Autumn
      It’s the middle of October in Minnesota, and half bare trees line the worn-out street. I step
over the curb and approach the old townhouse for the first time in years. The siding, once bright
yellow like a baby chick, has molted to match the color of the stray oak leaves at my feet. All my
childhood birthdays, Halloweens, Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters, and Fourth of Julys live
inside these walls. My grandma, Nan, would always be waiting by the window for us to arrive.
      It worries me that I don’t see her now.
      A wooden ramp rises from the sidewalk to the front door. Steps, like much of the
everyday, have become hurdles for Nan. The boards bend a little as I walk up and ready the spare
key.
      I ring the doorbell and wait.
      Over the summer, my wife and I moved with our four-year-old daughter from Ames,
Iowa to Eden Prairie, a suburb outside the Twin Cities. Claire followed her dream of a PhD, and
I got another job in IT consulting. We were still unpacking when my mom called to say that Nan
was losing her strength and reminded me that I now live only an hour away. The question was
answered before it was asked: I agreed to help when I could.
      After standing outside Nan’s door for a moment and hearing nothing, I insert the key and
let myself in.
      The house was built in the 1950s, and save for the TV and microwave, it looks much the
same as it did then. Except now a child-proof gate blocks off the upstairs, though no children
have run through these halls in decades, and the basement door stays closed. There are so many
ways to fall.
      Now that I am in my thirties, six feet tall and broad-shouldered, Nan’s townhouse feels
more cramped than I remember. The air is thick and tastes stale. It’s likely been weeks since Nan has cracked a window. I add that to my list of chores.
      In this warm stillness, my footsteps take on added weight as I walk deeper into the house.
The kitchen and bathroom make an upside-down L to my left, while the den opens to my right.
      “Nan?”
      I find my grandma sitting in the wingback Ruthanne chair, her favorite spot. Her hair
floats above her head like a cloud taking on rain. Nan’s eyes shine at seeing me, and I feel light
and loved.
      “Benji, Benji, Benji.” She’s the only one who still calls me that. To everyone else I’m
Ben. “My special little guy, but not so little anymore. How are you these days?”
      “Fine, thanks.” It’s an easy lie.
      There’s an orange circle of yarn in her lap. Growing up, Nan crocheted mittens and
gloves for me, switched to hats and scarves, and then downsized to bookmarks. I rarely use them, but I appreciate the warmth they give off. It looks like Nan has started making child’s hat. Her crochet hook curves at the end like Nan herself. Osteoporosis has bowed her at the shoulders. If I live to be her age, the unstoppable forces of time and gravity will also pull me back to the earth.
      “Can I fix you some coffee?” Nan asks. “I won’t water it down for you like usual. I know
you like it strong.” By strong she means normal.
      “I can make some later if I need it.”
      Behind the den there’s Nan’s bedroom, which connects to the bathroom by the kitchen. I
imagine my mom and her siblings as kids, flinging open the bath and bedroom doors and running
loops like chariots around the hippodrome. Such antics, any fun, would have happened when
Grandpa Thom wasn’t around. I hope to leave behind a better life for my wife and daughter than the one he left for his.
      “No, let me...” Nan tries to push herself out of her chair, but I rest a hand on her arm and
sit across from her.
      “You take it easy.”
      We talk a little more before I excuse myself to do the chores she needs. First, I open the
kitchen window a bit to let in the breeze. Then after I take out the trash and recycling, I start the mower and push it back and forth across the lawn.
      Seeing the veins branching at my wrists makes me think of the blood bank where I first
met Claire. She was volunteering for nursing school, and I needed money. Competent and caring, as she wrapped her fingers around my wrist we got to talking. Later that day she stopped by the coffee shop I worked at. Instead of Claire taking my blood, I poured her a latte. The world felt so open then.
      When I come back inside Nan’s house, my palms are still vibrating from being clamped
around the lawnmower handle. Grass clippings cling to my shoes and jeans. I smell like a
novelty candle someone in the city might buy.
      In the den, Nan drapes a blanket over her shoulders. She nods to the empty armchair
opposite her, the forest-green Calliope with its oval base and curved backseat. That’s where
Grandpa Thom used to sit by the window before he left Nan and the family for a woman in
Montana.
​      “Did the mower give you any trouble?”
      “Nope.”
      I’m busy thinking about the job that will have me on the road tomorrow. My mind flashes
with computer screens and lines of code. I’m supposed to travel with my coworker, a woman in
her late twenties and new to the area. Already I’m dreading the trip: the painful small talk with
her, the forced politeness with customers, the long drive across this tundra state.
      Nan peers at me through her horn-rimmed glasses, and I realize I’ve fallen behind in our
conversation.
      I grow quiet, but silence doesn’t faze her.
      “Did you know that your grandpa never liked fish? His parents were from Wales, so
you’d think he would. I don’t know why not...” She lowers her crochet hook and sighs. “I can’t
believe that woman didn’t hold a service or anything. Just burned him up.”
      There’s a bite to her words when she talks about him, even in death.
​      I most remember Grandpa Thom as the tall, sinewy man by the window. An impassive
man, a hard man. If he allowed a grin, you knew he was beaming; and if he chuckled, then deep
inside Grandpa Thom was bent over with laughter. Maybe we were poor amusements. I’d like to
think he loved us, or at least me.
      Each holiday Grandpa Thom would take the bus across town, walk the last two blocks to
his old home, and ease himself into the chair I’m now sitting in. He’d grip the ends of the
armrest as if bracing for takeoff. Meanwhile, I’d be cross-legged on the carpet, tearing at
wrapping paper and shouting thanks. All those family memories over the holidays, and I never
knew how much hurt there was.
      I ask, “Would you like it if there was a service held here?”
      “No.” With great effort, she begins to stand. “I’m not going anywhere for him.”
      I get up and let her grab my arm like it’s a railing, then guide Nan to her walker. “Steady
as she goes.”
      “I was talking to my friend Rosie on the phone...” She takes a small step forward, and I
shadow her steps, just in case. “Her husband also had a woman on the side, and we agreed: You
can’t wish ‘em back, and we wouldn’t if we could.”
      My phone buzzes in my pocket. I try to ignore it.
      “How did you catch him?”
      “He didn’t make much attempt to hide the cheating.”
      I rest my hand against Nan’s back to steady her. “What would it take to forgive him?”
      She scoffs. “He’d have to ask to be forgiven, for one, which he never did.”
      My phone keeps vibrating, and when I take it out I see that it’s from work.
      With my hand to Nan’s back, I feel her lungs draw harder as she recovers her breath.
Chills slide down my arms.
      Nan’s walker drags louder once we reach the hardwood floor of the kitchen and dining
area. She grabs the nearest chair and slumps into it. Her fingers tremble as she clumsily pulls at
the wool blanket shawled around her shoulders.
      “Did you do something?” Nan asks, half pleading, half accusing, and I think about the
open window. “It’s so cold.”

