Far From Nanga Parbat by Pendle Marshall-Hallmark (3rd place, Sokol Creative Writing contest)

Far From Nanga Parbat

“Are you nervous?”
“Not really. Just tired.”
“…I am.”
She looks out the window, pushing her hand over the glass windowpane and into the wet breeze of the highway. It’s morning, and she is not fully awake. Only enough to put on a hoody and feel uncomfortable.
It is silent for a while. Her father is angry but quiet – his scariest mood. Her stomach is hurting.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A few months ago.” Then silence.
She tries to start a conversation by herself. “I think it’s been about 3 years, for me.”
Nothing. He swallows, and his neck tightens. She sinks farther into her seat, pulls her hand in from the window.
“What time is it?”
“It’s almost 8:30… just look at the clock.”
“Oh.” She pretends to giggle, “Sorry.”

***

The car glides farther down the vast expanse of desert freeway, passing 7-Elevens and home-furnishing department stores. The sun is slowly peeking over the mountains in the distance, just high enough to dash painfully into their eyes. She tries to pull the car shade down, but it doesn’t go low enough to cover her face. The car suddenly pulls into a parking lot, passing a sign for her grandfather’s nursing home: “Pleasant Valley”.
Neither of them says anything as her father drives the car around the side of the one-story building, passing a number of open gardens along the monotone brick wall. Everything is covered in drab morning sunshine – the far side of the desert is still waking up, the sun now beginning to ascend into the open sky.
“This is the ward for the residents with dementia.” He finally says sullenly. “That’s why they have the big wall around the garden – so they can’t escape.”
He quickly points to a 9 foot tall dark-red wooden wall that has introduced itself to the surrounding scenery. It isn’t like the other wards’ open gardens. It’s the trade mark of the dementia-ward. So they can’t escape.
The car comes to a sleek stop at the front of the dementia-ward, its electric engine quietly shutting off. Her father gets briskly out of the car and then walks across the phony lawn towards the door. The grass isn’t real, she knows, because down here in the desert
of Colorado they don’t get grass like in New York – they have to install it. She makes her way out of the car as fast as she can and comes to a stop at the door with her father.
He softly takes her shoulders and points her so that she is looking into the hallway of the ward. There are a few scattered residents ambling about beneath the skylights of the hallway, all forlornly gazing into space. Her father knocks on the glass doors, loudly, so that the nurse in a floral-patterned apron at the far end of the building can open the door for them. Within a few anxious moments of waiting, they are let in.
“Thanks Pam.” Her father says. He does not smile.
She follows her father through the glass doors and into the cool air of the dementia ward. It smells like air-fresheners and disinfectant, like the hospital that her father works in up North. There is an almost blue-like lighting in the hallway, the early-morning sunlight having spilt through the skylights above them and danced, like a taunting child, over the speckled tiles on the floor and through the open doors of the residents’ rooms.
Today is the 4th of July, and the nametag outside of each inhabitant’s room is decorated with crisp red and blue construction papers and miniature American flags. She tries to stay close to her father, avoiding the mumbling white-haired men and women that struggle passed them. Her father passes an elderly woman with a walker; her hair is tightened and pulled back into a bun, a few strayed grey strands are floating about her face, and her lips are painted dark purple.
“That’s a good boy… that’s a good boy. How come my boy didn’t come today? You’re a good boy” She repeats it shrilly, watching the girls’ father intensely as he walks down the hall.
A nurse approaches the woman. “That’s not your boy, Mrs. Ellis. That’s Dr. Richards.” But the woman doesn’t hear her. She keeps staring at the girl’s father, following him down the hall.
Her father eventually reaches the main desk. “Hello, John. Did you get the copy of his last results?” When she sees the girl, she adds, “Coming to take him out for lunch?”
“Yup. Yeah, I did. Thanks Amy.” He pauses. “This is my daughter, Grace. This is Ms. Rico, Grace.” The girl greets Ms. Rico quietly.
Her father asks Ms. Rico about his father’s most recent prescriptions and about how long he has been sleeping and what he has been eating. She leans against the wall, not listening to the conversation, but instead thinking about the last time she saw her grandfather.


***


It is grey and dull outside, the color of Northern winters. The girl is sitting on her brother’s bed with her grandfather, a tall man with a large torso and skinny legs. His hair has receded, and his eyes seem to be as big as her fists. Her tiny legs dangle over the edge of the bed next to her grandfathers’ as she listens to him speak.
“Make the monkey face again, Be-bop!” she says, smiling. She waits for him to twist his face into that of a gorilla by sticking his lower lip out and smiling – the overall effect is usually very amusing to the 10 year old. She often asks him to make the face because it’s one of the only things he can do now, and she wants to make him feel like an entertaining grandfather.
But he doesn’t. It’s almost as if he hasn’t heard her – she can’t really tell.
He begins to recite a favorite book of his, a piece of memory that has stuck in his brain. “A thousand miles North of Kangchenjunga, at the far most Western end of the Himalayas, lies the merciless peak of Nanga Par –”
“Grandpa!” He still does not respond to her call. “Grandpa!”
He stops, and looks at her. He has been staring through her this entire time, smiling, as if he knows that what he is reciting will amuse and impress her.
But she is not amused. “Grandpa! What about the monkey face? Can you make a monkey face?” She wrinkles up her own face in an effort to get him to mimic her.
He looks at her for a moment, and then imitates her, bringing his low, sagging lip out over his chin. He smiles for an instant, and then begins again, just as dramatically as before, watching her as he speaks, trying to entice her with his words.
“A thousand miles North of Kangchenjunga…”
“Grandpa!” He looks at her for a moment more, and then, looking away as if disregarding her, he begins to whistle.

It’s a song that her father plays on the piano every once in a while – its melody is sad and romantic, almost haunting. It’s a song that she knows by heart, but she has no idea what the name of it is. She hums along with her grandfather, going up and down with the notes, flowing, with her grandfather, through a stream of the subconscious; never missing a note, never missing a beat.


***


Finally, her father is done talking with Ms. Rico. He turns to his daughter. “You ready?” He asks, almost mockingly. He again moves to walk farther down the hallway. They pass a Thomas Dulson, a Mary Horner, a Jacob Yutan-Max, and a Roger Franks before they reach “William Richards”.
She stops before going into the room, even though the door is open. She is almost afraid to go in, thinks it’s too soon, thinks she’s not ready to see him.
Instead, she reads the mini-bio stapled to the nameplate outside his door.
“William Richards has lived all over the country, including Colorado and Alaska. He worked as a psychiatrist, and served in the US Air Force…”
It’s like reading a cross between an obituary and a personal ad. She stops, and looks in.
And there he is.
An old man is asleep in a beige leather chair, his face strikingly similar to the girl’s own fathers’. He is slightly drooling into his own lap, his chin slumped forward onto his chest, his hands limply lying over the arm rests of the chair.
This man is her grandfather.
His hair is disheveled and thinned out, and his slacks are tightened over his thighs so that they leave his socks uncovered above his shoes, like high-water jeans on a kindergartener. She feels, above all else inside her, a fluttery feeling of pity and nostalgia.
She follows her father into the room, the door still open like it was before, displaying her grandfather like a painting in a museum to all that pass by. There is music playing from a small boom box on a shelf in the corner – Frank Sinatra: “I’ve Got the World On A String”.
“And here he is!” her father cries, like a babysitter that has just found a child in ‘hide and seek’. He walks over to the old man’s chair and kneels beside him, quietly, as if not to wake him.
She watches her father as he kneels there, hands over his own fathers’, eyes studying the aged image of his own face. Her grandfather’s chin hangs from his neck like the wattle of a rooster. His skin is brown and dotted with age spots. His eyes are closed, his long lashes bent over his cheeks, his drooping lips puckered in sleep.
She walks up beside her grandfather, and feels afraid of him: his massive, hulking form, his wrinkled arms and wide face. There is something frightening about his dementia: she feels like she is sitting unprotected beside a powerful stranger.
She looks around the room. There is a shelf above her grandfather’s cot that is covered in cheesy stuffed animals that his girlfriend has bought him over the years. The newest one, sitting on the table at the foot of the cot, is a teddy bear holding a stuffed red heart with a “PRESS ME” button on its hand. When the girl presses it, it plays “Close to You”.
There are pictures of her aunt and her father on top of the dresser, even an old one of she herself around the age of seven or eight, sitting with her brother. Each picture is labeled with the subject’s name, and it reminds the girl of animals labeled in children’s books.
“You like the view?” her father asks, pointing out at the dried up garden outside the window at the edge of her grandfather’s cot. The light is brighter now, more solid than the faint light of the morning. She nods, unable to speak because of a knot in her throat that has begun to grow.
Her father points out a group of Congo drums sitting in front of the window. “We bought those for him a while ago, when we noticed that he liked to drum out rhythms. We thought he might enjoy them.”
She gives her grandfather a pity smile and watches his chest move up and down. Her father stands, crossing his arms over his chest and lowering his chin to look more deeply at his father; his forehead wrinkles.
And suddenly they are both crying, turning away from the old man in the chair, clutching their faces in their hands, quietly leaking thick tears of pain.
“Who was this man?” She asks herself desperately of her grandfather. Today he is a blank stare, a baby, an oblivious shrug in a room. He is not with them anymore, and she struggles to accept that this living man in front of her is not really living. He is already dead, or if not, then dying.

