered.<br />
“Obligatory Chicago deep dish,” I added.<br />
“Nom nom nom!” she mouthed, impersonating a hungry hungry hippo.<br />
The rest of it went like so. We chatted about work <strong>and</strong> school <strong>and</strong> poked fun at<br />
her cousin—a favorite pastime of ours.<br />
In the driveway at Parsonage House, NB sighed, <strong>and</strong> her h<strong>and</strong> drifted behind<br />
my headrest.<br />
My heart thumped as my gaze drifted to hers.<br />
I thought she looked at me like she wanted to kiss me. Something came over<br />
her <strong>and</strong> she snapped out of it. She took back her h<strong>and</strong>, her eyes avoiding mine like she’d<br />
crossed an invisible boundary.<br />
I showed a restrained smile. “Ready to go in? Everybody’s dying to meet you.”<br />
“Yeah,” she said, taking the moment in stride.<br />
It was always like that between us. Levity punctuated with ellipses <strong>and</strong><br />
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154
question marks wondering what our relationship really was.<br />
NB stayed for four days. We had a barbeque with my friends <strong>and</strong> she baked<br />
pies with Ginger, my housemate Doug’s girlfriend. NB fit with my friends without<br />
missing a step. They thought she was funny <strong>and</strong> smart <strong>and</strong> appropriately weird. My<br />
housemates clapped me on the shoulder <strong>and</strong> said I’d found a keeper. Even Penny<br />
finally understood why I’d been smitten for three years. There was something to all my<br />
relentless, hopeful uncertainty, after all.<br />
On the second day we rode the Metra to the Loop <strong>and</strong> took selfies by the<br />
Bean. I gave her my seat on the packed train <strong>and</strong> sat on the floor opposite her. A lady<br />
beside her watched us talking across the corridor as we traded glances <strong>and</strong> clever<br />
words meant to make the other laugh—that game we’d been playing since our first<br />
conversation. The lady tipped her chin at me, a discerning tenderness painted on her<br />
face. I’ll never forget how that perfect stranger looked at me.<br />
“Would you like my seat?” She gestured at her own seat beside NB, nodding,<br />
ready to offer it because had witnessed love. She saw my heart was locked in NB’s chest<br />
<strong>and</strong> wanted me to find the key.<br />
#<br />
The day before NB left Chicago, we stumbled through some awkward excuse<br />
of a DTR while we drove. I asked her if she thought she’d like to give us a chance<br />
without bother to tell her she’d owned my heart since <strong>20</strong>11.<br />
NB was silent for a while <strong>and</strong> gave that same restrained look we’d shared in my<br />
driveway.<br />
“I’ve been thinking about it… I just don’t feel the same way.”<br />
Three years of talking every day, two trips across the country, <strong>and</strong> it was all we<br />
could say to each other.<br />
We went to an empty house, watched Firefly, <strong>and</strong> ate Chicago deep dish. We<br />
sat inches apart <strong>and</strong> never touched.<br />
I should have taken the lady’s seat on the train.<br />
#<br />
On the fourth day I drove NB to O’Hare. It was late spring, the tail end of May,<br />
but gray outside. It was always gray outside in Chicago.<br />
“I know I can’t make you like me,” I said.<br />
“Love me,” I should have said, but I couldn’t bring the words to bear.<br />
I know I can’t make you love me the way I love you. The way I love you with<br />
your sideways glances when things get too serious. With your laugh lines that the<br />
magazines would airbrush away—but I love that you have laugh lines.<br />
“It’s just...hard,” she said, frowning, watching her sneakers with her hazel eyes.<br />
A silence tense with unsaid truths settled over us while road-raging<br />
Chicagoans flew past.<br />
My car idled in the drop-off lane while a traffic lady in a yellow vest eyed our<br />
goodbye.<br />
I embraced NB, my throat tight. Her brown hair was pulled back <strong>and</strong> she wore<br />
no makeup. She smelled like the best dream I ever had.<br />
“Come back any time,” I said, squeezing her shoulders.<br />
Sadness dwelt in her eyes <strong>and</strong> at the corners of her mouth as she forced a<br />
smile. “I had a great time.”<br />