Winter
      It’s the first weekend in December, and when I visit Nan I bring my daughter with me. I
want Maddie to see me on my best behavior. It’s been a few weeks since she and I have had
quality time together, and I don’t want her to grow cold toward me.
      November came and went like a whiteout storm. Blinded and sideswiped by snow, you
can’t see the road. Accidents happen. Someone I never met wrote some bad code, which caused
problems at an office up north, which sent me on a four-hour drive with a coworker I barely
know. Clients vented their anger about things beyond my control, and I took the blame. The trip
got extended after the client complained anyway. I drank with my coworker until we became
more than strangers, until it was just me and the other new hire, and we both wanted--
something—and then something happened.
      Claire doesn’t know. Not yet.
      This morning she seemed relieved to be left alone. Things haven’t been right between us
lately. I don’t know how to touch her or what to say. When she looks at me, I feel like I’m
getting scanned at the airport. I can never find the words I need. I’ll find myself standing before her with my mind screaming but my mouth slack, like a straitjacket has my tongue. Some force
keeps holding me back.
      Once my daughter and I get out of the car, Maddie runs in her puffy pink coat up the
wooden ramp. My back strains as I follow her to the front door. I’m happy to see Nan at the
window this time, waving and smiling wide so you can see her purple gums.
      Inside the kitchen, Nan has set out mason jars and plastic containers filled with
strawberries. She pushes her walker toward us.
​      “Why, is that my great-granddaughter I see?” she asks coyly and looks down at Maddie,
who says, “Nan-ma,” and rushes to give her a hug.
      I nod toward the kitchen. “What’s all this?”
      “We’re making jam.” Nan tousles my daughter’s hair. “Me and the little one here. We
discussed this, or at least your mother and I did.”
      Maybe we talked about it, maybe not. My family has a history of acting as if a
conversation between two members will convey relevant information through osmosis. Wires
cross, schedules clash, mistakes abound. My mind’s racing, and I leave Nan and my daughter to
go outside.
      They take longer than I expected. The two of them are wrapping up after I’ve shoveled
the walkways, brought out the trash, and gone back inside to set up Nan’s collectible Christmas
village. Quaint homes, perfect little families, the miniature shops and figures look like they’ve
been pulled from a Norman Rockwell painting.
      “Dad, come here!”
      I set down the last figurine, a man shoveling snow and looking all too happy about it, and
follow my daughter’s voice to the kitchen.
      Maddie stands on a stepping stool and smiles. Her a mouth is lined with strawberry jam, a
clown’s smile, and her red hands scream Lady Macbeth. But she’s not the one with something to
hide.
      I run my finger along a dull, jam-dipped knife and lick it. The sweet hit of strawberry and
seeds between my teeth, I can’t help but smile.
      “How did everything go?” I ask.
      “Great!” Maddie hops down from the step stool and holds her arms out in front of her,
zombie-like, as she approaches the sink.
      Nan sits in a wooden chair near the stove, looking weary. “Maddie’s a good helper. She
must get that from you.”
      “Want a hand in getting up?”
      “If you wouldn’t mind.”
      I help Nan rise from her chair. Once she has hold of her walker, I let go. My daughter
finishes washing her hands, though her garish grin remains, and the three of us shuffle into the
den.
      Nan takes her usual seat, while I sit near the window. Maddie plunks down between us on
the carpet. She faces the wood curio cabinet, where ceramic orioles and blue jays stare from
behind curved glass. Along the top of the cabinet are three wood shelves with latch handles. God
knows what junk Nan keeps there.
      Classical music starts playing from inside my pocket. Someone’s calling me.
      Maddie perks up. “Is that Mommy?”
      I pull out the phone and see my coworker’s number. Her messages are filled with re-words: reckless, regret, remember, really sorry.
      Heat climbs up my neck. “It’s work.”
      In my mind I’m back at the hotel bar, wine-sloshed and propping my head in my hands.
My coworker’s talking about her failed engagement, cold feet, colder hearts. When she sets her
glass down, her hand nearly touches mine. She has no ring, and in that moment neither do I.
      “Is everything okay?” Nan’s question snaps me back.
      “Things aren’t great right now.”
      Not great: Midwest for awful.
      Nan gives a faint smile. “Whether I was working on the farm or in the office, I never
liked being told what to do.”
      “Me, either.”
      “But what is it that you do?”
      I’ve learned that when talking to people my parents’ age or older, it’s best to start
broadly. “I help fix things with computers.”
      “Computers were starting to roll out when I retired. When the light at the end of the
tunnel looks like a train, it’s time to step away.” Nan turns to my daughter and out of nowhere
asks, “Maddie, do you think you might want a little brother or sister?”
      Maddie doesn’t look up. “I don’t know.” She has opened the curio cabinet and holds a
ceramic bird in each hand.
      I square my shoulders to Nan and try to get her attention. “Claire going back to school
has left a lot up in the air. We’d have to plan it out...”
      “Reminds me of how deer birth their fawn while standing and send them wobbling off.”
She gestures toward the back yard. “Some nights you can hear them crying in the woods. A
terrible sound.”
      “Who?”
      “The little ones left on their own.”
      Thankfully, my daughter doesn’t appear to be listening to us. Maddie bobs the birds’
heads together, and I wonder what secret conversations she takes part in.
      “Anyway,” Nan continues, “I’m sorry that your work has you so busy. I had to go back to
work once your grandpa left.”
      I picture Grandpa Thom handing me one of his old books, a thick tome with gold
lettering on the cover: The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I was eight
years old and couldn’t read half the words. I kept the book but haven’t finished it. Empires rise
and fall. People live and die. We all know how it ends.
      Nan winces at some pinched nerve.
      When the pain lessens, she says, “I forgot to mention: You wouldn’t believe what that
woman in Montana sent me.”
      “What?”
      She points at the middle drawer atop the cabinet. Purple spots the size of pennies dot her hands.
      I pull the small drawer toward me, and a glass vial knocks against the wood sides. It’s packed with a powder like salt mixed with pepper.
      “Is that...”
      “Thomas. Part of him, anyway.”
      I stare at the drawer, this small coffin, at my grandpa rolling in his grave. Maddie’s still
chatting with the birds.
      I lean forward and whisper to Nan, “Where’s the rest of him?”
      Nan stays focused on her fingers and crochet hook. “Ask that woman. He always feared
hellfire, not that he did much to avoid it. I can’t believe she cremated him.”
      Maddie looks up from the floor. “Cream?”
      She’s wide-eyed because last week I came home from work to find Claire making
chocolate pudding and spraying Cool Whip into Maddie’s mouth. Our daughter had returned
from preschool crying about not having any friends. Claire reminded her that, “Some things take
time,” and went about preparing Maddie’s favorite dessert. As soon as I stepped inside our
house, their laughter hushed. I had caught a glimpse of their happiness, their glow, and felt it
fade before me. Claire asked me what was wrong. What was I supposed to say? Nothing and
everything.
      Now my daughter is staring up at me, and my hands are empty.
      “Not right now,” I say. “We can get you some whipped cream when we’re back home.”
      “‘Not right now,’” she imitates with a blue jay, as if it had become a parrot.
      Nan keeps talking like Maddie isn’t there. “He was a good grandpa, wasn’t he? At least
he wasn’t bad to you.”
      I nod. He never hit me or raised his voice except to say, “Sit still!” He was just kind
enough to have earned a grandson’s love.
      Nan glances out the window. “She could have sent flowers.”
      “Did you send her flowers?”
      “Why would I? She’s the lily pad he hopped off to when life got difficult.”
      “What about—”
      “She knew what he was.” Nan pulls hard on a strand of yarn. “Thank God you’re not like
him.”
      A knot tightens inside me when she says it. I mumble thanks and gaze out the window.
It’s starting to snow; the drive back gets longer by the minute.
      Nan intertwines her bony fingers. Bluish white with polished nails, her hands look like a
mountain range.
      “You have his height and face, though. Sometimes I think I’m getting dementia when I
see you, but your clothes are nice. Thom was never good with money...”
      I feel a chill off the windowpane as snow whips past us. My blue car is now mostly
white. I tap my daughter on the shoulder to get her up, but she doesn’t budge.
      “Sorry, Nan. If you—”
      “And I had to do so much on my own. The bank came after me for his debts until there
was nothing left for the kids.” Nan stops crocheting. When she flexes her fingers, it sounds like
twigs snapping. She looks so tired. “Some things I can’t forgive.”
      “I’m sorry...”
      For now, we let the conversation die. I rise to leave. When I motion for Maddie to do the
same, she stays put.
      Nan reaches for her walker and grimaces. “Is it that time already?”
      I point at my snow-covered car. “It’s getting bad outside, is all.”
      Maddie’s still on the floor playing make-believe and whispering to herself. I can’t tell if
she’s lost in her own world or ignoring me.
      “Put the birds back.” I sound harsher than I want, and Maddie gets quiet.
      My daughter won’t look at me.
      “Sorry, Maddie.” I stoop down and lighten my voice. “It’s time to say goodbye to Nan,
before it gets too scary outside.”
      Spry as a grasshopper, Maddie leaps to her feet and hugs Nan goodbye.
      I take my daughter’s small hand in mine. Her palm is very much a child’s, pudgy like
playdough and pounding with a hummingbird’s pulse. Full of life. Claire and I tell Maddie she
can become whoever and whatever she wants. It’s the one thing we still agree on.
      “Dad!” Maddie pulls free and waves her hand like she’s cooling a burn. “Stop holding so
tight, please. You’re hurting me.”

Spring
      It’s March and the sidewalk is mostly slush. Gray snow and mud cling to my boots.
Inside Nan’s house they’ll crust over like dried coral.
      This time I come alone. I made sure Nan knew in advance, so as not to get her hopes up
for Maddie.
      I enter the house and find Nan fast asleep in her chair. She has a skein of yellow yarn on
the floor. I don’t know if I have seen her so peaceful, and if I were to find her skin cool to the
touch, I would say she went out as best as anyone can hope for. But I don’t reach out. I let her
sleep as I carry out the chores.
      The truth is I’m avoiding her.
      I sent Nan a Christmas card and called, but I stayed home with Claire and Maddie. I
thought that’s what we needed. Even if Nan asks, I’d rather not talk about it. I had planned on
telling Claire so many times, but on Christmas Eve she found my phone. Every day since then
has been a waking nightmare. We shout when Maddie isn’t home and sit in silence when she is. I
don’t know how to answer my daughter’s questions, like why am I sleeping on the couch? Why
am I so sad? When can she see Nan-ma? Claire’s done asking questions. Instead, she tells me things: her schedule, the name of a hotel, a lawyer’s phone number. My coworker feels bad about it all. She keeps her distance, and she’s stopped taking my calls.
      In Nan’s backyard there’s a small shed. I pull out the metal ladder and prop it against the
house. As I climb up to clean the rain gutters, the ladder presses deeper into the ground. I think
of Nan, hunched with age. Once I’ve scaled high enough to touch the eavestrough, I reach up and
grab a handful of acorns and molten leaves. Wet, grainy decay slicks my hand and gets under my
fingernails. A loamy smell, like topsoil and worms, nauseates me, but it keeps my mind off
everything else.
      The rain gutter rattles.
      A squirrel sprints down the trough toward my hand, and I startle.
      I pull back and the ladder comes with me—for a second vertical—before the ladder and I
fall. I jump off and hit the ground. The ladder strikes the earth and reverberates loudly. I think of
the acorns, the squirrel’s savings and safety net, and how like a flash flood I’ve taken everything.
      Getting up isn’t easy. I let out a sigh without meaning to. My knees are sore and muddy,
and my hands look covered in shit.
      Past the edge of the lawn, the woods creep in. Underbrush gives way to spindly pine and
birch trees. You can see where deer have peeled off strips of bark. I listen, but I can only hear my
own raspy breathing. The ladder is still lying on the ground. I imagine having to climb back up
and scoop out all the muck and gunk with my hands like shovels. It’s cold, and I’m tired. Neither
Nan nor the house are going anywhere. There will be other days.
      I put the ladder away and go back inside.
      I find Nan’s small coffeepot filled with water and ready with a filter and some grounds.
The smell of coffee beans calms me. I turn the pot on and let it sputter.
      “Is that you, Benji?” Nan surprises me from the hallway, stooped over her walker. “I
heard a racket outside.”
      “Who else would it be?”
      “You never know.”
      It doesn’t take long before we sit in our usual places, a chipped mug steaming between
my hands.
      Nan asks, “Is your work going any better these days?”
      “A little worse than before...” I glance at the curio cabinet and wonder about Grandpa Thom’s ashes. “It’s a bit complicated.”
      “I’m sorry to hear that.” When I don’t say more, Nan changes tack. “And how’s the little
one?”
      “Maddie’s doing great in pre-K, making lots of new friends.” Or so Claire told me over
the phone.
      I can feel my phone in my pocket, a phantom limb I keep checking on, but it’s been a few
days since anyone has called. Nan still doesn’t know anything. My parents don’t either, but
they’re starting to ask questions about Claire and Maddie. I plan to roll back the lies slowly, like
a glacier, and in their wake see what debris remains. It’s a matter of time.
      I wonder if Grandpa Thom went to Glacier National Park in Montana before he died, or
was he too used to living near special things and not knowing it?
      Nan studies me. “You’ve been quiet about Claire lately. Is she all right?”
      “She’s okay...” My watery silhouette looks up from the coffee mug. I think of when I
made Claire’s latte, my weeks of frothing flowers in customers’ drinks put to the test.
      “What is she going to school for again? Epidurals or—”
      “Epidemiology.”
      “What’s that?”
      “Sickness and diseases.” More things I don’t understand.
      “A lot of that going around. Job security...” A wan smile crosses Nan’s face. “Smart girl,
isn’t she?”
      I nod and take a sip of weak coffee.
      She taps her temple. “I still have my mind. That’s the most important thing.”
      “You’re doing great, Nan.”
      “It’s a terrible thing to lose yourself.”
      “It is.”
      She gives me a curious look and chuckles softly. “You don’t have to worry about that for
a long time. I spend so much time thinking. There’s not much else I can still do.”
      Nan may be the only person left who doesn’t see me as a letdown. If I tell her the truth
then her “special little guy” dies, even though a lie is a lie, and I’ve already dug young Benji’s
grave. Unlike me, she’s honest and unafraid. With her health every day is a blessing, and every
season is an open question. This could be the last time I see her.
      So I ask, “If Grandpa Thom were here now, what would you say to him?”
      “I can’t wish him back, and I won’t.”
      “Please, Nan.”
      She picks up her crochet hook and a yellow square of yarn, the start of a scarf for my
daughter.
      “I’d ask him what made it so easy to leave. I’d ask him why he is how he is.” Tears shine
at the edges of her eyes, and I feel a deep pull down my chest. “How he was.”
      A school bus drives past the window and stops down the block. A few kids around
Maddie’s age hop off. They’re wearing galoshes, and the sidewalk’s half drowned. It must have
rained last night.
      “What if he didn’t want to leave?”
      “He left, Benji. Several times. Now he’s in some jar in Montana. That’s the life he
chose.”
      I slump back in the Calliope chair. Claire doesn’t want me around, and there’s no woman
in Montana waiting for me. Maddie I barely see. Over the phone she sounds so distant.
      “But what if he had asked to stay?”
      “Then you’d be talking about someone else’s life, not mine.” Nan rests her crochet hook
in her lap. “I don’t understand this sudden interest of yours. You don’t have to worry. You’re not
like him.”
      “You keep saying that.”
      Nan turns her gaze to the curio cabinet, where our reflections bow along the glass. “Every
marriage has its problems.” Her even-handed tone comforts me. “We have to unlearn all the bad
habits we can and try our best. What else is there?”
      The kids down the street stomp through puddles, and I can almost hear them laughing.
      “What if you’ve already messed up?”
      “Then learn from it and do better going forward.” As Nan stares at the curio cabinet, her
face darkens. “I didn’t know people could lie like he did. How could I have known?”
      “I’m sorry, Nan.”
      She rests her head back and almost melds with the chair. “I wish I could tell you we lived
happily ever after or that Thomas and I became friends, but I can’t.”
​      Our talk seems to have taken something from her. “Be gentle with her,” my mom had
urged. “She’s a tough cookie, but she’s been through a lot.”
      Nan blinks her eyes at me as if fighting off a nap. “When will I see you next?”
      “I can stay a bit longer.” It’s not like anyone else is expecting me.
      “Stay as long as you like.”
      The two of us settle into a shared silence as we stare out the window, each of us
searching for our own meaning. I think hard about what I’ll say next, weighing each word and
bracing myself. Nan closes her eyes with the hint of a smile. I keep staring out at the empty street
as children laugh in the distance.
      I don’t know if I will ever set foot in this house again, and I don’t know if I will ever
leave.