“A thousand miles North of Kangchenjunga, at the far most Western end of the Himalayas, lies the merciless peak of Nanga Parbat…”

And yet, he awakens.
She turns to see him open his eyes, look around the room with raised eyebrows, and then close them again.
“We can let him sleep for a little while.” her father murmurs, and they do.


***


It is almost 12 noon, and the girl is sitting in the back seat of the car, her father at the wheel and her grandfather in the passenger’s seat. They are driving up the road to the top of a mesa. The sun is stronger than ever, its heat beating down on the roof of the car and then blowing away in the wind. They reach the top of the mesa and her father puts the car in park.
His features are calmer now; he is exhausted from getting his father into the car, and he slumps forward onto the wheel.
The girl is staring at the back of her grandfather’s head, at his huge monkey-like ears and broad shoulders. Her grandfather sits quietly, not having even noticed that the car has stopped.
For a few moments, there is stillness. And then song – her grandfather is whistling a tune she has heard before.
A tune she can hum along to.

I too am Beautiful by Hanna Amireh

I too, am beautiful

eyes drift over
in my direction
I have become
the main focus

staring at me
these strangers notice
that I too am
just as beautiful

uncomfortable
I turn my back
towards these people
towards their blank faces

unaware of this me
never seen before
they stand and stare

they stare at the me
I’m destined to become
the person they are growing
to love

sorrow
fades from my
inner self
I breathe easy

Viva La Vida by Zoe Christopher

Viva La Vida

there's no place I'd rather be
than in this cramped little house
individualized in a sea of cookie cutter homes
listening to you silently being you

you run over the chords
to your favorite Coldplay song
tapping them out on my leg

I'm falling asleep on the well-worn couch
and I know a million thoughts are racing
through your mind at a snail’s pace
I'm completely at home

we’ve had too much Dramamine
and yet this is the happiest I've been

Afterthought by Nautica Lawrence (1st place, Penfield Poetry contest)

Afterthought

I (who am
painfully eager to please,
dependent on it even)
am not perfection.

I (who am
untempted by hormones
even in darkened theatres
under strong peer pressure)
am not perfection.

I (who watch
the best of ourselves lowered
while sobbing
as if we never grew up
seeking the approval of others
to determine our success)
am not perfection.

‘Cause if I (who wish to be perfect,
who lives and breathes to be perfect,
and still in your eyes am not perfect)
then what is perfection?

The Heart of Palestine by Hanna Amireh

Hanna Amireh
The Heart of Palestine


Surah Al Fatiha
(The opening chapter)
“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds Most Gracious, Most Merciful Master of the, Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship, and Thine aid we seek. Show us the straight way. The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace, Those whose (portion) is not wrath and who go not astray.”-Holy Quran

“Come to prayer, come to prayer.” The sound of the Azan rings through Palestine as little Fatima runs home from her first day of school. It was September 15, 2000. Like all the other houses in Palestine, Fatima’s house was a large brick house. She was very proud with the way her house looked, especially on the outside. It was the brightest and most loving home in Gaza. Fatima and her mother had planted apple trees and a garden of assorted fruits and vegetables. She created an additional garden of flowers. She especially loved the Daffodils, tulips, and roses. They were her favorite.
“Mama, Baba, I did it; I learned how to count to ten today.” Fatima’s mother, Eman was standing there at the door waiting for Fatima’s return.
“Mashallah (god bless) Fatima, that’s so good. Hurry on! Go do your wuthu (cleansing one must do before prayer) it’s almost time for prayer.”
“Mama” Fatima calls. “Is it true? Is the war really coming?”
“Yes. That’s why we must pray. We must have faith in Allah.
“How about Nurallah (light of god)? What will happen to him?
“Don’t worry about your brother. He is fighting to keep what is rightfully ours. This land is ours. It does not belong to the yahoudi (Jew).
“Why can’t we just share it? It is big enough for all of us.
…

The Palestinians and Jews have been in conflict for many years now (1991- present) The Jews want the Palestinian land and the Palestinians will not give it up without a fight. Bodies of both Palestinians and Jews cover the once beautiful land and the bloodshed is on going. Women and children try to take cover but they are blown to pieces. A barefooted boy age eleven watches his father, a martyr of Palestine bulleted down by a Jew. His eyes turn red and bleed with such sorrow and anger. All the Jew sees is just another thing to shoot up. The little boy drags his father and calls for help. A Jew stands behind him and he says, “Pathetic,” so the little boy picks up a stone and throws it. “You’ve taken my sister, my mother and now my father. Just take me too. Kill me now!” The Jew smiles and stands over the boy’s father, whom is still breathing slightly. He takes his head and looks to the boy with a smile, “this is our land now,” he says as he slams the father’s head against the ground. The little boy lunges at the soldier and bites, kicks, and scratches. The soldier pushes him off continuously but out of rage the boy continuously hits the Jew. The Jew finally shoots the boy right in the middle of the head and he says, “Just another pest.” As the boy fell to the ground a small box flew from his hand.
Yesterday I was sitting at the dinner table with my mother and sister as baba walked through the door. I jumped out of my chair and I pulled up a chair for him; I put it right next to mine. He usually came home later, but yesterday he kept his promise. He brought with him a small box. I knew he got it; I knew he bought it for me. It was a brand new, polished necklace with a soccer ball on it. I wanted to be a soccer player one day. I wanted to make my family proud of me and I wanted so much to be the person my father never got to be. I wanted to be the first in the family to get married. I wanted to be the one to take care of my parents when they grew old but today I watched my mother and sister run off and take cover. Today was the day I saw the Jew kill my hero, my love, my father, with pleasure. I saw the ultimate evil and I couldn’t do anything. Today I saw families separated and I saw a never ending battle. I saw an on going bloodshed and a piece of holy land torn to pieces. It was today that I fell to the ground with a hole in my head. It was that necklace that I saw fall to the ground along with every single Palestinian dream demolished by the Jewish Man.