Engine exhaust overtook her scent as vans <strong>and</strong> buses rumbled past, honking<br />
indiscriminately at one another.<br />
NB waved over her shoulder at me as she disappeared into terminal two. The<br />
traffic lady rolled her h<strong>and</strong> at me, saying with the gesture: “Hurry up. Move along.”<br />
155<br />
<strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume <strong>20</strong><br />
155 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X
I drove home alone. It was gray outside. It was always gray outside in Chicago.<br />
#<br />
A year passed as I ran in concentric circles to nowhere. I lived Parsonage<br />
House, worked the same part-time job, slogged away at a second master’s degree. I<br />
went on a few dates that never flew. Still called NB on holidays. Still laughed at her<br />
newsfeed. Still saw that “single” listing on her profile.<br />
It was dark at Parsonage House as I swiped around on my tablet because we’re<br />
all social media addicts. My housemate, Tom, sat on the couch eating leftovers while he<br />
watched talking heads argue about football. They sounded, to me, like how the teacher<br />
talks in Charlie Brown.<br />
A message appeared in my chat window. I laughed <strong>and</strong> smiled.<br />
“Wow,” Tom said, looking up from his dinner <strong>and</strong> the TV.<br />
“Huh?” I asked, typing a reply.<br />
“I’ve never seen you smile like that.”<br />
“Huh?” I realized that my face hurt from smiling so wide.<br />
“What are you smiling at?”<br />
I looked at my tablet. I was chatting with NB.<br />
#<br />
It’s past one in the morning when my friend Heather r<strong>and</strong>omly PMs me. She’s<br />
in a long-distance relationship <strong>and</strong> we haven’t talked in a while, so we hop onto a video<br />
chat to catch up.<br />
Eventually, the conversation me<strong>and</strong>ers to the only thing post collegiate<br />
twentysomethings want to discuss:<br />
“How’s your dating life?” Heather asks. She has big, brown eyes like a chibi<br />
character.<br />
“I met my buddy’s sister at his wedding, but it ended quickly.”<br />
I think back to myself smiling so wide that it hurt.<br />
“I may still be dealing with someone from my past.”<br />
“Yeah?”<br />
“I wonder if you thought that when we went out?” I ask.<br />
Heather was from one of the first dates this past year that never flew. We met<br />
online.<br />
She seems to peer back in time. “You really want to go down this road?”<br />
I’m not sure I do, but I nod.<br />
“Okay. I felt that something had hurt you. I wanted to help, but I realized I have<br />
this self-destructive habit of seeking people who are hurting. You helped me realize that<br />
I needed someone who could be present with me; someone who knew himself. That guy<br />
is Paul.”<br />
“I’m glad you found him.” I am. He’s a nerd <strong>and</strong> thinks I’m hilarious. “So, what<br />
gave you that sense about me?”<br />
“Well. When we met, I did a lot of listening <strong>and</strong> observing. There were things<br />
that made me feel like an intruder, like you were protecting something from me.”<br />
My fingers drum across my desktop.<br />
“What?” Heather asks.<br />
I think of Tom calling me out earlier this evening. I think of Penny looking at<br />
me as if at the locus of her pity. I think of NB’s evasive gazes, of all my first dates that<br />
went nowhere, of Heather’s assessment: “I needed someone who could be present with<br />
me; someone who knew himself.”<br />
It seems everyone knows something I don’t.<br />
“I fell in love with my old roommate’s cousin after I met her on Facebook,” I say.<br />
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156
“She’s from Atlanta. I met her in person in <strong>20</strong>12 <strong>and</strong> she came here last May. She’s the<br />
only person I ever would have married.”<br />
The gears turn behind Heather’s eyes. “That’s the girl you took a selfie with at<br />
the Bean. Natalie, right?”<br />
I squint. “You’re stalking me.”<br />
“Stalked,” she says, pointing at her webcam. “I was thinking of dating you.<br />
Research is a given. I accepted you were weird, but I needed to know you weren’t<br />
dangerous.”<br />
Others have described me as “Weird, but not dangerous.”<br />
“Anyway, that explains a lot,” she says.<br />