Paul Waldhart holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Roosevelt University in Chicago. While at Roosevelt, he served as managing editor of the Oyez Review Literary Journal. His fiction frequently explores life in the Midwest and has appeared in Whitefish Review, Peninsula Pulse, and N.O.T.A. 

“You Are What You Eat”
--
If that’s the case then on Mondays and Thursdays I am nothing.
On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I am stomach acid churning,
timeless cigarette drags,
and the dead skin cells from throat gags.
Saturdays start with a big breakfast of therapy,
of things I don’t even want to be.
They end with a spoonful of liquid IV
and a plate of vegetables seasoned with maturity.
On Sundays,
I am orange juice.

Hollow Gold Honey
--
December 3rd, 4:35 pm

      I haven’t slept and all I can think about is music. The radio in the other room is playing
jazz, it’s no bother. I wasn’t a band kid in high school, rather I was in the band—there’s a
difference. The band kids I knew were supposedly icky. They never washed their hair, their
breath smelled like expired yogurt, and because the boys remained pubescent they grew mold in
place of their actual beards. I, on the other hand, just tried to mind my own business and ignored
the geeky comments they made about grace notes and double time.

      My favorite instrument I ever played was the euphonium. It’s also called the baritone and
essentially looks like a miniature tuba. It’s brass and sounds like honey rolling through the sea,
but my teacher always labeled the sound as hollow. I never named my instrument but still felt a
personal connection to the one I received during my high school years. We made a good
duo—like Bonnie and Clyde or Yin and Yang. Salt and pepper. Water and sand. I’d read the sheet
music and give my euphonium the air it needed to produce the elegant sound. It was almost as
though our conversations were in code. We worked together to create. It was my air that flowed
through the instrument. Whether I pressed the first valve or third, whether I softened my lips or
not, the waves of emotion never failed to engulf me. I was fifteen when I discovered hollow gold
honey.

      Before high school, I played trumpet but after a while of not being able to hit the three or
four-octave notes, I partnered with the euphonium. Band class was from 11:00 am to 12:30 pm
and marching band practice was from 4:00 pm to 6:00 pm. Some Thursday nights were concerts
and every Friday was pep band. On the weekends, I practiced. My mom always told me that my “tuba” sounded like a dying whale. But I didn’t care. Once my lips touched the cold brass
mouthpiece, all my problems seemed to get lost in the molasses. I let the music take me away the
same way the sea played with driftwood. I didn’t mind being lost here. I’ve come to learn that
when I play, it is not merely a series of notes. Rather, I released the crashing waves of wrath out
of its cage while yearning stood in the doorway and watched. No matter how frustrated I got
when I couldn’t get a set of triplets or the rhythm of cut time, I continued to pour all my efforts
out onto the page and succumbed to the vulnerability I had tried to keep at bay.

      The first time I went to school with my hair cut in 10th grade, I felt out of tune. Soon
after my new look, I went to TJ Maxx where the fitting room attendant kept asking me to go to
the boys’ side. I held up a set of sports bras and walked to the girls’ side. We both said nothing
and let the awkwardness drift us apart. At first, I was worried, for I did not want to be looked at
as a boy. But as I continued to practice my music, I realized that it was my perspective that had
been out of tune. The euphonium never made me feel out of place and the misgendering became
a common occurrence to the point where correcting people felt pointless. Whether I had short
hair or long, music didn’t care whether someone saw me as a girl or boy. The job was to feel and
in 10th grade, I harmonized myself into a feeler.

      It wasn’t hard to leave my euphonium behind when I graduated high school. Parting ways
didn’t feel like saying goodbye. Rather, it felt like saying hi to an old friend. And for some
reason, I didn’t have the need to catch up because maybe I didn’t want to know what happened
between that distance. Maybe I just wanted to hang onto the memories that were left behind,
such as the old pencil marks throughout my sheet music. Or the sound of hundreds of students
cheering for us (and the somewhat decent football team) during the Friday night games. Or the
deafening silence between the musicians and parents while we wait for the conductor to give us
the green light.

      I know that no matter how far I travel or how old I get, I’ll always appreciate the time I
picked up a miniature tuba during my freshman year of high school. My euphonium wasn’t just
brass—it also housed admiration, loss, wrath, sexuality, and adulthood. It sounds like honey and
the last time I tasted honey was when I was fifteen.

​From last Tuesday’s paper, under obituaries:
      Our community sadly lost a respected mentor, Sunday, June 26, 2005 when Ms. Deborah
Fleming, passed away from medical complications. Her contributions to many include the Kasi
Fleming Research Foundation at Till Community College, and the county’s Bike-A-Thon, which
has raised thousands annually for over a decade. She was preceded in death by her parents, Mr.
and Mrs. Dunne, her husband, Gerald, and daughter, Kasi. She was 63.

A slip of paper, from a prayer jar at Debbie’s memorial:
      Deb was a fucking nut.

Excerpt from The Chronicle, August 2001 (pg. 2):
      Though usually first to set off the race, the Flemings will be unable to participate in the
tradition as they were involved in a serious car accident last weekend. The Bike-A-Thon, created
in their late daughter’s name, will go on without them, per Mrs. Fleming’s request. Her husband,
Gerald, remains in critical condition. The county board has agreed to donate half of the funds
raised towards their recovery in this tragic time.

From The Chronicle, December 2004 (pg.5):
      ...it’s truly spectacular how Deborah continues to inspire. After spending the last two
years relearning to walk, one would think twice before getting on a bike so soon. However,
Deborah is determined to be the first to ride down Till Hill with almost eight hundred other
bikers expected to show up. Three years ago, doctors told her that she would never be able to cycle again. She has undergone over a dozen surgeries, each of her leg bones are supported by
titanium rods, held together by forty-seven screws and three knee replacements. Truly a
remarkable feat, leaving doctors stunned by her perseverance, despite the risks. “You know, my
knees aren’t like they used to, but God gave me a second chance. I must do this because my Kasi
and Gerald couldn’t,” said Ms. Fleming.

      On New Year’s Day, 2005, Debbie created an internet blog, documenting her progress
leading up to the race. By the end of the month, she had almost 238 entries. While the posts have
extensive details documenting Debbie’s passion, pain and recipes for bone health, there is not
one mention of her late husband or daughter.

Debbie’s last shopping list to Walmart:
      Food – oatmeal, protein shake (choc.), bananas, whole wheat bread, peanut butter.
      Pharmacy – H. refill, disposable needles (60 ml? kind), Parox. refill, Tylenol (extra
      strength), kaopectate (x-tra lg.), calcium supp.
      Wide brimmed hat
      Sunscreen

Other officiated medical records from Debbie between 2004 and 2005:
      1. November 2004, she had a series of steroid shots for pain management.
      2. Deborah was scheduled for her yearly physical and missed her 3:30 pm appointment in
          early April 2005. When the nurse’s office called to reschedule, she claimed to be in
          optimal health.
      3. The Walmart pharmacy closest to her home has no paperwork of any prescriptions picked
          up since January 2005.

Doctor’s note from her last physical, April 2004:
      Patient initially distressed and unfocused. Expressed immense pain and clicking of the
knees, claims to be from “bollixed surgeries.” Lowered hydromorphone injections to 8mg for the
remainder of the month, then 4mg for the next six weeks; patient should be weaned off
immediately. Patient appeared to be under the influence of a recreational substance and or
dependent on her pain medication. Lowered Paroxetine to 2 mg. Recommended additional
counseling for both physical and emotional assistance, though patient firmly denied any other
drug use.

Debbie’s last post on her health journey blog:

Subject: A New Method
Posted On: 3/09/2005
To my Pedal-Heads,
      I almost gave up. My knees. God, my knees. I recently went to get steroid boosters (yeah,
you all know how I feel about those) but I was desperate. It felt as though they used rusted
copper inside me, each joint grinds into a fine cinnamon colored powder, sending burning
electrical currents up and down my legs. I couldn’t go more than twenty feet pedaling without
having severe calf cramps or them locking up on me completely. The other day, my right leg seized up and I went straight over my handlebars. Luckily, I only sprained a wrist, but it set me
back another month of progress, easily. S.O.L amirite?
      I could almost hear my knees squealing with each step I took, it sounds exactly like when
realigning my wheels after an off-road ride. Here, I concluded the rider is an extension of a
bicycle; it knows when the screws are jammed too. That’s when I had the most brilliant idea! The
spirit of Kasi must’ve possessed me—she got her creativity and wit from her daddy. Quickly, I
got to work with a special treatment to suit my needs.
      Give me a bit longer before I detail all my secrets. I first tested it on my sprained knuckle,
at first excruciating but after an hour, I was new as a Barbie doll. My hands were as flexible as
ever; I was even able to bend my ring finger almost 90 degrees back, without any pain! I can
only imagine the wonders it’ll do for my knees. Till Hill, I’m coming for ya! Will update my
progress in the coming weeks.

With love, as always,
Debbie :)

Pathologist’s notes on Debbie’s autopsy:
      This 63-year-old female, Deborah Fleming, died of poisoning of the blood and ligament
tissue in the legs. The autopsy revealed that an excess of oil, more specifically chain lube, was
found seeping internally throughout both legs. Based on observation, track marks by the
kneecaps indicate the subject was routinely injecting herself with the substance, often directly in
the meniscus and other surrounding cartilage, bone, and muscle. Toxicological testing was
negative for Paroxetine and the opioid Hydromorphone, giving credence to believe subject was experiencing visceral forms of psychosis associated with withdrawal. With the information
available to me at this time, the manner of death, in my opinion, is accidental suicide.