Surah Al-Baqara
(The Chapter of the Cow)

“On no soul doth Allah place a burden greater than it can bear. It gets every good that it earns and it suffers every ill that it earns. (Pray): "Our Lord! Condemn us not if we forget or fall into error; our Lord! Lay not on us a burden like that which Thou didst lay on those before us; Our Lord! Lay not on us a burden greater than we have strength to bear. Blot out our sins and grant us forgiveness. Have mercy on us. Thou art our Protector; help us against those who stand against faith." –Holy Quran

Surviving the hail of bullets Fatima and her mother find themselves entering a strange place. They strut around helping all the other women and children. Some sick, some wounded, and some dead. Fatima gazes through the small window and up into the sky. The once blue and white sky is now black and gray. She reminisces of that last moment with her father and brother and how that farewell was truly the last time she’d ever see them again. For a brief moment she doubts Allah.
“Oh Allah what sins have we committed, have I committed. Why are we being punished? Oh Allah! Please help us, protect us, and take away the misery and pain. Let the sunlight shine one last time. Bring back my brother and father; let the light shine on them. Oh Allah!”
Realizing that she was straying from god at the moment when she needed him most she went into another moment of prayer, but this time she was asking for forgiveness. She wanted answers but no one could give her any. She wanted help, but no one could help her. As she crouched down into the darkness of a corner she looked into her own soul. She searched for that faith she once had; she searched for the love of her father and her brother, but it all seemed to disappear. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that they were gone for good. She couldn’t tell herself that life just ends.
On one of the most important days to her, Fatima’s grandmother past away. Fatima couldn’t bring herself to understand why her grandmother (her best friend) died and how. They played together the day before and everything seemed to be fine. Her grandma didn’t seem sick. Not even her parents or the doctors could tell her why for they did not know either. Fatima locked herself in her own room for a day. The next morning when Fatima awoke she said, “Thank you Allah.” The night before she thought long and hard about why people have to die and it came to her. It was god that created earth, the plants on earth and the people too. If god could give life he could take it to. Fatima went to her parents the next day and said, “I know why Siti (grandma) died.” Shocked, her parents stood in silence. “God giveth and god shall taketh away. Don’t worry Siti is in good hands now. I once heard that if you go to heaven there will be beautiful streams of fresh, pure water. There are waterfalls and trees as tall as mountains. There is a beautiful bright light; darkness does not exist in heaven. I bet that if Siti is in heaven right now she will be sitting by a garden just like ours, but bigger and brighter, sipping from a golden cup of wine.
Life is a complex but fragile word. It has much meaning behind it and with further ado it carries with it emotion. Is life a dream? Is life a vision? Is life something that is only in our imagination? Without life can there be love?

Lovers such passionate people
In one’s time of living, soon
Fade from a picture where
Existence is locked in a box with no key.

As Eman caught a glimpse of her little Fatima crouching into the darkness of that little corner, she ran to her with open arms and she did what most of the mothers did. She embraced her daughter and she told her everything would be okay. She held really tight and as the sound of the soldier’s feet approached the door she knew that everything was about to get even worse. The soldiers banged on the door and cursed the women. The women were too frightened to move and therefore would not answer the soldier’s request. They could not open the door for they were dreadfully horrified with what would come next. Would Allah send upon them guardian angels to protect them or would they just have to wait even longer? The sound of the soldiers was multiplying and the women feared for their children. Unfortunately their fear did not encourage them to act quickly. The soldiers counted to three and the door caved in.
“Baba, Baba the door is stuck and I can’t open it. Baba, please help me, I am scared.” Fatima locked herself into the bathroom for a second time and she still fears that she will be left alone and no one would ever find her. Her father comes and pushes the door open. She lunges at him and says, “you found me.”
They ran through and took all the young boys, ages ranging from newborns to ten. They viciously drag them across the stone floors and out to the rugged ground outside. Their mothers began screaming hysterically. Some taking the last bit of energy they had collapse to the ground, their hearts stop beating. Other mothers listen as their innocent sons call for their fathers and older brothers to come and help them. Then silence fills the air after a line of gun shots go off and the sound of little bodies hit the ground. The soldiers haven’t had enough though. They go back into the house where the women are now sitting together. A group of the soldiers point to Fatima and the others nod. They begin walking towards her with the look of savage beasts and that’s when Eman realizes what they are after. She lounges at them with all her might and she screams out to Fatima, “I love you but our journey together ends here, RUN!”
Fatima and her mother were sitting out by the garden, drinking a warm glass of tea. They enjoy the colors of the flowers and they name each one after a family member. Fatima’s mother was the rose and Fatima was the daffodil. “As long as we live, that rose and that daffodil over their will always stand together.”
“Wow mama! Can flowers really live that long?”
“As long as they are together they will live on forever”
“Even in the snow?”
“Even in the snow.”
Fatima jolted through the soldiers and almost made it to the door. A soldier jumped in her way but she did not let that stop her, for she knew that she was going to have to be on her own now. Being that her body was so small she knew that this soldier could not stop her. She jumped and slid on the rugged stone floor, between the soldier’s legs and when she stands up, all scraped and bloody, she sees the bodies of young Palestinian boys, but her mother’s last words hunt her. “RUN!” So she runs and doesn’t look back. As she hears the sound of one more gun shot, goose bumps spread across her body and she feels it. She feels the loss of her mother and then it happens again. She cannot find that love. It is as if the love was numbed. She could not feel it. All she felt now was to find a shelter, she needed to hide but everywhere she turned she found a soldier in her face. As she turned another corner someone grabbed her arms and she thought it was over. She let out a scream, and then a cry. The soldier said, “Young child, where is your family?” As she looked up she was relieved to see that this was not a Jewish soldier; the soldier was one of her own kind. She gasped and threw her arms around the soldier. “My name is Muhammad.”
“I have no one left. The yahoudi has taken their lives. My baba, my mama, and my brother have gone to Allah, but I am the unlucky one. I am still here and I am tired, hungry, and thirst. How can I eat? I can’t even take a breath without have to make a run for it. I do have a brother left. He is a soldier like you. Do you know him? His name is Nurallah?”
The soldier looked down at his boot and from it he pulled out dog tags; he placed them around her neck. “I am so sorry. I knew your brother very well but he did not make it. Don’t worry though I will protect you. I promised him I would find his family and guide them to safety. Come with me, I will let you hide in here.”
Muhammad walked Fatima into an alley. There he pushed a rather large rock that stood almost as high as him. It was a passage. There were two soldiers sitting there with their guns and they looked at Fatima and smiled, which reassured her that she would be okay. Then a serious of bombs started going off and the soldiers all came out of the passage and pushed the stone back into its place, leaving Fatima inside. “Muhammad, don’t leave me.” Fatima called out but her voice was so faint that he did not hear her. They left her plenty of food and water, but she was alone. There was some light that came through the cracks of the stone that kept her safe from the yahoudi, but Fatima was frightened.
Muhammad and the others did not forget about Fatima. They knew very well what they left her with. They left food, water, blankets and some weapons too. Though it was not meant for her they left her there with it all. Muhammad and the other Palestinian soldiers were being taken out one by one. Muhammad called for one of the other soldiers, Aziz and told him to retreat back to the hiding place. He knew that all of them would die in battle but he did not want Fatima to be alone. As Aziz retreated, Muhammad and the others were taken out one by one. It hurt him to leave them but he knew that his duty was to be with Fatima and comfort her in anyway possible. Just as Aziz was about to turn into the Alley, a yahoudi crept up from behind him and slit his throat. Fatima, hearing his body plummet to the ground, was now alone and no one else in the world knew about her. She stayed in the Alley for many days and many nights. She grew very tired and restless but she did not give up faith. She allowed herself to understand that all this couldn’t have happened for no reason. “Reason” was what she looked for; it was what she asked god for.
“Oh Allah! I’ve asked for forgiveness and I have trusted in you for such time. I am trapped here all alone and I am asking for your guidance. I know not what I am supposed to do now, and I fear that I am losing faith, not only in you but in the chances of my survival. Yesterday as the little light that peered through the cracks of this large rock disappeared I felt the air grow cold and my breath collapse into the size of a diamond. I longed to live but longed to die for if I die my lonely days would come to an end. If indeed my life ended last night, I could be once again with the faces I shall forever know, the faces of my mother, father and brother.”
…

With every passing day Fatima waited. She waited for the day when her eyes wouldn’t open but she began to think this day would never come. She had run out of water and the amount of food she had was scarce. On September 30, 2000, the sound of war was no longer present. The laughter of children and mothers yelling to their children returned. Along with this the images of Fatima and her family returned. Tears ran down her cheeks and she longed to die but she knew that it wasn’t her time. So she forced herself to the large rock and she forced her fingers through the cracks. Being trapped for so long she knew that the school kids came through the alley everyday after school with their parents. She tried to yell for help but her throat was dry from dehydration. As she wiggled her fingers some more a fragment of stone broke off the large rock and tumbled out in front of a child.
The child bent down and retrieved the stone from the ground. He found it peculiar due to the fact that he was in the middle of an alley and there was no wind to move the stone. He glanced at the large rock and thought that maybe it was just an old rock and it was time for it to start breaking. He walked forward a couple of steps and then turned back. He had a gut feeling that the rock didn’t just break by itself.
As he peered even closer at the rather large, aging rock he noticed something peculiar. A set of bloodied fingers wiggled from the cracks. “Mama look!” He yelled out. She looked and saw nothing. “What is it Ahmad? I see nothing.”
“Look there at the cracks!” He continued to yell, this time pointing.
“Goodness, gracious!” She yelped as she too noticed the fingers.