“Natalie Belle—I call her ‘NB’—didn’t feel the same way when we she came<br />
last May, though she never explained why. But I didn’t put it as clearly as I just did<br />
with you; the ‘M Word.’ I always feared being too forward with her <strong>and</strong> wrecking our<br />
relationship. On the other h<strong>and</strong>, I want to respect what she said. I don’t have much<br />
reason to believe she saw in me what I saw in her.”<br />
“Other than seeing it in her, hoping she felt the same.”<br />
Which is often all we have: blind hope, dreams we hold close for years. When<br />
it comes to love, so many of us are children thrashing in the deep end, <strong>and</strong> nobody ever<br />
taught us how to swim.<br />
I peer into my webcam, suddenly aware of the strangeness of some plastic<br />
<strong>and</strong> metal firing a digital image to my friend’s laptop. We are so easily bent by the<br />
movement of energy, the stroke of a pen, a glance too long or short. We are profoundly<br />
affected beings. So much of my love for NB was forged through electrical signals <strong>and</strong><br />
ones <strong>and</strong> zeroes. I feared for so long telling NB that what I really wanted was to hold<br />
her face in my h<strong>and</strong>s while she smiled, to see the diamonds in her eyes without a screen<br />
dividing us, to hear her voice without earbuds <strong>and</strong> a volume knob.<br />
“I would have moved to Atlanta for her,” I say. “I never told her how I really<br />
felt.”<br />
“Wow,” Heather says.<br />
“Her trip last year was vindication. My friends thought I was crazy for loving<br />
someone I’d only met once before in person. By the time she left, they understood. If<br />
they could see it, why couldn’t NB?”<br />
Heather thinks it over. “Even with all the uncertainties, do you feel certain<br />
enough about her to move to Atlanta?”<br />
“Only money would stop me, <strong>and</strong> I’d figure it out.” I stop myself. “I didn’t even<br />
have to think about that, did I?”<br />
Heather nods. “Exactly. Let me be honest: I think you should tell her<br />
everything. It isn’t just a crush. Tell her all the reasons you see you two working. And<br />
then tell her you can’t just give up on it with no real explanation from her.”<br />
“I don’t want to wreck my friendship with her.”<br />
“She has to feel something for you, otherwise she wouldn’t have come to<br />
Chicago.”<br />
“That is what people said at the time.” I show a true smile. “Thanks for staying<br />
friends with me. I’m sorry I dragged you into my mess.”<br />
“I wouldn’t have found Paul otherwise. I’m rooting for you. I’m a hopeless<br />
romantic at heart.”<br />
“Penny, I’ve got a problem,” I say, pacing behind Parsonage House, my phone<br />
pressed to my ear.<br />
“Okay,” her voice crackles through the phone.<br />
“Where are you, anyway?” I ask.<br />
“Danny, we’ve been over this. I moved to New Jersey in January for work.”<br />
“Oh, right. It sucks not having you around!”<br />
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“What’s your problem?” she asks.<br />
I throw my back against the red brick behind the house. “The problem is NB. I<br />
think I’m still in love with her <strong>and</strong> it’s paralyzing my life.”<br />
Silence.<br />
“Did you hear me?”<br />
Five seconds of cackling.<br />
“Are you cackling at me?”<br />
Penny’s cackling tapers off. “You aren’t telling me anything I didn’t already<br />
know.”<br />
“What?!”<br />
“Your friends love you. And we knew there was nothing any of us could say<br />
to help you get over Natalie. However long it would take, it was something you had to<br />
realize yourself.”<br />
I grumble because everyone who apparently loves me also thinks I’m too hardheaded<br />
to listen to their advice.<br />
They may be right.<br />
“So out of curiosity, what made you finally realize this?” Penny asks.<br />
“Tom <strong>and</strong> a girl named Heather who I briefly dated.”<br />
“Um...okay?”<br />
“I was downstairs messing around on my tablet, <strong>and</strong> Tom looked up at me<br />
because I was smiling, <strong>and</strong> he told me he’s never seen me smile so much. I was smiling<br />
because I was chatting with NB online. I hadn’t realized it.<br />
“I couldn’t get what Tom said out of my head. Heather r<strong>and</strong>omly messaged me<br />