      I’m not scared of the woods at any time of day. Of course I’m not scared of
them at night. I’m a fucking country girl to the fucking core. My hands and feet have
been calloused since the age of five from climbing trees. Nothing was ever soft about
me. I’ve never looked any animal in the eyes and felt fear. I’m not afraid of wolves,
whether they walk on all-fours or on two feet. Nothing would stop me getting to
Grandmother’s house...
      You know, names are funny things, I never thought Maya suited me growing
up. I looked up what it means. In Hinduism, Maya is defined as a supernatural power
held by gods and demons to produce illusions. When I found that out, this little name
that was placed on me made me feel powerful for a minute. But then I didn’t feel like
I deserved it; to be that powerful. I didn’t feel worthy.
      Then remember in 2012? Everyone thought that the world was going to end.
Everyone said it was the Mayans that had predicted it. That made stupid little me feel
special, my namesake was going to bring on an apocalypse. Now that I liked. Of
course, it was a bust. The world didn’t end, it just carried on as usual. Very
disappointing.
     I could feel the power of my name. I liked it, but it didn’t feel like me. Maya
was just a label given to me before I could say no, before I could object. It didn’t suit
me. Nothing suited me. School didn’t suit me. Exeter didn’t suit me. I felt like the
world didn’t suit me...
      They say home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling. Well, if that’s true, then I’ve been
homesick every minute of my life. I’ve never felt at home. Try as I might, there will
always be an ache inside me for...something I can’t describe. Something I will never
find. One day, I decided that I had to leave Exeter and never come back. That I was
never going to call anywhere home as long as I live. I would never lay down roots,
never stay put. And that’s what I did...
      After all that, the idea of changing my name just seemed like overkill. I had to
hang onto something to bring me back, remind me who I was at least. Maybe if I’d
stayed put, I’d have changed my name to...I don’t know, Leaf? Cauliflower?
      Maya’s just that piece of me that won’t change no matter where I go or what I
do. Maya may not suit me, but it’s mine. Maya is home.

Saratoga Springs
--
Faun of nostalgia
The settle on blur
of sunbeams caught
between pool ripples
and chlorine splashes
Mosaic urn
Turkish bath
Poseidon’s eye
Unraveling deep
blue with salmon
corals edging
the disappearing sky

Sanctuary
--
Porn is at your door
Pink lightning and Purple thunder
Popped up smoke
Muscles on Prop
Sweat to consecrate
Skin on Skin

Pendulum swing from on high
Centered gleam upon all below
Irradiant upon scene
Seen with suffused gyred leans
Oblique
Chiseled angles
Facing
Laser guided falls
Streaming rivers
In the synchronized jagged confirmation

The Acts

The Know

In the Know

In the unknowing

Primal Adulations

ever and always
​
United in Praise

WE LIFT OUR HANDS!

23

I feared emotion for the first time, and that scared me.

I used to write stories for fun, but now I can’t pen a narrative because it’s safer to hide through
symbols than to be reflective.

I tried it once, then I tore the pages, crumbling it up slowly, tossing my dreams under the covers,
becoming lost to a cotton sea. Now, I try not to remember.

But I’m too emotional, can't unremember. But asking why it’s wrong to care feels like a
backward endeavor.

I spent days squandered in seclusion, so I took my thoughts on a self-guided tour.

God, I wish the road was clearer, stuck bumper to bumper between what-ifs and what’s real.

I had no sense of direction, found out shit isn’t linear.
​
I still can’t read the map, but I want to get lost on this route, maybe find out a detour is where joy
within myself can be found.

The Waiting Maze
​
tick and tock
silent wall-to-wall
I tiptoe through it
to get to you
tip and tap
step by step
timed silence
and it’s deliberate neglect
the maze is clear
you’re not here

Tequila Sunrise

Oranges were peeling off in strands, and they imagined that perhaps this was it.

Perhaps, at last, they will merge, and they will let it rise from the bottom of the glass.

They weren't meant to be here—Though their bodies have presumably had enough, they quicken
their pace and get ready for collision.

Their lips hum, their fingers glide through grenadine and juice, the ingredients fall into place.

Their eyes are closing, and their bodies are well on their way out.

They can feel the pulsating heat of fresh light on their faces. It’s soothing and cozy. A feeling of
elevation arises within them.
​
For a brief moment, they embrace their plunge, hoping that their souls will blaze out, descend
into the sun, and remain there eternally.

You still come up every now and then
--
Not very often, of course.
Hardly ever, really, these days.

But you did today, and I smiled when I spoke of you.
I laughed, even—can you believe that?
It’s a wonder how those memories wait,
bubbling just below the surface,
ready to reemerge when they are wanted.
After all this time, you are still so wanted.

It takes a certain ill-advised, classical era madness
to fall willingly on the sword and call it a victory.
To throw yourself on the pyre,
to shake hands with your own destruction,
to kiss the face of what will ruin you.

Today, I ran a finger over the delicate scar that you left on my life.
This mended trail map of years that guides me back home,
back to myself, again and again.

Back to the understanding that I was born to love without conditions.
I was born to love without question and without reason,
to fold over on my love like a shirt back into a drawer,
to love until it consumes me, like a snake swallows its own tail.

I was born to love the way I loved you:
As the whole and only point of this raindrop of a life.
If there had ever been anything more to it than that,
I don’t want it.
​
Honestly, I hardly ever think about you anymore.
In the same way I don’t think about breathing or blinking
or how the cells in my body endlessly replicate to make me who I am,
someone you once called a hero.

An Unmovable Feast
--
How can you stand it? We’re seated here at the dinner table, comfortably in love. If this world made me a writer, you made me a poet. All it takes is one look from you—yes, that’s the one. Have I showed you my party trick? I can spin gold back into straw with my eyes closed.

I’m know, I know, but this life with you is still so new. Sometimes—and don’t take this the wrong way—it is too sweet for my taste. Where is the familiar, acrid ache and the bitter pit of empty days? The creature comfort of love eaten down to the flavorless rind, consumed and then discarded? You’ve served me only summer-ripe fruit and the wine-dark sincerity of whatever this indulgence between us is.

Look at me again—yes, like that. You are to love what these words are to an apology. Let me take your hand—since I’m here, and I might as well—and let me tell you that you are what I prayed for every night while my mother’s God listened and laughed in the dark.

You’re leaning toward me across the tablecloth, the candles are wavering, and the Merlot is sitting like money in my glass. You’re going to tell me something softly. Before you say it, I already know.

The white wood beach house
--
Somewhere in the vast space that is my mind,
There is a fading memory of mine.
It’s frayed at the edges like an old blanket that children are fond of,
Proof of how quickly time goes by.
The memory of the days we spent
At the white wood beach house.

The memory of hushed words that went completely silent,
When I was heard coming down the hallway.
There was a man that yelled at me,
Out of masculine pettiness,
and stubborn rage.
He was a man I once loved before.
He is one of the reasons I now struggle to love at all.
Each one of us hid away,
In the words we didn’t say.
Cowards, we all are.

We pretended that there are things we wouldn’t change,
about the people we held close.
The people we share our bed with,
Our glasses of apple cider with.
Cowards, we all are.
​
Cowards, we all are
For we are still secretive,
Rumour grasping,
Backstabbing,
Limelight basking,
Children.
Although, back then,
We thought we had come so far.

After the white wood beach house
--
In those days,
the girls had philosophical conversations,
the boys were happy without any hesitations.

The girls had thought at least once,
about killing themselves.
The boys went out in the open sea,
To catch dinner from the ocean shelf.
Everything was balanced,
we all looked clean.
But just as they say,
nothing is ever as it seems.

Everything was okay for a minute,
but I guess our hearts weren’t in it.
Because two years after the white wood beach house,
we all went our separate ways.

The truth is,
looking back on it now,
I think you have all stayed the same.
And I’m the one who changed,
as I was supposed to.
Now,
the idea of knowing all of you,
is something I’m opposed to.
​
At least we’ll always have the white wood beach house.

When it comes to you,
I’ll dig up gravesites
--
I have moved on I think,
But my pen has yet to run out of ink.
There are things you wish were buried,
And for you
that’s what’s really scary.
Because,
Behind all your photographic smiles
And white veneers,
you fear
that you’re a bad person.
And it’s true,
You are.

But that doesn’t even touch your calm persona.
People in your position,
Of golden sunlight and grace,
Have a way of getting away.
And it will always make me mad,
Because you take what you have
And you always throw it away someday.

Aside from your girlfriend
(Who deserves better),
How many people are you still on your first chance with?
Does your lover worry about the glances you give
to other women in the room?
​
When you burn through all the people who love you,
Who will you have left to cling on to?

hard affection
--
I stand on my soap box and preach,
If you do not like the conviction in my speech,
You could shut my mouth,
By choking the words out of me.
Hard affection and bruising Passion are in fashion,
And I have decided to throw shame out of the closest window.
There is no suitability in vulnerability.

Every man should fear the will of every woman.
I truly do not believe that all men are bad.
But, I do believe that all men,
Even the best of them,
Could never fully comprehend
How much of a feeling a woman can feel.

For that I want to scream
And for that I feel worry for every man.
As it is something we fight with and for all the time.

I find that most of the time,
When a woman wants everything.
Her man wants nothing.
I find that when a man wants everything,
His woman wants nothing.
In the end,
Neither of them speaks about anything to one another.
​
There is nothing else I want more in this world than
to be loved in the ways that hurt.

I have just learned today that I will die tomorrow. 

No, not in an accidental house fire caused by a rag that was left too near a burning stove or a wreck due to a drunk driver. 
No. 

My heart will simply stop beating. 