“One, two, three, ready or not, here I come. Fatima I can hear you giggling; I know where you are. Ha I found you.”
“Nurallah you cheated!”
“How’d I cheat?”
“Um, I don’t know, did you peek?”
“No, not once.”
“Cross, your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye.”
“Yeah, all three of them. If you hide in the same place every time we play then I will always find you. Never hide in the same spot more than once because then it’ll be harder for me or anyone else to find you.”
“Nurallah, do you have to go now?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry I will come back. I made it back last time, I am sure I can make it back this time too.”
“Nurallah take this.”
“But this is your lucky ring.”
“I know, but I still want you to have it.”
“Okay fine. The next time we play you will hide better, right?”
“Right, I will hide so good that no one will ever find me.”

The woman ran over to the rock and yelled for Fatima to hang on. “Don’t worry. Help is coming you just hang on okay?” Fatima’s fingers retreated from the cracks and she stumbled back a few steps.
“What is your name?” She yelled.
“Fatima Ali Hussein.” Fatima said as she held on.
“Hurry, hurry this is Eman and Ali’s daughter. She survived.”

Fatima walked into her new classroom dreadfully excited. She wanted nothing more than to learn. However, she was afraid that she did not know anything and that her lack of knowledge would disappoint her Mualim (teacher).
“Sabah il khair (good morning). Welcome back to school. Would anyone like to introduce themselves to the class?”
“I would, me, me pick me!” Fatima anxiously shouted out.
“Very well.”
“My name is Fatima Ali Hussein, and my parents are Eman and Ali. I love school and I want to be a teacher one day.”
“Mashallah, thank you for sharing Fatima. Since you volunteered to be first you get a sticker of your choice.”
A group of men, fathers, ran up to the large rock and together they pushed the rock. Fatima laid there on the ground paler and colder than ever. They ran to her; surrounding her they tried talking to her until the ambulance arrived. With her eyes wide open Fatima stared off into the corner and she smiled. “Baba you found me.” I didn’t think you would find me this time. Mama, could we plant more flowers? How about Daisies? Nurallah I kept your dog tags for you. Here.” The men looked to the corner but saw nothing. As the ambulance rushed in, Fatima’s heart paused. They wanted to revive her but the woman stopped them and explained to them that she had nothing left and that bringing her back would be pointless. As they sat around her a sudden chill swept between them for a second and then it was gone.
“As long as we live, that rose and that daffodil over their will always stand together.”
“Wow mama! Can flowers really live that long?”
“As long as they are together they will live on forever”
“Even in the snow?”
“Even in the snow.”
In Loving Memory of…

Muhammad and Jamal Al Durrah

And to all other Palestinians that lost their lives to the harsh brutality of the Israeli soldiers

My heart shall forever be with you and your families

Al-Fâtiha - The Opening




1. In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
2. Praise be to God, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the world;
3. Most Gracious, Most Merciful;
4. Master of the Day of Judgment.
5. Thee do we worship, and Thine aid we seek.
6. Show us the straight way,
7. The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace,
those whose (portion) is not wrath, and who go not astray.

- Translation by Abdullah Yusuf Ali

“There’s always a beginning to good end.”

Heartbeats by Keonia Cooper

Lady in Stone

The whir of the projector leaves your head spinning, as twenty one eyes follow the teacher. The room’s dark, except for the stream of light that floats from the back of the room, you feel something. You can’t place it.

The click of the slides, one by one, words that follow leave your head bogged down, your thoughts muddled. You concentrate on your breathing, deep breath in, and out, your heart’s slamming against your chest like a miner digging for gold, so earnest in its attempt to break you down. You can’t count them.

Click. The slide changes to an archaic sculpture of a young man with a smile that doesn’t match his eyes, showing that he’s alive. You try to listen to the teacher’s words but they slide past you. All you can think is, “You can’t do this. You can’t do this.” You bite your lip, trying to hold it all in.

Click. You close your eyes, trying to catch the faint beat, but it’s useless. Medusa’s head lay in front of you, the screen fluttering slightly like a sail on a ship.

Click. You hear a shrill sound, and you don’t know where it’s coming from. You notice twenty two pairs of eyes locked on you. Miss Feron places her hand on your shoulder. You realize that you’re screaming. You close your mouth.

“Misty, are you okay?” She places her hand on your shoulder. Don’t touch, you think.
You hang your head in shame, your face burns red.

“Sorry.” You mumble your apology to the desk. The bell rings, and everyone leaps from their seats, scurrying away from you, you think. You gather you books, tears welling in your eyes. Why you?

Fix It

You gave up talking a while ago. After that stunt in Miss Feron’s class, you know that you don’t want to open your mouth unless you really have to. Your parents are with the school counselor, who just recommended that you see a shrink. Why are you here with them, talking as though you aren’t there?

Your father looks at you and yells, “Misty, do you want attention, is that it?”

You stare back mutely. Why should he care? He hasn’t before. Father’s are supposed to protect their daughters. Oh, he knows it’s wrong, but still he—

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. Answer me damn it, answer me.” Your father grips you by the shoulders your mother whispers “that’s quite enough John,” and the counselor admonishes, “Settle down Mr. Runner.”

Maybe it is your father’s fault, or is it your mother’s…

No it’s too hard to think. You’d like to shut down, stare off into space, but it’s not the time or the place.

The counselor looks at you sideways.

You gawf and all eyes turn on you. You smile angelically, shaking your head and walk away. That’ll never come true, monsters never want to be exposed, hence the lurking in shadows, hiding in closets and under the bed. Your father gaze beats down on you; your mother looks at you warily.

This is your fault, and right now you don’t care.

Spaz

Lunch, one of the worst periods of the day. No one’s given you a pass to the library so you’re stuck here for the whole period. You walk with a purpose, head down; you reach your table. It’s in the furthest corner, covered in trash.

You go through this every day. You grab the nearest garbage pail and with one swipe, into the open mouth of the can, a monster devouring the town. You place your bag in the empty seat beside you, it’s you’re only other company. Its better this way you tell yourself, pulling out your music, letting it carry you away from the screams and hollers of the lunchroom.

You look around and watch; it almost spins in front of your eyes. You tap your foot to the time of “Riot” by Three Days Grace. You’re ready to shut down.

“Misty! Hey Misty!” You get jerked back to reality. Looking around trying to figure out who would be calling out your name, that’s how pathetic you’ve become.

Eyes meet, you stop. You never thought she even knew your name, let alone would ever speak.

“Misty. Yeah you.” She crooks her finger like a hook. Come here.

You stumble awkwardly to her table. Jeanine.

“Hey, you don’t like me or something?” She asks, all smiles. Behind her back a knife, you know, but you fall anyway.

A group of faces stare back that you don’t recognize, teeth flashing, dangerous.

You shake your head no. It’s not like that.

“You know what you are Misty?” Teeth, “You’re a spaz, you know that? An honest spaz. I mean who does that? And in art history at that.”

Bubbles of laughter burst. Your face burns, from the crown of your head down.

“Hey, spaz, come back here, I’m not done with you.” Jeanine shouts, everyone turns to look to see what’s going on, like prairie dogs.

“Ahhhh.” A mock scream sounds as tears slip, burning your face, leaving ruts where they run. You scoop up your bag and half run, not turning back, someone shouting “Spaz, spaz” behind you.

“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." you whisper under your breath as you open the doors. That’s high school for you.

Duckie

Bath time. You run away screaming. It always hurts. Hands grasp you securely around your middle, this makes you terrified.