later, <strong>and</strong> we started talking about it. I told her about how I almost moved to Atlanta to<br />
be with NB, <strong>and</strong> she asked me straight out if I would still go if NB gave me some hint<br />
that she wanted it. I said ‘yes’ without even thinking.”<br />
“That’s a big deal,” Penny says.<br />
“And she said I can’t keep living in the limbo of it. I have to tell NB the whole<br />
truth <strong>and</strong> hopefully get something of it from her.”<br />
“Heather’s right. When will you talk to Natalie?”<br />
“Pretty soon. I wanted to consult with the people who think I don’t listen to<br />
them to make sure I’m not doing something stupid.”<br />
“You’re not,” Penny says. “And no matter what happens, I want you to know<br />
how proud I am that you’ve realized this about yourself. I know you don’t always feel it,<br />
but you’ve grown up so much these past few years.”<br />
“Thanks, Penny. So wait, when did you move to New Jersey?”<br />
“Goodbye, Danny.”<br />
#<br />
“Tom, I love NB. I want to marry her.”<br />
Lunchtime the next day. Tom’s eating a s<strong>and</strong>wich at his desk. He looks up.<br />
“You mean Natalie?”<br />
“Yup.”<br />
“Really? When did you decide this?”<br />
“After midnight with the help of someone I once dated.”<br />
Tom nods. “Okay… Full disclosure, I can’t say I’m surprised. You guys had<br />
some real chemistry. Natural interactions, a lot of laughter. It’s rare to find that kind of<br />
connection with someone.”<br />
“Yes. People said that after she left. I felt vindicated as hell.” I punch the<br />
doorframe. “Ow,” I mutter, rubbing my knuckles.<br />
Tom eats more s<strong>and</strong>wich. “What are you gonna do?”<br />
“I’m gonna tell her in the clearest way I can that I’ve loved her for years <strong>and</strong> I’d<br />
marry her tomorrow if she wanted to.”<br />
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“Whoa.” He nods enthusiastically. “You’re gonna call her, then?”<br />
I narrow my eyes. “Call on her, perhaps.” I slowly back away.<br />
“Are you… You’re just gonna creepily back away without saying anything else?<br />
Do you really not have a game plan for this?”<br />
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#<br />
Traffic in Chicago sucks unless your game plan is to hit the road an hour<br />
before midnight.<br />
I take I-90 southeast toward Indiana. My windshield wipers push aside midspring<br />
rain as I pass beneath glowing, red text reading, “CHICAGO SKYWAY TOLL<br />
BRIDGE.” The Windy City is behind me in an hour.<br />
Construction in Indiana slows me to a crawl not long after I hit I-65. I last<br />
drove this road on my way back home from Florida, just before my Papa died from lung<br />
cancer a few months after NB visited Chicago. Ever since I moved to Chicago, I haven’t<br />
felt “home.” Is it Chicago? Is it me? The constant these past few years has been NB. If I<br />
had my laptop with me, I could talk to her. Everywhere was home if I could talk to her.<br />
At half-past two Indianapolis disappears in my rearview. The corn fields<br />
tumble into hills <strong>and</strong> forests as I descend into the Ohio River Valley. It’s close to four<br />
when I cross into Kentucky. Bars of neon waver in the Ohio River, reflecting downtown<br />
Louisville’s light.<br />
The sun peeks up over the Appalachian foothills somewhere between Bowling<br />
Green <strong>and</strong> Nashville. I pull over. Commuters fly past as I lean against my Chevy, sipping<br />
lukewarm coffee from a paper cup with red hearts on it, watching the sunrise.<br />
I-24, Murfreesboro, Chattanooga, I-75. The Tennessee Valley comes <strong>and</strong><br />
goes. This part of the country is one of my favorites. I feel strangely rooted, strangely<br />
careless, in the South.<br />
Chicago has thickened my blood so I lower the windows <strong>and</strong> let my hair blow<br />
back in the morning chill. Nothing changes when you’re a grain of s<strong>and</strong> in an hourglass,<br />
<strong>and</strong> time won’t move on until I let myself fall.<br />
#<br />
Atlanta.<br />
The receptionist doesn’t acknowledge me for a while. She finally looks up.<br />
“Before you can see any of our counselors, I’ll need you to fill out a few forms.”<br />
“Oh, I’m not a patient. I’m looking for NB.”<br />