      I will be on the bus. I don’t know where I’ll be going. I guess I will know that tomorrow. But I know the bus will be moving slowly. I know a drunk homeless man will be sitting at the back of the bus. I know that a sixty-something year old woman will board and will sit three seats from me. She will be wearing a brown coat and a blue scarf. She will smile at me. I will smile back. She will overshare her story with me, and I will nod along. The homeless man will start to sing. I will find it hard to focus on what the old woman is saying until she asks me how old I am. I will answer her and it will start to rain. I will look out the window as she tells me I have much life left to live. The homeless man’s song will grow louder and I will smile. And that will be the end of me. 
      I have many questions about this, but I don’t think I will get many answers. So I sit here, a beer in my hand, my dog Jane at my feet, collecting my thoughts. I am too young to die, but I don’t think that matters. At least that is what the angel told me. No, he did not have beautiful white wings, and he did not come to me in my dreams like some sort of vision. I did not meet him in a church, though now I think I might visit one. No. He was just a man. That is what I thought as I let go of Jane’s leash and rushed over to him when he collapsed to the floor of the sidewalk. He was struggling to breathe. Jane was whimpering. I called 911 and I held his hand as he gasped for air and we waited for the ambulance to arrive. After a few minute’s of struggling, he stopped breathing. I attempted CPR but it did not seem to be helping. I did not know what to do except stay there beside him. As I began to hear sirens in the distance, I thought this was the end of it. This man was gone. I let go of his hand and placed my own on Jane’s head. And then just as I was about to stand up he sprung back to life. 
      He looked me in the eyes and said, “Tomorrow by noon, you will be dead.” I must have looked dumbfounded because he then continued, “Your heart will stop beating, but you will not come back as I have.” 
      I did not know what to think. I did not know what to say. I did not have time to react by the time the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took him away. But I felt a heavy weight in my chest and a pit in my stomach and somehow I knew that what he said was true. So I watched as the ambulance drove off into the distance. Jane’s whimper brought me back to reality. I grabbed her leash and we began our walk back home. I thought of all the ironies of the situation on the way back. The biggest being that I stopped to help a person whose heart stopped beating, only to be told that my own will stop beating tomorrow. What are the odds of that? 
     When we arrived at the apartment building my neighbor was taking out the trash. Jane barked excitedly at her. I stood there for a moment while the two interacted. “Everything okay?” she asked me. 
       “Sure,” I said. 
     “Your phone has been ringing on repeat,” she said. “For about fifteen minutes now. I can hear it echo down the hall. Did you leave a window open?” 
       “I might’ve,” I said. 
       “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 
       “I might’ve,” I said again. “See you.”  
       “See you,” she said to me, and then to Jane.
       She gave Jane one last pet before she continued on her way. Jane and I continued on to our door. I could hear the ringing when we got close. I opened the door and let Jane off her leash, then went to answer the phone. Before I could even say hello, the person started to speak. “Everything that happens in life is the way it’s supposed to be.” 
     “Who is this?” I asked. 
     “We met earlier. You know who I am.” 
     “I know,” I said. “But I don’t know.” 
     “By noon tomorrow, you will be dead.”  
     “How can you know that?” 
     “I know many things, they will not always make sense, but I know them true.” “Who are you?” 
     “A messenger.” 
     “Who sent you?” 
     “You won’t understand.” 
     “Why not?” 
     “You don’t believe.” 
     “In what?” 
     “Most things.” 
     “How do you know that?” 
     “I know you. I have always known you. I have watched you and I have known you.” “I think you might’ve hit your head when you collapsed.” 
     “Your dog is named Jane.” 
     “You must have heard me call her before you fell.”
     “You’ve had her for five years now.” 
     “You could be a stalker.” 
    “You adopted her after your last dog died. But that was more of Ben’s dog, wasn’t it?” “How do you know about Ben?” 
     “As I have said, I have known you. All your life, I have been there, watching. I was assigned to you both.” 
     “Because we were twins?” 
    “Yes,” he paused. “And you were supposed to die with him that day. But you chose to let him go alone. But I understood that you were just a child, so I protected you.” “Are you an angel?” 
     “If that’s your name for it, yes,” he said. “And I’ve come to tell you it is time. There is no avoiding it any longer.” 
     “But I’m too young,” I said. 
    “That does not matter. Even a life can wear out its welcome. What is supposed to happen will happen, and the longer you run the worse it will be. Take this chance for it to come peacefully. Tomorrow you will get on a bus. A homeless man will sing. A sixty-three year old woman will speak with you until the time comes. By noon your heart will stop beating.” 
​     He hung up as soon as the last word left his mouth. I stood there listening to the dial tone. I hung up the phone and grabbed a beer. I sat on my couch, Jane joined me by my feet. He knew about Ben, and he knew about my guilt. He must be an angel. 
     I remember when Ben died. We had been on a school camping trip. He and I had run off the way we always did. We were playing tag until we neared the edge of a cliff. We dared each other to get as close to the edge as possible. Ben was going to win, he always did. But it had rained that early morning and the ground was wet, and Ben slipped. He grabbed onto my leg, and I started to slip too. I told him to let go. I was too scared to fall. I crawled forward. He grabbed onto me tighter. In panic and fear of the fall, I kicked, and he fell. I had felt guilty ever since. I felt guilty for being scared. I felt guilty for kicking him. I felt guilty for letting him go alone. I knew then but now I know for sure, we were supposed to go out together. But I let fear overcome me. And now I sit in fear again because I know death is coming. But I know this time, I will let it have me. I get up, pet Jane on the way to my bed and go to sleep. 
     I awake to the sound of the phone ringing, and the pitter-patter of Jane’s paws on the hardwood floor. I sigh and find my way to the receiver. Jane follows and runs in circles in front of me. I pick up the phone. 
     “Hello? Hi mom. Is it 10:30 already? Okay, lunch, okay. I’ll get ready and head over. Okay, love you. Bye.” 
     I guess I am going to have lunch with my mom. That is the plan at least. I look down at Jane. She looks up at me with huge brown eyes. I smile. I refill her food and water bowls. I watch her as she eats. I wonder if she has any idea on what’s going to happen. My guess is not. As she chews away at her food I go take a shower and change into clean clothes. It is 10:45 now. I grab a pen and paper and sit down at the kitchen table. I write my mom a letter. It does not matter what I say to her. By the time she reads it, it will mean no more to me than a cobweb means to the wall in which it hangs. Words only mean a thing to the living. 
     It is 11:05 by the time I finish writing. I leave the note on the table, along with the key to my apartment. I leash Jane and together we leave our home. I take one last look before I go. I stop by a neighbor and ask her to take care of Jane for the day. I let her know my mom will pick her up later. She takes Jane with pleasure. I say goodbye to Jane tenderly. I make my way to the 
bus stop. I board the bus by 11:30. The homeless man has already taken his seat at the back of the bus. I can smell his liquor even though I am many rows away. Two stops later, an old woman in a brown coat and a blue scarf enters the bus and sits three seats away from me. I know now it is all happening. We smile at each other. 
     “Hi,” I say to her. 
     “How are you doing?” she asks. 
     “Good, and yourself?” 
    “Tired, but good. It is so early in the day to be tired but I am. When you’re old your body just starts giving up on you. It’s the way of life. In my youth I used to be so full of energy. I was on a girls swim team back then, it was actually considered a sport, more so than the others-” 
    I hear the homeless man start to sing. The old woman is still talking, but I am too distracted to hear what she is saying. I nod along to what she is saying even though I do not hear her. The bus has lost its momentum due to traffic. I am in awe of how it all falls together. 
     “But I was seventeen back then, I’m sixty-three now, how old are you?” the woman continued. 
     I snap out of my thoughts and look at her. 
   “Twenty-eight, ma’am.” There goes the rain, just like the angel said. 
     “You’re young,” the woman says. “You still have so much life left to live.” I stare out the window as she says this, and I smile. It’s noon. I know that this is the end for me.

      In the sea, there are many creatures. There are crabs who like to prod, mackerel who like
to flee, and barracuda who can never be caught. But in the darkness there lies sparse light. It’s
the few lights that attract the desperate who are so lost that they can’t tell right side up from
upside-down. The lost souls that seek solace, knowing that the depths have overcome them. They
know that they will succumb to the pressure, or whatever darkness that lurks now omniscient to
itself. The fish approaches the light and becomes prey to the life that dangles before it. A blend
of --crimson lifeblood-- emanates and falls upward; the soul’s wine hand reaches out to the surface.

      Angler Fish never knew what it meant to be a savior, and for that she wanted to save. She
didn’t realize it was within her that when she became hungry, she would eat. This was a tradition
for her and she didn’t know any different. She learned to love to play with the lives of others,
watching the scattered fragmentations of her prey sift around and wither into the cold gust of
aquamarine wind. She pondered to herself how it possibly would be wrong to eat others to
survive. Or how could she be misguided if those that were lost would constantly come to her?
Every opportunity that she saw she could gain from, she saw no conflict within. --Even if it meant
betraying those that she loved.--

      Angler Fish one day left her void dwelling in pursuit of life, yet on her journey she lost
track of up or down. She thought to do what came natural to her and snapped an unexpecting
soul adjacent to her. As she saw the --crimson lifeblood rise--, she told herself that she wanted to
forget everything and go deeper. She always preferred to dwell in the darkness, since it made her
light more attractive to the desperate. She dove down to fathoms uncomfortable and sought to
find herself something new. Friend or flavor, she wanted to sought out for adventure. After
sinking so depths unbound, she would lose herself once again and come to the realization that
she was hungry. Starving, she would return to the pressure she had known, but wherever she
went, she could only feel more waning pain. Little did Angler Fish know that this pain was the
feeling of longing and not starvation. She found herself helpless to its eruptions. Everything
around her was alien to her. In this desperation she’d find another source of illumination down
beneath her. One that glowed brighter the closer that she came. The glimmer of opportunity that shined was promising. Seeing another light for the first time in her life inspired her and made her sanguine.

      Gently but hurriedly, she swam with him only for him to retreat. Snailfish knew the
danger of other fish, though like a snail, he was often slow and naive and too distracted by his
own insecurities. He retreated one last time just to be sure she meant no harm. On a fateful day
she approached Snailfish, hiding behind a coral reef so that she could hide her gorgonic face
from him, in hopes that he would one day grow to talk to her. She was attracted to his unique
glimmer and the way he glided through the water, like a shooting star across the blackened
twilight.

      The way that he managed to swim alone so courageously enticed her. Oftentimes she
would occupy Snailfish and swim to experience new excitements. Cuddling at the coral reef,
riding the tide of collapsed caves and blending in with the schools of fishes. She would only
grow to love him more. Perhaps even more than the smell of --crimson lifeblood.-- She told
Snailfish that she would like to spend the rest of her life with him! Snailfish, despite being dull in
his mind, had always understood Angler Fish. He had known that she had good intentions but
would inevitably destroy everything she touched. --Mermaid Medusa and the blind cyclops.--
However, he also believed in the notion of fate. He had a hero complex and despite seeing this
darker side of Angler Fish, he chose to love her anyway. She would surely never try to hurt him,
he --knew-- thought.

      Snailfish enjoyed swimming with Angler Fish, but oftentimes they were swimming at a
depth that was too shallow for him. Unable to bear it, he’d try to isolate himself below her as to
not bring Angler Fish down. At times Angler Fish misunderstood this and saw this gesture as
Snailfish being too embarrassed to be around her, a light that didn’t shine as brightly as he did. In
desperation, Angler Fish would chain herself to Snailfish, promising to him that she would suffer
the depths of the ocean with him if it meant that he could one day find happiness. They had spent
years together exploring the --world-- ocean and finding new things that inspired them. Though one day Angler Fish grew unusually hungry. Snailfish by now had known of Angler Fish’s cruel
ways, seeing beyond the light of her front. He saw the zombified white eyes, the nightmarish
skin, and the rotted teeth that begged for resistance only to prove its might behind that glimmer.
But he blinded himself to this, seeing only the light of her.

      Snailfish knew that only bad things would come once Angler Fish grew hungry, so he swam to the depths unbound and gathered her his stockpile of --hopes and dreams-- to eat. She would take them, gracefully, telling Snailfish that she would one day return it to him, tenfold. Though the amount heavily drained on Snailfish. He had begun to starve but hid it from Angler Fish. As their journey continued, Angler Fish had learned that Snailfish had grown tired of --everything.-- She would ask him what had made him so weak. Sparing himself both of their feelings, he’d respond that he had trouble sleeping at night. And the next. Until soon enough, Snailfish’s natural glow would dissipate, and he would only glimmer when he was with her. She was the only thing that had now brought joy to him. He needed her. Soon enough his glow became lifeless, spending his time constantly trying to find --hope-- for his lover. She’d learned that much of the light that she saw in him was her light refracting off of his semi-opaque body by now. Her glow outshone him. She no longer needed --hope-- from him.

                                              Angler Fish had now thought to herself that Snailfish would
                                                 never amount to anything without her, and this obligation of
                                             --hope-- that she owed him was only for her to stay with a 
                                                worthless, invisible leech like him. She decided that Snailfish
                                             was now abusive in that his lethargy wouldn’t allow her to do
                                                what she wanted in the city depths. Eventually, she would
                                                leave Snailfish, alone and abandoned, alien to all --the intrusive
                                                 thoughts-- that surrounded him. And in this new dark world,
                                           Snailfish felt that when he sees an approaching light, the first thing
                                                                                                                he should do 
                                                                                           is walk in the other direction, 
                                                                                                                    like before.

      Angler Fish decided that the --city-- sea that she lived in was too dim for her. She decided to
                                                                                                      leave, never to return.