“Four year olds should not be afraid of the bath!” Looking up to a smile. It doesn’t reach the eyes.

You’re told to take off your clothes, because you’re a big girl now, as they sit on the toilet and watch.

They reach over and run the water, testing it with their fingers. It’s the fingers, the hands, and the gentle touch that scares you; so much pain. Why?

“Please don’t make it hurt again, please!” You try not to let tears fall, but they do. There’s those hands again, soothing you into a calm. Maybe not this time.

Those arms place you in the tub; a solitary ducky floats to you. Why does the duckie always come to you? Why won’t it leave you alone?

A soapy wash cloth runs over your body, against your face, against curved knees, pudgy tummy, your back, butt and dimpled legs, arms, neck. Water runs through your hair as it gets washed.

“All clean!” You tremble, knowing what comes next.

You stifle a sob, because you know that if anyone finds out, your family will be taken away from you. A shadow passes in the doorway, a frown, and then it’s gone. Help.

You sit still, silently crying as fingers slip, rub, scrape delicate skin. Fingers rock, pushing back and forth until they disappear.

You thought parents are supposed to love their children. So why does yours hurt you. You stare at the tiles and try to count them on the wall behind your parent’s head. One, two, three, four, five, that’s as high as you can count to.

It’s doesn’t feel good. Its pressure and it makes your stomach feel sick and achy.

Whatever happened to stranger danger? Mommy and daddy told you strangers aren’t supposed to touch you there, but they’re not strangers.

“Ow!” You cry out, and ridged wrists become still as fingers twist finding their way back out, pink clouds swirl around the duckie, following it as you cry.

An arm reaches around your slippery body, and pulls you out of the water, wrapping you in towel. You’re shaking.

You look up to see a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

“Aren’t you supposed to love me?” you wonder to yourself. You get sent to you room, because that’s what big girls do.

When will it stop?

Bathroom Break

You sit next to Kyle and Abby, your breath coming out in short gasps, and you control it enough so no one notices. No one notices that your heart’s butting against your rib cage like a fish trying to escape. No one notices the tears that threaten to spring from your eyes or your trembling hands…you wouldn’t want them to see you break down.

You. Can’t. Do. This. You can’t do this, you can’t, and you just can’t. Your mind races, you try to count heart beats to calm you down, but you can’t hear them, so you slip out of the room, grabbing the hall pass that sits near the door, no eyes follow you as the door clicks behind you, and you cover your mouth, doubling over in grief. This is what crazy is, this is what crazy does.

You let go, you sob hard, cries stuck in your throat as your body shakes. Why? You barely pull yourself together and begin to run towards the girls’ bathroom, that’s your safe place.

You’re crying as hard as you can, trying to purge this feeling of being lost, away.

“Misty, dear, are you okay?” A soft, blur floats past you.
“Misty?” You feel a hand on your shoulder. Touch, run.

You don’t, but you have to think about it, hard.
You lift your head to find Miss Feron attached to that hand.

“Hon, what’s wrong?” She pulls you into an embrace. This is always hard, because you know it’s impossible, but you’d like to bury yourself into a person’s heart and just stay there. It’d be nice to feel that kind of warmth.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” You feel obligated to look up again, your face burns in shame. You look into eyes flecked with worry. Everything’s okay.
Miss Feron only hugs you again and whispers in your ear,” If you need someone to talk to, my doors always open, Okay?”

You attempt to smile and fail, but you’re able to shake your head okay. It’s the best you can do.
She watches you walk away, push the bathroom door open. There you let go,
crying out like a wounded animal, until no more tears fall.

Haven

There’s a park near your house, it used to be a school’s playground, but now it’s just a public park.

It’s never really full since no one knows it’s there, but it’s really great at night. Sometimes you slip out at night and go there. You get the best view of the stars.

Your hands run against the chain link fence, it’s cold even for May.

You look up, the moon stares back. When you were three, you’d look out of the car window, coming from picking your father up from work at the old factory, and yell, “the moon’s following us. Is he going to be in bed with me...he’s watching over me?” You feel that way now.

The stars wink at you, what if you could touch them, reach up and grab them. You’d probably put them in your pockets like smooth stones. You love stones.

If you jump in a river with heavy stones in your pockets, would you sink faster? You’ve always wondered.
You lay flat on your back grass wet with condensed water…this could be a safe place.
You tuck your hands under you. You’d rather not go home just yet. Instead you count the stars and dream of heartbeats.

Breakdown

You can’t take it anymore; you wish you were some type of technology, able to shut off and on when you feel like it.

You’ve cleared off your lunch table and your hands are shaking. What does it mean to break down?

Your head spins, tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes. You plug your ears with your headphones, ready to drown everything else. You lay your head on your hands, humming along, and grief washing over you.

You can feel it, grief washing over you, it’s like a blanket, settled securely around you. You feel lost.

Picking up your head, you look around, watching people pass. You don’t belong with them. You don’t fit in. Not the way you want to. You just want to be happy, satisfied with existing.

It is easy to lie to yourself, just say nothing’s the matter over and over again, and you’ll believe it.

Apologize. Apologize for everything you’ve done, everything to come. It’s one of those habits you’ve formed and just can’t shake.

Your thoughts run together. If those people who think you’re crazy see the inside of your head, they’d run away screaming. You smile.

You want to cry for how dark you’ve become, once you were happy, where did that go?

Clutching your sides, you try to hold yourself together; you’re tearing apart at the seams.

You feel a shadow pass over you, you look up to see a boy standing beside you…a seventh grader?

“Hey you okay?” He touches your shoulder, he reminds you of Sam.

You pull out your plugs and smile, wiping away tears. You know your smile doesn’t reach your eyes; it’s nothing that can be helped.

“Yeah, thanks.” He looks around at your table, and back at you. “You sit alone?”

You tell him it’s better that way.

“Henry!” a voice you’d know anywhere rings out. Jeanine. She storms over; a crowd of gawkers do what they do best.

“Henry, what are you doing talking to her? You should know better than talk to filth, she might attack you. Rabies, it’s catching.” Jeanine sneers and everyone laughs.

Henry looks back apologetically, as he’s being dragged away.
“Sorry,” you whisper. He can’t hear you.

Dig

“Misty, I’d like to talk to you…” Your mother looks over at you in the car. Shopping, one of your least favorite things to do, with your mother no less.

You look over. You’re not in the mood, your stomach hurts, your head aches, you’re a bit nauseous, and you’re bleeding. This is the nine year old definition of hell.

Haven’t we had this talk before? You wonder out loud. You’re a “Woman” now, and you have to guard against boys and their over sexed minds.

Is that all? Is that your only danger?

Your mother pats your hand and you flinch. No touching. If only you dare say it out loud.

“You need friends; it’s not natural for a young girl like you not to have friends. When I was your age I was very well liked, it’s time for you to branch out.” You mother chides lightly.

“You’re so beautiful, if you’d just realize how special you really are.” Your mother touches the side of your cheek, feather touch. Your skin burns, you want to scream, but you swallow it.

She’s digging your grave for you.

Monk

“Pass the butter please,” Your father asks, you sit on his right, your mother on his left, and Sammy across from you.

“Pass the butter, Misty…” His fork hovers in front of his mouth. “By the way, how was your day?”

You pass the butter, your mouth rusty from staying shut for so long. You say nothing.

“Misty, how was your day?” You can hear the grating in his voice.
“God damn it talk already!” He slams his fork on the table, letting green peas roll off the side of his plate, circling his glass of wine.

“Freedom! We have found a god!” you smile to yourself as you play this scenario in your mind.

“You think this is funny?” Your father reaches for you but you duck.

Sammy starts to cry, and your mother and father reach to comfort him. You run off upstairs, disgusted, dinner forgotten. Can you escape?

Smile

White tiles, you run your fingernails against the wall, the sound of clicks like wheels on a train track touches your ears. Hopping from one square to the next, don’t touch the white… follow your father’s long strides to the room.

Sterile, the smell of bleach, nothingness, and flowers. Peek around the corner to see a swollen, tired mother.