She stares, suspicious. In fairness to her, I’m disheveled <strong>and</strong> am currently<br />
fueled by nothing but caffeine <strong>and</strong> an existential crisis.<br />
I shake my head. “Sorry—Natalie? She plays the djembe but hates it?”<br />
“You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”<br />
“I’m her friend.”<br />
“Danny,” she says, realizing who I am. “Half of Natalie’s posts are somehow<br />
connected to you.”<br />
I take a bow.<br />
“Aren’t you from Chicago?” She squints at my untidy clothes, hair, face...<br />
personality. “Should I be worried you’re here?”<br />
“I know I look messy. I’ve just been driving all night.” I lift my shirt to prove I’m<br />
unarmed. “No weapons. I’m just eccentric!” My shirt is still up.<br />
“God, there are two of you,” she says, shielding her eyes.<br />
I lower my shirt. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”<br />
“Around the corner, second door on your left.” The receptionist h<strong>and</strong>s me a<br />
stick-on guest pass. “Natalie’s on her lunch—<strong>and</strong> keep your clothes on.”<br />
“Thanks,” I say. I turn the corner, sticking the label to my shirt. I go up to the
second door <strong>and</strong> peek through the glass window in it.<br />
NB’s office is colorful <strong>and</strong> cozy. There’s an easy chair <strong>and</strong> a patterned throw<br />
rug. Pictures of family <strong>and</strong> friends cover the walls. A cot is unfolded in the corner<br />
because she is a serious napper.<br />
Isn’t it strange how some people take your breath away even when they’re<br />
tired at work, <strong>and</strong> their makeup doesn’t look all that great today <strong>and</strong> they’re…eating<br />
cake for lunch? Come on, NB.<br />
Anyway, she’s at her computer watching a cat video. I stare for an<br />
uncomfortable amount of time. I can’t help it. She’s always been beautiful to me, plus I<br />
like messing with people.<br />
As with most of my victims, NB finally gets the uneasy feeling she’s being<br />
watched. She turns to her door <strong>and</strong> sees me through the glass.<br />
NB yelps then falls onto her desk laughing. Her face turns completely red.<br />
I slowly push the door open. I want to smile, but I can’t break character.<br />
“Danny?!” she shouts, laughing. “What are you doing here?”<br />
“Revenge,” I say seriously.<br />
She throws her head back <strong>and</strong> rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”<br />
With NB properly exasperated, I drop my façade <strong>and</strong> laugh <strong>and</strong> smile.<br />
She comes out from behind her desk. Her blue jeans are tucked into cowboy<br />
boots, <strong>and</strong> she is not being ironic about it.<br />
We hug. I hold her a little more tightly than I should. She takes it in stride.<br />
“You look like crap,” she says in her Atlantan twang.<br />
“Do I smell like it?” I edge closer to give her a big whiff.<br />
“I’m not smelling you.” Laughter dances in her eyes, but she keeps a straight<br />
face. Even now, it’s still our game.<br />
“Did you for real drive here?” she says. “You look like you drove.”<br />
“Yes. I haven’t slept,” I say, staring into the middle distance.<br />
NB grabs her purse. “I know what you need.”<br />
#<br />
We pull up to the Chipped Mug. I absolutely hate this coffee shop <strong>and</strong> NB<br />
knows it.<br />
“I absolutely hate this coffee shop <strong>and</strong> you know it,” I say.<br />
“You’re gonna drink the coffee whether you like it or not.”<br />
“Does the service still suck?” I say, shutting the passenger-side door. “Is the<br />
coffee still burnt <strong>and</strong> served in doctor’s office pee cups with dollar refills?”<br />
She slugs me in the shoulder. “They’re not ‘pee’ cups.” Silence. “And yes.”<br />
“You know why this coffee shop survives? Because it’s right off the campus of<br />
Southern University with Nationally Ranked Football Team.”<br />
“Quiet, Yankee!” she says.<br />
NB leads me through the front door. A bunch of undergrads are hanging out<br />
<strong>and</strong> being way too loud. Old bike parts are nailed to the walls as if they’re art. Crappy<br />
papier-mâché masks, crumbling from age, are scattered about. The floor needs to be<br />
mopped, the lights are too yellow, the music sucks, <strong>and</strong> the barista looks like a meanie.<br />