           Snailfish would sit in his room, captivated by his thoughts --and the crimson lifeblood that
                                    ran down his wrists-- as he thought about Angler Fish. He told himself,
                                                                                                            --one last time:--

          “She’s taken everything from me. I’m purposeless. I’m nothing; I redesigned my life
           around what made her happy, and now without her, I no longer know how to
                                 breathe in this void without a guiding light.”


​
      --And he succumbed to starvation in the bushery of a coral reef.--

Love Poem I’ll Never Give to You
--
“A tree I’ll grow to let you know
My love is older than my soul” – The Lone Bellow ‘A Tree to Grow’

I like the complicated love songs now
The ones that tell me love
(Older than our souls)
Isn’t pure. That I’m not pure.

I tell you I’ll never leave you
Because I’m afraid that I will
That I was never here
And you trying to reach me
Will kill you,
And my trying to be who you need
For your happiness
Will choke the air from my soul.

Can I ever be given in one piece to you
If the gardens of my wonder
Only open when your gone?

Can you ever know that I’m good for you
When my heart said truly
Unravels the sky
And dismantles the sun in your palms?

I’m water and you’re a rock
And the touch of my waves
Turns you to sand.

You’ll never tell me I’m the reason
You can’t keep your pillars in place
But when you’re away from me
Your foundations Foundation again.

I know God through question
And you through faith-
For you certainty is at the top
And for me it is always deeper than I can reach.

You must fall and I must fly
To find prayers
Where our voices intertwine
But a fall too far is fatal
And I have no wings but in dreams.

But I have only known touch through your hands
And kisses from your lips
And home through your arms
You were the first I loved
And the last I could hate
So I may try to leave
But I can’t go
Say when I say I’ll never leave you
           I mean it.

I worry my fires
Will slowly singe you till your gone
Sand turning finally to dust;
But I hope love older than our souls
Will dig riverbeds in my hands
And fill me with balm to heal you!

Oh how I hope
That if I write and rewrite this song
It will turn into a tale
About somebody other
Than us,
And that I will forget
That I ever meant it for you-

​That when I come home tonight
I will open the door
And meet only your arms around me
The fire in my head gone out.

Persephone and Demeter
--
In the stories I would write she would die
        Always and again
But, in my nocturnal fall outs, I would.
There’d be a gun trembling in her hands
As I’d fall down some elongated sky
Until the rain always warm
Would cup her hands to catch me-
(My legs would be wings)
A house on a hill
In which every shadow of my heart is buried
Would be the place I’d run to
But the doors would thud,
“You may want to stay
But you have to go,”.

​These days I wear the skin of my soul on the outside
And observe my topography
Like some detached cartographer
Of the geography of my malfunction
Wondering what is worse
To feel her around me
Like the jagged coast of my child’s home
Knowing someone, if not no one,
Will still hold me though they hurt me
Or to open my wounds to the salt and the sun
        to stand alone
Wondering who, if anyone, would find me if I left?

Unreliable Narrations of the Clinically Depressed
--
Perhaps it’s a sign of the diagnosis
That I haven’t picked my anti-depressants up from the pharmacy;
How when you ask if you should get them for me
I mumble, “I don’t know.”

I cannot tell if I accept these signs
Or just blow past them-
If I am speeding in order to crash
Or if I’ve become illiterate to myself.

Maybe I want help and a map
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe I want to be stopped for speeding
Given every ticket they have to give-

Maybe I want to be held back,
Wrestled to the ground
Have my pills stuffed down my throat
Then be kissed all over
And congratulated-

Or maybe I want wildflowers
Not drugs
So I’ll tell you to travel over
Unopened months
And over mud sick states
Until it’s June by the sea
And the Lupines
Are singing just by moving

I’ll ask you for all you can fit
In your fists
To carry them
By the roots
Then plant them
In my feet
So I’d grow toward
The sun
Again

Maybe I want nothing
But sensations
That bungie me
Through peaks and valleys
Concussions only secondary
To thrills.

​Maybe I’m just being difficult.
And you should leave
And get me my meds.

​Immediately.

Gray Hands
  For survivors of Clergy sexual abuse
--
You planted a rose bush on his grave --
“A hero, a saint, of brethren and God”
When the winter came 
The roses would brown,
And snow would cover them.
No one would know-

The eulogy
He had written for you
When the hours
Pursed their lips
And the moon closed its eyes:
You were ten years old.

“The fear of the Lord was His strength”
You wrote, at the end 
As you changed his bed pan
And washed the sweat off his face--

In the shadows he had taught you 
How to dress the naked Jesus.
Your clothes off first 
Onto the dying God--

When it was finally over,
You picked his finest suit,
We had it dry cleaned 
And dressed him carefully--

“Gifted pastor, esteemed evangelist, determined harvester”
You began
As it started to rain
Cold hollow drops 
Against the indifference 
Of his final rest--

But he had loved you
Too much,
He told you
As he taught you how
To lock a door
Silently-
So mother wouldn’t wake.

We put our umbrellas up
To protect his grave 
From the onslaught
Of spiteful summer rain,

And I watched your gray hands,
Gently --
Plant the first flowers on his grave.

you– you used to feed me. you did, you did. all that food you’d leave outside, so carefully wrapped up and packaged for me. all your scraps and leftovers, sometimes food that you burnt – on purpose, it must have been, you’ve always been such a good cook. i always made sure you knew i had eaten, leaving the unwrapped packages out for you to see. those were for me. of course they were, who else would they be for? there’s no one else out here to eat of it. any others scarcely make the journey to this area anymore. too scared, too afraid of little, ol’ me. and it’s not my fault they’re not vicious enough, not strong enough: they’re all too weak. they don’t show their faces here any longer. i made sure of it. scary woods these dark ones are.

and that cursed huntsman does more than enough to steer your people out of my woods. so that leaves me to deal with the creatures. i thought i had gotten rid of any and all of them, but you managed to slip one past me. and what a terrible little creature you brought home, all hissy and trying to make itself bigger than it was, fluffing up its hair every time i came too close. that tiny thing could barely fit into my paw! why it thought it could defend you from me is beyond me. it was difficult to punish and rid of that one from our home–you’d welcomed it into our home. i was not to be let in but this, this white haired yowling thing was? without my knowing! without my inspection!

though it does seem, to me, that you learned your lesson of letting strangers into our home so soon after it escaped, that the little white haired beast returned to your doorstep with matted red fur. its guts had nowhere to go but to be sprinkled through the grass that covers the front of the house! i can’t stand like you, no choice but to hold its head in my jaws and let it swing; that’s bound to make a mess! but what was i to do? it came at me– attacked me first. it prattled on and on and on about my lurking, about my protection. i was always protecting you so why would it matter anyways?

then the little thing lunged at me! i thought it was playing and all i did was wack it around a little. we were playing! you must believe me, i didn’t mean much harm. sharp claws and gnashing teeth are what protects me from the dangerous things in these woods. it was all i had. i’m not soft like you are. i can’t help the way i am.

i feel a little guilty, of course, that i had to leave the little thing on your doorstep. you needed to know what i did, what happened to your precious little visitor. what a shame, truly. i couldn’t even stomach the thought of you going out into the woods look for it, all sad and upset. oh, what a terrible thought... but the others, they– they never understood! would never understand you like i do. they don’t deserve the kindness and generosity you so lovingly bestow unto me. so why should they, those evil and despicable things they are, be allowed to take it? the sneaky and the loud ones, the clambering and the scurrying ones. why would i let them take it? how could they believe they were so worthy of your eye and your touch and your care? i have dedicated myself to you, devoted my life to protecting you in your own little, cozy world in the middle of these woods.

all without prompting or question i have risked my own life and pelt, my hide and my heart. it’s no
matter, though; i’d split open my ribcage for you to live there to keep you safe forever. you’d be close, closer than you and i have ever been before. but now? now i know you’re safe. i was protecting you. surely you must know that i would never do anything to harm you. not without cause or purpose, of course.

living all alone in the woods, so far from the others of your own kind is dangerous, so very dangerous, you know. it truly is a mystery what you’ll find when you venture in here. dangerous creatures and poisonous plants – all so much more dangerous than i. fortunately, good, well enough for you: i was there. i am there for you, you. you’ve seen me before, in those shadows during the day and the night. i know that you saw me. you never knew it was me, never knew i was here, for you. the entire time. you, just a poor, sickly, old woman who didn’t even know the difference between the falling of my feet and the fluttering of a bird’s wings. you never did acknowledge me, never saw me; not where i was or what i was doing. i was–am okay with that. i have your heart in my hands now. you’re buried so deep inside of me, now, never to escape ever, ever, ever. and that night– that fateful one you stuck your hand out. that was for me, it had to be only for me. there was no one else out here. i made sure of it, made sure. you stuck your hand out that night and i took it.

i frightened you. now, now i frighten you. now that you’ve seen me you’ve shut your door; you have cursed my existence and turned me away. i’ve never done anything so bad, so cruel–so, so inhumane. i have lived my life with grating and trembling teeth, constantly gnawing and chewing and crunching on nothing. i can’t help the way i am. my claws, my mouth and my teeth are the only things i have for myself to use. what else was i supposed to do? you stuck your hand out and i took it. i took it, and it’s mine now. just like the rest of you. for now and until forever.

​you used to feed me. you stuck your hand out. and now i’m hungrier than ever.

here, in our home is the warmest i’ve ever been. i’ve been here before, in the darkest of the nights. only i know the warmth of your fire long after it should have been turned to smolders. i know your home, i’ve been in it, i’ve seen it; i am it. so of course i know that red hood;

that red hood that is the darkest, bloodiest red i have ever seen. i just had to have it for myself, you
understand.

i have finally met your granddaughter, for the first time; all on her way to bring you some treats. she looked so terribly solemn walking all the way through these dark, scary woods all alone. such a precious little thing, she is. that girl is all blushing cheeks and bouncing curls. all sunshine and honey, so sweet. what a silly, silly little thing. gullible and young: tender. i guided her towards the flowers. that field in the middle of the forest, not that far from here. you know the one. she’s in that field there ripping them out root and stem. all to give you a nice, sweet, little dying plant. i’ll be sure to leave it somewhere for you.

i would have accompanied her, kept her company and all, but i had to get back to you. return to you and– oh, she’ll taste much better...

i suppose you wouldn’t understand how humiliating this all is for me, devouring something so wholly all at once will end up causing a bit of a mess. i wish i could’ve turned your blood into soup, put your bones into my broth, and turned the spare bits of bones into bread.

i would apologize, would give my most serious sorry.. but–

oh? i think i hear the creak of some wood on the porch... that board always needed fixing, but i
managed to avoid it well enough.

i believe that is our guest. she’ll notice the change but what is about to happen won’t.

One day, you and I will die
by limits of science and species.
But imagine after generations have got their lot,
the deathless will be birthed by the dying.
Medicine eradicates the mortal and spawns
the eternals that will be the first to feel
the numbness of infinite experience.

One day, they will want to die.
When we grow past the boundaries given
by soul and planet, we will have everything except
a return to the Nothing from which we came;
the void we were ripped from at birth.
Given bodies and thrown into a world
where we never really belonged.

One day, they will have to make a choice.
By limits of will and species they crave
what they were born to be.
The humanity of life transmuted
from the freefall of hopeless ambition
to predestined suicidal tradition.
Just say when.