Touch, touch, touch; the doorframe, the chair, the bed. You give her a hug and a smile, “You’re a big sister now.” Your eyes follow her smile and you see a wrinkled, peely thing lying in a cot next to her.

You look closer, holding your breath. A boy blinks, looks at you and cries. You jump back, you didn’t even touch him.

Your mother cradles him and laughs, “You just shocked him, that’s all.” Your father reaches, scooping him out of your mother’s arms.

Name?

“Samuel Runner.” Your father rocks gently. Papa’s got a brand new boy. You grin.
Nine months of not touching, maybe it ends now. Maybe it’s gone for good.

Your father hands him off, pass the baby. Why wait eleven years for this?
You hold out your arms to take him in. He blinks awake, stretches, yawns, snuggles, coos. You place your finger in his open palm.

“Sam,” you croak, “Little Sam.” Your family is all smiles.
Maybe this is a new beginning for you all.

Heart to Heart

The murmur of your heart, you lie on your back and listen to the darkness. They’ve come for you tonight, leaving you shattered. Why won’t they clean up the messes they’ve made?

You curl into a ball and just listen. You curl into a ball, and just listen. You can pick out your heart beats; one, two three…seven, eight. You feel as though you’re being rocked out to sea, forgotten pain and grief cast on the shore.

It’s far away now, it can’t touch you. Warmth.

The ache leaves you as you keep counting, carrying you further and further away. You can escape the hurt, if only temporary.

Your heart healing you, you drift off to sleep. Dreamless.



Filthy Hands

Skin crawls, stomach turns, and you want to run. Its valentine’s again, and you hate it, hate it with a passion.

Bodies press against lockers and your chest aches. Flashes of red and pink float down crowded halls. What happened to decency? A half naked Cherub wraps her arms around her personal Angel. You cringe on the inside, as you push your way out of the madhouse called school.

The sky’s violent, gray black waiting to unleash its fury. You pull you coat closer to you as snow swirls around you. Angrily, stomping through snow, snowflakes whip around your head. You avoid lovers, holding hands, feeding on each other’s faces, their hearts.

Your palms burn red, as you look down you see dripping crescent moons. You press your palms in the bank of snow, blood seeping into the ice and you moan.

When is it going to stop?

It’s gone from fingers to hungry tongue, exploring dark caves, reaches as far as it can go, leaving you feeling dirty.
You shudder, from emptiness, for hurt, for betrayal, and you wonder, why? Why you?

Because you allow it, because you can’t break it away, because you are weak. Are they going to come for you tonight? Filthy hands come clean in fresh snow.



Attention Please

“Mist, I don’t know why you aren’t… You’re acting like a three year old, you need to talk, and you’re driving me insane. I don’t know what you want.” Your father’s hands grip the kitchen table.

Talk. I don’t want to give that to you dad, you think, your eyes locked on his hands as big as dinner plates.

“What kind of example are you setting for Sam?” He stares into your eyes.
Your thoughts race; Sam, pain, breathe, home, life, what’s left of you. Something’s tearing apart in you, tears spring to your eyed. Your life is held together by tears.

“Goddamn it, do you want attention, is that it?” You fume. You have all the attention you’ll ever need. You’re the key figure in the play your family acts in. Your father hanging in the shadows, watching, never stepping in, never stopping your pain.

“Talk to me Misty.” Your father reaches out and grabs your hand. You open your mouth.
“I’ve got to go to school.” You jump up, grabbing your bag and leave the room,
Nice talking to you too.



Climax

Key clicks, lock’s undone, and you slip into the house silently. No one’s home, which is good.

You flick off your shoes, and head straight to your room. You flop on your bed, and scream in your pillow.

“Misty?” You hear your mother at the doorway and panic. Your stomach flips as she sits on the edge of the bed.

She reaches out and rubs your back, small circles, you unwind. She tells you to relax. You go stiff as she helps you remove your clothing; how many times have you gone through with this?

Her skilled fingers go to what she does best. You try to go numb, but you feel her. You feel her fingers moving, searching, and you want it to stop.

Why does the duckie comes to you? She pulls off your underwear slowly, watching for your reaction. She spots fear, she keeps going. You try counting heart beats, but they are trapped birds, trying to escape. You’re stuck; fingers clutch and unclench in ruffled sheets.

A shadow drifts by, face contorts, and then it’s gone. Daddies are supposed to protect their children, make them safe.

What have you done to deserve this? You smolder with anger as your mother lazily slinks out of the room, leaving you less than a shell. She doesn’t even close the door.

There’s no way to fix you, you close your eyes, whispering, “You can’t do this” over and over again until the words run together. You can’t take this anymore.

Run

One foot in front of the other, pick it up…you do what you do best. What you where born to do. You run.
Each foot takes you further away from home. Where do you go?
You catch sight of a pay phone, and you grasp it for dear life, whispering her number out loud.
One ring, two, three.
“Hello?” a sleepy voice answers the phone.
“Miss Feron, I need you help.”
“Misty?” You feel so small, “are you okay?”
You take a deep breath and breathe. You have to think about it for a second, are you?
“No Miss Feron, I’m not okay. I need your help.”

The Fawn by Hayley Van Dusen (1st place Lelia S. Tupper Writing Scholarship, Alfred University

The lawn had just been freshly mowed, and the scent of grass was wafting in on a light summer breeze through the screen door. The girls were out playing in the sprinkler in their pink bathing suits, and Caroline and I kept an eye on their flying, giggling figures out in the sun as we made a quick lunch.
“Honey,” Caroline soothed, spreading mayonnaise on wheat bread, “don’t stress about the Mrs. McGregor situation. It’s just a temporary rut in the road that you have to be patient about. She’ll come around.”
“I know that, I do,” I sighed, “it’s just that I wish she wasn’t such a pain. Her obsession with gas prices is almost disconcerting. I don’t want an old hippy writing about how the world is going down the tubes for our newspaper! That’s not what we need right now. We need positive articles leading up to the huge Halloween Haunt Fundraiser event that we’re organizing and maybe even an actual article about the presidential election that everyone at the office seems to be absolutely deaf and blind to. I don’t know how to turn people around over there.”
Caroline came around the counter and circled her arms around my waist from behind as I violently chopped some tomatoes. Her tight squeeze made my flustered thoughts evaporate, disappearing into the whirring ceiling fan.
She buried her face in the valley of my neck, whispering. “Being manager is never easy, trust me. I may not be in charge of a newspaper, but I’ve definitely had my fair share of managing tough situations…” Caroline was thinking of Rachael and Mags in the backyard. “…and I’ve learned that patience brings even the most aloof of people back to earth in time. But you have to want to make it work.”
Caroline’s thick hair spilled down to the small of her back, tickling my arms. Her scent shot sparks through my bloodstream, as always. I’d never been fully able to wrap my mind around the fact that she was mine, even during the twelve years of our marriage. She had an effervescent glow about her that managed to shock me almost every time I saw her walking through the front door or sleeping beside me—Caroline was the substance of my daydreaming, my kryptonite.
She held me in the kitchen.