“Are you complaining through internal monologue?” NB asks, eyebrow<br />
knowingly arched.<br />
I scoff. “What? Ha! …How could you tell?”<br />
“You mumbled something about it being too yellow in here <strong>and</strong> it sounded<br />
more theatrical than your norm.” She looks at me over her shoulder <strong>and</strong> my heart<br />
races. “You’re thinking of all the reasons your fav shop is better.”<br />
“My barista’s not a meanie,” I grumble.<br />
We reach the counter. “Get whatever you want, it’s on me,” she says.<br />
“Small dark roast,” I say to the barista. He stares. He looks like a stick bug. His<br />
beard is probably the heaviest part of him.<br />
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160
“Same,” she says.<br />
The other barista—a mousy-looking young woman who I’d bet weighs less<br />
than Stick Bug’s beard—reads off the damage. “Four-fifty.”<br />
“Four-fifty?!” I hiss through my teeth at NB. “They’re like six ounces here!<br />
They’re served in thimbles.”<br />
Stick Bug stares at me with soulless, hipster eyes.<br />
“I like this coffee shop so deal with it,” NB says, paying cash then slipping her<br />
sunglasses on <strong>and</strong> off right quick because she is a meme.<br />
Stick Bug sets down two small, foam cups of coffee. I decide not to lay it on<br />
too thick <strong>and</strong> stop complaining.<br />
We grab a booth by a big window. The trees have barely sprouted spring buds<br />
<strong>and</strong> the sky is gray.<br />
“So,” NB begins.<br />
I sip my coffee. Blech!<br />
“What have you been up to?” she continues, choosing not to debate me about<br />
the coffee.<br />
“Writing. Working part-time. Finishing my second master’s.” I sip. “How have<br />
you been?”<br />
She sighs, sits back, stares out the window. “Busy.”<br />
“Yeah?” I ask, hoping she’ll say more.<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
“Do you like your job?” I don’t know why I always need to ask people this<br />
question. I want people to have some source of meaning in their lives, <strong>and</strong> since work<br />
takes up a lot of time <strong>and</strong> focus, it’s often a good touch point.<br />
“I do,” she answers. “I got into it to help people, but it’s a lot of paperwork.<br />
Thinking of moving on to something else.”<br />
I knot my fingers. “Like what?”<br />
“Don’t know. Something in my field, just different.” She shrugs one shoulder.<br />
NB can be so coy sometimes. She presses her lips together <strong>and</strong> looks me in<br />
the eyes. I look back.<br />
“Are you visiting your aunt <strong>and</strong> uncle in Marietta?” she asks.<br />
I shake my head.<br />
“Your friends in Decatur?”<br />
“No.”<br />
“Passing through to see the fam in Tampa?”<br />
“Nope.”<br />
Silence fills the space between us. It feels like we’re on the way to O’Hare<br />
again, like despite it all, there’s always been more unsaid than said between us.<br />
“Well, Danny. What brings you to my neck of the woods?” Something deep in<br />
the pools of her eyes tells me she already knows.<br />
“The coffee.”<br />
She snorts, fighting a smile. “You’re the worst.”<br />
“You love it.” Even now I hope she’ll tell me she does, <strong>and</strong> that she loves me,<br />
too. But she is silent. She is always silent.<br />
I find myself tapping the tabletop <strong>and</strong> force myself to stop. Despite the<br />
easygoingness of our relationship, this is only the third time we’ve met in person. “I um.”<br />
I bite my lip. “Sorry. I came here because I need to say something to you.”<br />
NB’s gaze stays on mine.<br />
“When you came. To Chicago. We talked about…us. I don’t want to act like I<br />
wasn’t listening because I was. It’s just…I didn’t truly tell you how I felt. I thought I did,<br />
but I didn’t.”<br />
Her brow knits.<br />
“I had to ask myself why I’ve been running circles for four years, why I’ve felt so<br />
lonely, <strong>and</strong> why I’ve had a dozen first dates that have gone nowhere. The reason is you.”<br />
Her lips twist into a frown.<br />
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161 <strong>Windward</strong> <strong>Review</strong> <strong>Vol</strong>ume X
“I’m frustrated at myself,” I say, looking at the table. “I haven’t been able to be<br />