A Promise
--
I kept the ring after all that time.
It reminds me of the promises I made to myself, if I were to ever leave.

I’ll go live my life and you’ll live yours.
I’ll be alright, even on those sleepless nights
I’ll finally get to be me, carefree.
I’ll explore the world on my own two feet
I’ll make new friends and end bitter ends
I’ll replace the comfort I found in the pain with new bedsheets that’s easier to maintain
And the most important of them all,

I’ll erase your name that was once ingrained into my brain.

Ocean Eyes
--
His eyes glisten like a chandelier reflecting its beams of itself.
Colors of the ocean makes waves in his iris.
His pupils at large stare right into her dying soul.
When it dilates, he’s inspecting every compound fracture.
His pearly whites twinkle through his grin.
He bites down on his soft thin lips with every suture.
Hitting a vein, she felt this deep electrical pain shocking her spine towards the ceiling.
Her head tilts backwards and her mouth opens to scream,
But her vocal cords are straining to stay stuck in her throat.
He sheds small drops of deep red satin tears,
While the sunken blue bags under his eyes collect them.
A cloudy storm swirls in his iris,
Brewing the colors into a dark gray blue.
His pupils at large, show a reflection of a discolored and blistered silhouette.

I Do Not
--
Laughter fills the room,
Joyful smiles mirror one another,
Wedding bells echoes through the walls.
People’s souls are focused on you.
Gazing at you,
Watching you move so effortlessly,
You have almost everyone fooled
everyone-
but me.

Your glistening eyes smile so innocently, but
I caught a glimpse through the window to your soul,
They told me something different.

That after every play and illusion we participate in,
Is a crash course to a divorce filled with pain that was never resolved,
never conquered,
just endured.

With every insignificant stride, 
The faint sound of wedding bells are used as a warning.
Echos of whispers in the crowd move quickly.
Chills run down my back all the way to my feet.
Someone speak up or forever hold your peace.

We could’ve been together in a different universe,
but our love was spread thin.
We left the rings in it’s boxes, our clothes hanged, and the chairs empty.
No invitation was sent,
and we walk past each other like ghosts.

      Dad asks me if he can have a beer, just so his food tastes a bit better. The fried tangerine colored rice the waitress brought to our table is glistening with oil, and it has a few chunks of tomato. I don't like tomatoes and he doesn’t either, maybe that's why he needs one. The aroma is filled with the smell of seafood and pad thai, and I can hear more spanish in the air than I do thai because it’s a friday y mi gente tiene una extraña obsesión con la comida tailandesa. I say yes to his question, because it's easier to feel like I'm more in control than I really am. 
      There’s a table of toys outside the restaurant and dad gave me twenty bucks to spend, but said he expects fifteen back. He always gives me an amount that he knows I'll need change for because my teacher told him I'm struggling with math, so he’s trying to help. 
     When I come back, it's time to order and he begins to arrange the arrival of the emerald colored bottle that unleashes truths that are too harsh. The same truths that I know pushed my mom away once they began to spew from his lips. The waitress sets down the bottle. I can't help but scornfully glare at the piece of glass that allows me to get a better look at him, even when I don't want to. 
     The waitress brings another item he’s placed an order for, soup. Then another bottle. She sets down the chicken satay. Then another bottle. Then chowmein. A Bottle. Pork. Bottle. Desert. One more bottle before we hit the road. Finally, the paper scribbled with tonight’s history of the damage he’s caused arrives– it's missing my witnessing. 
     On the way home, rather my home and dad’s reminder of the things he contaminated, my hands swing in the air and out of the window as my body follows the zig-zaggy motions our truck is making. Dad tries to blink as hard as he can to see the road. I think his vision is just blurry at night sometimes because he does it often, tonight more than usual. I know sometimes the lights from the other cars hurt my eyes and that's why my mom doesn’t let me sit in the front but dad says i’m a big girl and can handle it. 
     When we get near my mom’s, we pass my school and I ask dad if we could stop so I could show him the new garden they just built. My teacher told us we might plant something soon.
     “Not today mama, it’s getting late” His eyes are full of guilt, and his words have a slur.
     When we pull in front of the apartment complex my dad won't be able to go in porque mi mama ya le dijo he tells me to be careful and to wave from the window once i’m inside so he can take off. Before jumping off of the truck that's tall enough to require a step, I pulled the fifteen bucks from my pocket to hand it to him since I forgot to at the restaurant. He tells me I'm getting good at math, and to keep it. Amidst his stumbling words, he tells me that he’s sorry.

    I. Sunday 

She was tipsy in her single-bed dormitory the night she met him. A knock landed on her door around midnight, and the opened door revealed a man slightly taller than her. He had blue dyed hair, eye bags beyond visible, and a scent that was close to cigarettes. This was the beginning guide of things to resist in Belfast, Ireland. 

“I’m Marque, your music is a…” He had a foreign accent and leaned against the doorframe that resembled a careless, free nature. “Too loud. Can you turn it down for me?” Ginny immediately apologized and lowered the speaker’s volume from her phone. Stepping back from the door of her room, she was able to get a better look at Marque. 

It was her first night alone since her arrival to Ireland. She’d only be away from her home state of Oregon for a month, but homesickness already found its way to her heart; hence the beer and sad rolling blues that made her cry more than she already was. Coming to Ireland was at her own expense and volition, however. Camera equipment and delicate photo prints were scattered on the floor, they had yet to be taped to a wall again. Photography, the arts, that’s what Ginny was there for: a study abroad program that would make her closer to being a photographer, along with a traveling experience before completing her last year at university. Albeit far from home, the groggy weather of Ireland mimicked Oregon. 

    II. Monday 

Ginny left her dorm room forty minutes before her first course of the day. She walked down the hall with a camera bag snugly resting across her back. Commotion could be heard out in the common area. Walking by a group of students she nervously kept her hands deep in her pockets. Out of the corner of her eye, she recognized the blue tuft of hair watching her; regardless, she continued walking down the hall, the stairs, and out into the cold. 

She sat through an introductory class, titled Advanced Lighting and Film Experimentation. Ginny wrote minimal notes that she found most useful, spoke to a few peers at her four-chaired work table, and even introduced herself formally to the professor. Everyone had a different accent, and when asked to say “gobshite,” she earned a handful of chuckles that proved some friends were to be made. 

    III. Tuesday 

“Commet vas tu?”

“Hm?” Ginny turned her head to look. 

“How are you?” Marque had caught Ginny by surprise: at the shared kitchen on their dorm floor. Ignoring the whirr of the microwave, her eyes caught on to the paint stains of his pants and long-sleeved t-shirt. 

“I’m okay, thanks,” Ginny pointed her spoon at the man’s shirt and circled the air, “What happened to your clothes?” 

He laughed at the question, Ginny laughing along with him as well. This was the first moment in Belfast where an inside joke was made. Moving forward, their greeting was: “What happened to your clothes?” instead of: “How are you? I’m fine, thank you.” 

Marque explained that he was an arts student and that Tuesdays were his oil painting studio days. Ginny returned the favor of sharing and explained that Tuesdays were her free study days for photography. In time, it was revealed through the small talk that Marque wasn’t as reckless as he seemed, and was actually a patron of the arts with an interest in the finer things in life. He wanted to travel the world, leave France, and maybe stay in Ireland or Spain so he could teach painting. She was in awe of his taste, or want, for more culture. It was charming and inspiring to Ginny. 

She removed her bowl of soup from the microwave when the timer ended. Marque handed her a washcloth covered in old paint so she wouldn’t burn herself. Again, she was charmed. 

    VI. Wednesday, Night 

She found her way to his dorm room with his washcloth hiding in the pocket of her hoodie. Ginny knocked on the door a few times and waited for a few seconds. 

“Ginny, what happened to your cloth?” He grinned. 

“Did I interrupt your sleep?” Marque’s appearance was on the groggier side, his blue hair sticking up and white tee wrinkled, and stained with paints. 

“Just napping, I should be working though,” he looked down at her with a tilted head, almost as if he was trying to translate something. “What’s happening?”

“Oh,” Ginny pulled the cloth from her pocket and held it out for the other. It was spotless then, she had taken the courtesy to wash it clean for Marque after using it to wipe up her soup. “This is for you.” 

He nodded as if he was impressed, “Brand new!” Marque smiled and gently nudged her shoulder, “Merci Ginny, so much. I like it, but I’ll miss the old paint.” 

    V. Thursday 

The two caught each other by perfect timing. The first account occurred when they bumped shoulders heading to the communal bathroom in the morning. For some reason, Ginny was expecting to see Marque waiting for her when she finished washing up. But he wasn’t there, and her imagination was defeated. 

On the second account, they caught each other again, this time on campus. Ginny left her class early with her coat buttoned all the way up to her chin. Ireland mimicked Oregon’s weather until it was completely overcast. Shivering about the cobblestone path that reminded her of ancient times, Marque was exiting the main art building. Although his hood was covering the back of his head, Ginny knew it was him by the way he stomped along in his Doc Martens. 

As much as she wanted to greet him, follow after him and tap on his shoulder, bump into his arm nonchalantly, walk quickly ahead of him, and have him call after her instead, she couldn’t. Ginny felt nervous trying to approach him, it caught her by surprise and made her even more nervous trying to understand just why. 

Marque walked ahead of her down the path, without looking over his shoulder to see if she was there watching. They didn’t speak that day. 

    VI. Friday, Morning 

Hopelessness filled Ginny’s mind when she woke up in the early morning. Friday was another class-free, private study day; but she forgot to turn off her 8:30 AM alarm. A common mistake. 

She wanted to be charmed again, by Marque. Ginny uncontrollably pictured scenarios of them together, out and about, and sometimes alone in the confinements of a dorm room. She rolled over to stiffen her groan into the pillow. 

    VII. Friday, Night
Ginny’s door was knocked on unexpectedly. She paused the show playing on her laptop and folded away her blanket. She smoothed out the strays from her hair and ran, then walked to the door with a pounding heart. She hoped it was Marque, and it was not. 

A familiar face greeted her, a girl with brown hair cut into a bob. “Hiya, I’m Vinuth. The girls and I are going out for some drinks and figured it’d be nice to invite everyone.” Four other women revealed themselves from behind Vinuth, all smiling and inviting Ginny to come out. “We don’t bite.” 

Ginny gave in to the invitation and asked for a moment to get ready. She wasn’t sure what to expect from Belfast, but she packed a dress and a few nice blouses in case she needed to impress anyone. She pulled the spaghetti strap black garment over her arms and head, fixing the lines from the days of being folded. 

Ears adorned with miniature gold hoops that complimented her complexion and square-based heels, Ginny found her way to the closest club near the university. Bumping past bodies in the late evening, Vinuth and the other girls showed her around the flashing lights. The first drink was free by compliment of Vinuth, then the second shot was free from a group of college boys across the bar area. Her head began to spin, her legs began to move to the music. 

“Havin’ a savage time?” One of the girls shouted into Ginny’s ear over the music, they collapsed against each other and laughed. The girl laughed because of lost balance, while Ginny laughed because she could barely understand the other’s thick accent. They all found themselves hot with liquor and wrapped around in house music that stomped the floors. The rest of the evening was a blur until it became clear to Ginny that she was imagining Vinuth as Marque, who pulled her close to dance under a pink light. 