Excited screeches filtered in from the outdoors, and we both looked out proudly to our daughters, unashamedly joyful on the bright lawn. They were so content with each other, with the splash of cool water, with the glint of afternoon sun reflecting from their glowing faces—miniature china dolls in performance.
I chopped some more tomatoes; we were silent. The collective chatter of rustling leaves outside filled the room with mysterious conversation.
Our silent thoughts were broken by the sliding of the screen door and the pounding of small feet on tile. The damp striped towels were already obediently draped to dry on the railing. Caroline slowly loosened her embrace and kissed my shoulder before she went to help the girls dry off.
I began peeling bananas and putting bite-sized pieces into Disney Princess bowls. Rachael rounded the counter and looked up at me, a puddle of grassy water forming at her feet.
“Daddy?”
“Oh, hi sweetie,” I said absently. I had been thinking of the newspaper staff again, handling the bananas more forcefully than necessary. “How was the sprinkler with Mags?”
“It was fun,” the wispy voice floated to my ears and made Mrs. McGregor and her estranged politics float away on a cloud.
“That’s good to hear.” I dried my hands and scooped Rachael up, her damp suit soaking my shirt. I began heading around the counter to bring her upstairs.
“Do you want to get changed and have some lunch?” I smiled at her encouragingly and looked into her deep marble eyes. Something dark seemed to be swimming in them like a question, something hesitant yet longing.
She burrowed her wet, curly head onto my shoulder.
I stopped walking. “What’s wrong, Rach? Are you okay?”
There was no answer for a long moment. Streams of sprinkler water ran down my arms, tickling like spiders.
I felt the sensation of warm tears on my shoulder.
“Rachael,” I said calmly, not wanting to startle her, “is there something you want to talk about?”
“Daddy, I’m scared,” the small voice mumbled against my shoulder.
Her little body trembled with cold and tears.
“What is it you’re scared of?”
I tried to think through everything Rachael might have had exposure to recently. Titles of movies Caroline and I had watched after the girls were asleep ran across my mind, books I’d left out, computer tabs I’d left open. I couldn’t think of anything that would have frightened Rachael.
“I don’t want…I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
A rush of relief flowed through my chest. I had gone through the same phase of fearing death at her age. I tried to think of something to say to extinguish this fear I understood so well.
“Do something for me,” I said quietly. “Close your eyes.”
I felt Rachael’s damp eyelashes slide shut on my shirt sleeve.
I spoke slowly. “Imagine that you’re in a summer field with tall grass and flowers…”
“And ladybugs?”
“Yes, lots of ladybugs. Imagine the colors of the beautiful butterflies, flying all around you. There’s a fawn in the distance…”
“What’s a fawn?”
“It’s a baby deer.”
“Oh.”
Rachael was still, listening intently.
“And it looks so peaceful, alone in the field. The fawn doesn’t think about dying, even though a hunter could so easily take its life. It just accepts the life that it still has, and it knows that it still has time.”
After a moment Rachael whispered, “I want to be like the deer.”
I grinned. “I know, sweetheart, and you can be. When you think about death, just try to understand it like the fawn does.”
Rachael opened her eyes and lifted her head.
The fabric of my shirt was dark with escaped tears of fear.
She smiled.

* * *

The phone rang persistently at six thirty, during dinner. I recognized the number on the caller ID as my brother Jim and picked up. After a moment of silent listening, my fork clattered onto my plate and my face twisted. All three of my girls looked at me, concerned. Rachael’s fear had come to pass.

Caroline and I fell into bed, exhausted. I turned off the bedside lamp, and the room fell to ashes. In silence, we gazed up to the shadowy ceiling fan and rethought uttered words.
Finally, Caroline turned to me in the darkness. “What are you thinking about?”
I closed my eyes and let the cool air blow over me.
She rolled over onto me and sighed. She knew exactly what I was thinking about—my mother. But hundreds of memories of her were tearing at the walls of my mind, and my tongue felt petrified. I couldn’t talk about it, or I would break.
“Jeremy, you can’t just ignore Annie’s death. You’ve barely said a word about it since Jim called.”
“I shouldn’t have to talk about it if I don’t want to,” I said, rolling away from her. I sat on the edge of the bed, a crooked figure in the night.
“Then you’re being a coward.”
I burrowed my fingers into my hair. “I just lost someone, Caroline. Someone that I’ve taken for granted my whole life. Now she’s gone. Everything’s lost.”
“No, it’s not all lost. You still have me and Rachael and Mags. Listen to me. I know what it feels like to lose a family member. I’ve lost both of my parents, and a sister.” Her voice was quiet and firm, like ancient stone. There wasn’t a fleck of pity engrained in it. I felt defiant.
“Well this is new to me, so forgive me if I’m bitter,” I retorted. My words stung with sarcasm, and I immediately regretted them.
Caroline let them hang in the air as an example of my stubbornness.
“Okay,” I sighed, turning around to face her hard stare, “you’re right. I know you’ve been through this. But now it’s my turn, and I have to deal with it on my own.”
Caroline moved closer and leaned against me, holding my weight like a crutch.
“You’re wrong. You don’t have to be alone.”

* * *

The sound of rain pouring through the gutters came in through every window, transforming the house into a rainforest.
Caroline had insisted that I go out with her to have dinner with a friend. “It’ll lighten the mood,” she’d said. But I had refused. I had just spent the entire afternoon calling everyone in my extended family and friends, inviting them to my mother’s funeral. I told Caroline that I was too emotionally drained to put on a faux smile—she’d understood. Once she had gone, I allowed myself to sink into the self-pitying depression I’d been craving all day.

Rachael was busy playing with her unicorn Webkinz on the computer; Mags was cutting and pasting pictures of tools from a Home & Garden magazine for a collage project for school.
The raindrops on my windowpane slowly absorbed each other. They trickled down, gaining life and momentum, and then splattered at the bottom, lost causes. One after the other.
The white noise of rain sang a ghostly lullaby, its song seeping in through the cracks in the ceiling, rising from the pavement outside like mist. As I listened, alone in my studio, my eyelids were fickle—my mind slipped with them in and out of consciousness.
Lightning dashed dark images across the room. Thunder shook the shutters.
Just as the opaque objects on my desk were beginning to fade behind my eyelids, I heard slippered feet scuffing across the rug of my studio, and opened my eyes.
Mags was standing beside my chair in her fuzzy pink bathrobe, holding a pair of scissors and a magazine article. Her red hair glowed in the darkness, and her brows were creased with worry; her pursed lips like a stamp on her round face.
“Hey there,” I said, sitting up in my chair and offering my lap to her.
“Hi Daddy,” she said, her clear voice cutting through the electrified air. She sat on my lap. “The thunder made me jump, and Rachael laughed at me for getting scared. She called me a sissy.”
Mags had never been a tattletale. Ever since she could talk at the age of three, she had always told things exactly how they were with no exaggerated details. Caroline and I had always trusted her honesty.
“Do you want me to talk to her?” I asked groggily.
“No, Daddy, it’s okay. I can handle it, I just wanted you to know what happened.” Her seven-year-old voice seemed to shift into an adult tone as she said this, and I smiled at her maturity.
Mags got up from my lap. As she trotted out of the room, I caught sight of the magazine page she was holding. It had an advertisement for camping tents on it.
“Hey Mags,” I called after her. She stuck her fiery head back through the doorway. “I know what will make the thunder less scary.”
She came back in, intrigued.

The timer announced that the pizzas were ready. Mags squealed with excitement, and ran to get Rachael. They came tearing into the kitchen, yelling, “Which one’s mine? Which one’s mine?”
The pizzas were miniature-sized and individually decorated by the three of us. All of the ones that Rachael had garnished were sloppy and stuck to the pan with excess cheese. The ones Mags had done looked like the ones on Pizza Hut advertisements—we laughed and brought our plates out to the living room.
The camping tent that we had been using on annual family trips to Allegany State Park was sitting in all of its muddy glory in the middle of the living room. The soft glow of warm, sweet-smelling gingerbread candles gave the room a picturesque quality. The inside of the tent was filled with pillows from our beds and blankets from behind the couch. We nestled into our homemade haven, safe from the booming thunder outside.
As we ate I looked at my daughters sitting beside each other, giggling about stringy cheese and the absurdity of eating dinner in a tent in the living room. Their beaming faces filled the cavern my mother’s death had left behind and a burden of sorrow seemed to lift; my chest shook with laughter as dinner was reduced to a tickle war.

Caroline came home late, carrying leftovers and car keys. She gently shook me awake where I’d fallen asleep on the couch, trying to read a cut up Home & Garden.
We tiptoed upstairs together. I checked on the girls one last time, their content faces poking out above their snug comforters on the different levels of the bunk bed.
I closed their bedroom door behind me.
That night I dreamt of a younger version of my mother, the one I grew up with. She sat with Rachael, Mags and me in the tent, the smell of gingerbread and pizza in the air. She smiled at me in the dream the way she always had when I’d gotten a good grade in school or had mowed the lawn without being asked; it was a smile of all encompassing gratitude and adoration. As we exited the tent after dinner she took my hand and said, her vivid eyes staring into mine, “Thank you, Jeremy. That was a lovely last supper.”