with anybody. Every date I go on is a waste when you’re in my life. I asked you if you<br />
wanted to give us a chance when you came, but it wasn’t enough. Twice we crossed the<br />
country to see each other <strong>and</strong> I never told you the truth.”<br />
She looks down at the table <strong>and</strong> we each hold our coffee cups with both<br />
h<strong>and</strong>s. A few customers pass us on their way out. The cash register rings.<br />
Our eyes meet.<br />
“What is the truth?” she asks.<br />
“Natalie Belle, I’ve loved you for years. I wanted to marry you before we ever<br />
met in person. Tell me there’s a chance for us,” I say, believing she won’t, “<strong>and</strong> I’ll leave<br />
my life behind to be with you. I will smile with you. I will laugh at stupid cat videos with<br />
you. And I will love you until I die.”<br />
For one brief moment she looks at me with deep, deep compassion, <strong>and</strong> I<br />
trick myself into thinking that she might tell me she’s always loved me, too. It had been<br />
the timing. It had been the distance. It had been anything other than the fact that she<br />
didn’t love me like I loved her.<br />
Of course that’s not what happens. Of course the moment is fleeting. Of<br />
course she looks back to the table.<br />
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the guts tell you this when I came here or when you<br />
came to Chicago. I was afraid I’d lose you.” I swallow. I’ve always known, deep down,<br />
how this has to end, <strong>and</strong> I’ve avoided it too long. We’ve never been driving toward a<br />
wedding, only ever toward a funeral.<br />
NB smiles but cannot hide her sadness.<br />
“I know this won’t change anything,” I say. “I just knew I couldn’t move on with<br />
my life until I said that to you as truly as I can, <strong>and</strong> I care enough about you that I knew<br />
I needed to say it if there will ever be a chance of us coming out of this as friends. This<br />
probably wasn’t what you expected your Tuesday to be like, so I’m sorry. For making<br />
you deal with this again. For everything.”<br />
“Don’t.” She shakes her head, wiping away a tear. “Don’t apologize for that.”<br />
She looks at me squarely, <strong>and</strong> her eyes are red around their rims.<br />
“Do you underst<strong>and</strong> what I’m saying?” I ask after a while.<br />
She nods, frowning. “What do you need me to say?” she asks, her voice<br />
shuddering.<br />
I take a long breath. “I need you to tell me that you <strong>and</strong> I will never happen.<br />
And it’s not because of timing, or distance, or anything else. We’ll never happen<br />
because you’re not in love with me <strong>and</strong> you’re never going to be in love with me. I need<br />
you to say it in those words. I need you to mean it.”<br />
The house music changes, more coffee is served, customers come <strong>and</strong> go.<br />
But at this booth in the Chipped Mug where NB <strong>and</strong> I sit, time st<strong>and</strong>s still, there is no<br />
falling s<strong>and</strong>.<br />
“Okay,” NB says, pushing away another tear.<br />
I listen. I am strong.<br />
NB blinks her beautiful, red-rimmed, hazel eyes at me.<br />
“I’m not in love with you, Danny. It’s not because we live far from each other,<br />
or because the timing hasn’t been right. I will never be with you. I will never marry you.<br />
I don’t love you the way you love me. Please stop waiting for that to change. It won’t.<br />
Please move on with your life.”<br />
Her voice quakes <strong>and</strong> her words are swallowed up in a gasp.<br />
“I’m sorry.”<br />
I was calm explaining what she needed to say to me. I’ve been calm this whole<br />
time. But the moment she speaks those words, I am no longer in control. I am a child<br />
thrashing in the deep end, <strong>and</strong> no one ever taught me how to swim.<br />
And in that moment when it seems I will crumble in front of NB <strong>and</strong> all these<br />
strangers, a text message chimes from my phone.<br />
NB looks at my phone, then at me. I can’t answer it.<br />
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It’s facing her <strong>and</strong> she reads it. “…It’s from Tom. He says he’s about to call <strong>and</strong><br />
you need to answer.”<br />
The phone buzzes.<br />
“Sounds important.”<br />