“You like anyone yet?” Vinuth giggled in a drunken twist, her hands following the music above her head. Ginny shook her head at the question and laughed with the girl. “Good,” Vinuth shouted, “No boys in Belfast that are worth a dinger like you.” 

She was sobered up by the time they were speaking in each other’s ears with searing breath. Lacking a drink in her hand, it felt more natural to press against Vinuth and notice every part of her face. Her lips, her enlarged pupils, the scent of honied whiskey and perfume; all of it was inviting. 

“Dinger?” 

“You, pretty girl.”

    VIII. Saturday, Morning 

They drank more and hailed a cab at two in the morning. The club closed and had to usher out the girls along with other students from the neighboring universities. Some of the girls exchanged numbers, or re-appeared from kissing around. Ginny was squished into the car with the other students, sitting in Vinuth’s lap with another girl crammed on top and others to the side. Regardless of the lack of space, all were laughing and re-telling their drunken tales. While the car pushed up the hill, Vinuth would play with Ginny’s hair and murmur words of admiration. 

Ginny found her way back to her dorm room with Vinuth linked in her arms, both stumbling slightly in their heels. Her keys jingled, struggling to slip the laminated card into the slot. When she thought her door had beeped open, Marque appeared from next door. 

“Bonjour,” her chest stirred at the sound of French. 

“Bonjoor,” her words slurred and Vinuth laughed, still drunk. 

Marque read the situation and held Ginny’s hand, helping her place the card in the door lock slot, whispering a quiet: “There.” 

“Bon nut,” Ginny’s face flushed as she dragged along into her dorm room. Her French wasn’t perfect, but she wanted to charm the man just as he did to her. She shut the door behind Vinuth and herself, unaware and not particularly caring that Marque seemed to have words in his mouth. 

IX. Saturday, Afternoon 

She woke up later in the day, no alarm this time, but something else. Vinuth had left behind her rose quartz-beaded bracelet next to her head. And Marque, he had messaged her through the student housing messaging app. 

Marque J.P.— 2:56 AM 
“What happened to your clothes?”
“(Beer glass emoji)” 
“Invite next time?” 

They ran into each other in the communal kitchen once more. He watched Ginny walk to the microwave and make soup yet again. Beyond his blue hair and liking for painting, Marque was still a mystery that she wanted to lure in, yet he was the only tempting one between the two.

His body language was languid and naturally gravitated towards Ginny if they were holding a conversation. Ginny would step back and Marque would come closer, yet it wasn’t enough for Ginny, even if she was the one seemingly prying away from his gaze and non-contact touch. 

“Did you see my text?” He asked, leaning against the counter where the microwave whirred and the soup could be heard bubbling. 

Ginny played with the spoon in her hand, “I forgot— it was girls only.” 

“I can be a girl too,” they laughed together, her chest stirred. 

“Sure,” she found it hard to continue the conversation, afraid to stutter or something else that revealed a growing appreciation for the other. 

Marque settled in the silence and seemed uncomfortable for the first time. “You speak French, Ginny?” 

The memory of her slurring the foreign words together came back to her, stamping her cheeks with red waxed embarrassment. Was he charmed? 

“Just a little, most Americans know some French or Spanish,” Ginny replied. “Show me more,” he paused, “Sometime, I want to hear.” 

    X. Sunday 

They ended up in her dorm room on the carpeted floor, crisscrossed and parallel from one another. Marque invited himself over with the idea of doing a sketching practice with Ginny as the model. She stayed still, her face off to the side so he could become familiar with side profile of the human face. 

Marque had complimented Ginny during the first minutes of the sketching process, stating how perfect and easy her jaw was to replicate. She blushed and was grateful that she wasn’t being sketched facing forward. Secretly, Ginny wished she was. Maybe then he would see her orange-pink blossoms and compliment her beauty more directly, her imagination ran wild, her body had to refrain from shaking. The two rambled on through the process, they exchanged ages, birthdays, fun facts, interests, disinterests, life passions, social media, observations of the world. Marque was becoming less of a mystery, but learning more about him only made it harder to look him in the eyes. Sometimes he would try to follow wherever she looked off to, only to understand it was an act of avoidance. He was charming her yet again, but this time, he was aware. 

    XI. Wednesday 

Seeing each other became more frequent but at a higher stake. Ginny would style her curls in a way that would be impossible to not compliment or notice, and Marque would try to find anything to strike up a conversation with the other. The atmosphere between the two changed for the better and for the worse, considering a heightened tension where neither could speak confidently. 

Marque J.P.— 4:42 PM 
    “They’re getting dinner…come with me?” 
                                                                                                 Ginny C.— 4:43 PM
                                                                                                   “What time? I’ll go” 
Marque J.P.— 4:43 PM 
     “Hurry please” 

With her question unanswered, Ginny changed into a casual dinner outfit; a square-neck top that showed just enough skin to tell Marque that she liked him too much, but her legs remained covered in jeans that emphasized the casualty and self-restraint. The two met outside the dorm building, only it was just her and Marque standing around in the cold weather. 

They rode in a taxi down to the town center, then walked into a bar and met with five other boys. It wasn’t her ideal dinner; no girls, or dancing, just football and jugs of beers with baskets of chips. Ginny kept her hand rested under her chin, aimlessly looking around— she had more fun with Vinuth, more freedom. But she didn’t have to pretend that Vinuth was Marque, especially with him sitting next to her. The boys spoke in a mixture of English and French, for the most part, she was excluded from the conversation. The others were kind enough to say hello at first, they appeared to be artists too, with punk and urban styles of dressing, but they all liked sports the same. Ginny became lost in translation, sitting at the crowded booth and playing with the paper straw of her beer that Marque bought for her; her imagination played on, she pictured them alone and falsely translated the other boy’s words as questions about Ginny being his girlfriend or crush. She wanted to be wanted. 

As she played with the melting yellow ice, Marque bumped shoulders with her gently. The side of his head rested in his calloused hand. She felt cornered by him, sitting next to the wall with him on the other side, guarding her from the others. Ginny smiled at him without teeth.

“You’re not having fun?” He whispered, the others distracted with yelling at the televised match. She shrugged. “Let’s go then?” He mirrored her grin, “They won’t care.” 

Before she could answer, Marque pushed the other two out of the booth row and spoke fervently with his hands. Ginny couldn’t remember his words to translate them in Google later, but she assumed it was: “get out of the way,” maybe. 

“No fun!” His blonde friend yelled out at him, everyone laughing. They left the bar and walked around the town. Near dark and slightly windy, Ginny felt more inclined to walk closer to his side. 

“Do you dance?” 

“No,” she answered too quickly as they strolled aimlessly. 

“No?” Marque kept his hands deep in his pocket, his sports jersey tee a bit too revealing for the weather. “You didn’t dance on the girls’ night?” 

He brought it up again, Ginny began to think that he was possibly hurt by not being invited, or hurt by not being favored enough to be asked. She rolled her eyes and tried to cover her laugh by avoiding Marque’s face. “I did, just a little.” 

“Dance with me then, party girl,” he pried at her shyness, nudging her shoulder again and trying to seek her affection. 

“We have class tomorrow. I don’t want to,” she nudged his shoulder back and he stumbled, only to nudge her again in a game of shoulder war. “So what?” Marque replied, “I can be a party girl instead.” 

    XII. Friday 

They kissed in between pink lighting at the same club Vinuth brought her to the week prior. Her hands were clasped on his shirt, while his hands held the corners of the wall and seemingly, all corners of the winds on Earth. Marque had a rancid and overly-masculine taste to him: strong liquor, minty gum, and nicotine. His scruffy skin irritated her smooth face. He was with Ginny for the entirety of the night, but she figured that the man had sneaked a smoke in the bathroom and tried to cover it up with chewing gum. 

The music she found boring and the hidden darkness of the club brought them closer together. The game of charm ended, it was only them in a space that required neither of them to prove something. Albeit drunk, unlike she was with Vinuth while dancing, it was simpler to fall into Marque’s movements. He wasn’t much of a dancer, though. He awkwardly swayed side to side and kept his overly zealous hands in Ginny’s for most of the night. 

They waited outside for the taxi to come, shivering next to one another with skin revealed a wee too much. Marque’s jacket was draped over her shoulders as they stood under the strings of light. The music was then behind them. The masquerade returned and the lips before meant much of nothing with the silence that occurred. To Ginny, it felt as if the game ended. 

“You can dance,” Marque joked and lit a cigarette. It stunk, Ginny wasn’t used to smoking as much. “I like it, I like you.” 

Ginny smiled down at her boots, “I think I like you too.” 

“Yeah?” He puffed the smoke away from her in the dark, his index finger tapping away the ashes into a gust of wind. 

    XIII. In Between 

Throughout the rest of her stay in Belfast, the pink beaded bracelet stayed on her left wrist. It was unspoken what they were, something along the lines of boyfriend and girlfriend but ambiguously unlabeled. They still slept in each other's beds here and there since the Friday, 
though. They ate together, watched movies on laptop screens, and used each other as muses for their art. 

Ginny found herself invited out with the girls of the dormitory again, purposely without Marque. He kept his distance from her friends but he waited for her to return. She danced with Vinuth under pink lights, not imagining her as Marque. They too kissed; Ginny preferred to think of it as an accident at first. She only wanted to show thanks to Vinuth for complimenting her again, it was an unspoken accident; a friend stated that gals made out sometimes, it was a kind kiss. Too kind to stop and prevent infatuation, even in the cab, outside the dorm hall, and in Vinuth’s bedroom. 

She later returned to Marque’s room and fell into his bed sheets without a sober thought. She melted into his mellow skin and slept until the next day’s afternoon, pretending that the orange lipstick was her natural color.

    XIV. End 

Marque drove with her to the airport at night. He helped unload her luggage and rolled the two suitcases into the building with Ginny. They hugged at her gate, their differing nose bridges touching upon every empty kiss. Ginny boarded the plane as she looked back at the man with then faded blue hair. Marque blew her a kiss goodbye, and she waved. 
​
Fourteen hours after, she landed in Oregon. Being reunited with the air similar to Ireland pained her heart, it was so close yet not the same. She didn’t have the time to say bye to Vinuth. Her boyfriend met her at the exit gate and loaded her luggage into the back of his car. They rode in silence, and she slept in silence. 

Ginny would receive messages from Marque occasionally, Vinuth as well. During a night together, Marque had promised he’d come find Ginny in America when he graduated from Belfast University. He said he’d learn how to paint like the American expressionists, and Ginny would have a gallery to herself. After months had passed since Belfast and her spring graduation, the messages stopped. Ginny resisted carrying on extensive conversations and anything that bordered on a shared intimacy, even if she would purposely post photos of herself just to see if either of them would text her. 

@Vinuth.Venutian 
Liked your story 
   “Gra mo chroi, the bracelet looks good on you” 
   “Miss you x” 
                                                                                                                @365.Ginny 
                                                                                                   Liked Vinuth’s message 
                                                                                                             “Miss you too” 

She thought about Marque whenever it rained and the clouds hid the sky. And when she saw women with short haircuts, she’d think about Vinuth’s lost tenderness. Oregon was close enough to Ireland, just not the same. The gifted roses from her graduation wilted on her bedroom desk and began to erode over time. Rolling blues played in her room again; she wished she could return to Ireland, maybe fall in love again but slower, without masks and with a cleaner slate.