I woke up with the dream repeating itself in my mind—the tent, my laughing girls, my mother’s wide smile and sincere thanks at the end. I turned over to ask Caroline what she thought my mother meant by “last supper”, but she wasn’t there. I sighed, realizing that it was a Monday and she was taking the kids to school already.
Seven thirty. I had to get ready for work. I wondered if I was allowed to take some time off to grieve for my mother, and then decided that sitting around the house all day was the last thing I needed; I was more likely to spiral into a deeper depression that way.
Forty-five minutes later, I shot around the house looking for my keys while trying to juggle a bowl of Lucky Charms and my suit coat. Finally, I spotted them across the room on the coffee table. As I picked them up, I noticed that they had been placed there to hold down a note. The note was written in Mags’ familiar oversized handwriting:

Dear Daddy,
Thank you for making the thunder go away last night. The pizza was good, and I wish we could have dinner in a tent every night. Rachael wants to say something…

The handwriting now abruptly changed into a messy scrawl, only legible with lots of practice.

Hi Daddy. I thought about the deer a lot yesterday and I don’t think I’m very afraid of dying anymore. I think that maybe Grandma was like the deer, and that she wasn’t afraid when she died. I forgot to tell you that earlier.

My eyes began to swell with emotion, but I reined in the urge to cry. Once again, the handwriting changed, but now it was Caroline’s fluid cursive that rolled across the notepaper.

Hi honey, we decided to leave you a note this morning to practice some writing and to help you through your first day back to work. The girls woke up this morning and wanted to wake you to say goodbye, but I told them you needed to rest. They can’t wait to see you when you get home from work.
I’ll be picking up some milk, tomatoes, and eggs today at the store—call me if you can think of anything else we might need! Have a good day at work, Jeremy. I love you.

At the bottom, crunched in the small space that was left, the girls wrote their names and Caroline drew her signature smiley face. I folded the paper up and placed it carefully in my breast pocket. I would need it to keep me company throughout the day, I was sure.
Five minutes later, strategically veering around the girls’ Disney-themed toys and the tent we had never put away, I made my way out the door and into the Honda. The drive to work was uneventful—nothing interesting on NPR, thin coffee. At the notorious five-minute red light on South Goodman, my cell phone shrieked; it was Amy, my secretary.
“Good morning, Amy,” I answered more glumly than I had intended.
“Hello, Mr. Phillips.” Her voice was hard, cold. This was always the tone of her voice when she was about to unfold something I didn’t want to hear. I prayed to God it wasn’t concerning the message I had emailed to Mrs. McGregor on Friday afternoon, denying her permission to write any more articles about gas price inflation.
“Is this about McGregor? Just tell her I’ll be there in about two minutes. I’m almost there.” I expected Amy to confirm and hang up, but she lingered for a moment. Her unusual hesitancy baffled me.
“Amy?”
Finally, her tear-choked voice came on. My heart skipped. I couldn’t recall ever having heard her cry in the eleven years I’d been working for the New York Chronicle. Her blubbering words didn’t make sense at first. I tried to sort them out, one by one, and all I got was “accident”, “kids”, “wife”…
Accident. Kids. Wife. My chest thudded, and I swerved the car to the side of the road. My forehead was beaded with sweat.
“We…” She briefly cleared her throat. “We got a call this morning from the hospital asking for you…I don’t know how to tell you this, but…”
I hung up quickly, and stared down at my phone as if it were a rabid animal that had gone for my throat.
My insides felt like they were melting, my tongue like rubber. My eyes burned under my contacts. The keys in the ignition were rocking back and forth against the plastic of the car from my sudden stop, making a sickly scraping noise.
Everything seemed so surreal; the trees outside looked distorted as if they were in a bubble. The school buses roaring past seemed muted in my ears. I was underwater, eyes open and staring, sinking into unconsciousness.
Hot tears smoldered down my face like meteors—first tears in years.

* * *

A nurse spotted me the moment I walked through the front door of the hospital. She firmly took my arm, an urgent look creasing her round face. I must have looked like I was going to collapse, because she used her wide shoulders to prop me up and practically dragged me onto the elevator with her.
She didn’t say a word. Words are useless at a certain point.
Once we’d reached the right floor, I saw an overwhelming swarm of doctors come at me from all sides and take me from the broad-shouldered nurse, speaking at me uselessly. Even if I’d had something to say, my tongue would have gotten in the way. I began to crave the silence of the elevator almost as soon as I’d left it.
I was led to a room with a thick wooden door marked Caroline Phillips. My eyes oozed helpless tears at the sight of her name written in standardized, black letters in such a cold, dead place. The doctors opened the door and helped me in.
They pulled back the curtain, and told me they’d be back soon. They offered me a chair, and told me to push the button on the wall if I needed help.
Inside my voice choked, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me here!” but my shell remained numb.
I stared at Caroline’s pale face; the dried blood around the corners of her mouth; her swollen eyelids; the oxygen tubes in her nose; the IV in her arm. I touched a matted lock of her hair. It was a dead straw color under the fluorescent lights. Her hands were stiff and cold, like dry ice. I was afraid to touch them.
The monitor’s beeping echoed in my skull, keeping me conscious—keeping my life worth living for the time being. The silence of the room sent a rush of panic through me, making my insides writhe. I hit the button on the wall over and over, until an aggravated nurse came in to see what was wrong.
“Where are Rachael and Margaret Phillips?” I croaked, carefully holding Caroline’s limp hand in both of mine.
“Oh,” the nurse said almost apologetically, knowing that they were children, “I can take you to see them right now if you like.” Her face was long and pointed, with a set of dark eyebrows accenting her fierce blue eyes.
An angel of death.
I followed her through the mysterious hallways, watching the backs of her heels. I could feel myself falling further and further into a ferocious trance that made me want to careen into outer space and vault into a black hole that would stretch me as thin as spaghetti and take me to the unknown.
I was in no state to see my daughters lying in hospital beds that were meant for the old and dying; I couldn’t stand to see their perfect faces intruded on by bruises and tubes. My breath would surely catch in my throat, my feet would hold me down like bricks on the bottom of a pool; I couldn’t go into that room.
I stopped walking and the nurse asked me if I was okay. Was I okay? Would I ever be okay? No. No, no, never.

* * *

Visiting hours were over at eight o’clock.
How could they tell me to walk away so soon? I hadn’t memorized all of the cuts that would eventually leave scars; I hadn’t counted all of the stitches that would heal if there were hope. They hadn’t given me a chance to whisper into Rachael’s ear one last time, or to twist another piece of Mags’ bright hair around my finger. I never got the chance to tell Caroline I loved her for the thousandth time that day. They closed the doors in my face, expecting me to walk away whistling.
“They’ll be here first thing in the morning,” they’d said.
I’d looked at them with a chilling glare, cursing their promises and statistics.

Jim was waiting for me outside in his truck, crying. His eyelashes were clumped together, just like they always used to be when we were boys and I’d pick on him for being younger or less muscular. I got in and slammed the door. My emotions had been molten lava all day; now they were ash and rock, the crumbling remains of the man I’d been that morning.
Jim put his right arm around me and pulled me into a hug that forced every molecule of breath out of my lungs. He didn’t let me out of his cemented hold for a very long time. It was what I needed, but it still wasn’t nearly enough. Both of our faces were sticky with the dried tears.
“I came as soon as I heard. Those damn doctors didn’t even contact me until just a few hours ago.” I waved away his excuses, forgiving his absence; we were silent during the drive to his apartment on the west side of the city.
I dozed as Jim drove, and my dream from the night before materialized again. The tent, the pizza, the candles…my mother, my girls. “Thank you, Jeremy. That was a lovely last supper.”
I jolted awake and startled Jim.
“Last supper,” I murmured. “Last supper…”
“What do you mean, Jeremy?” Jim thought I was talking to him.
“I had a dream…Mom said “last supper”…it was a clue…my dream was warning me and I was too stupid to pay attention! I should have called Caroline to come home…it’s my fault…the dream, it explained everything. Mom explained everything…she was trying to protect them and I was too stupid…” I cried like a child. Jim pulled over. I told him to keep driving, that I would explain everything in the morning. I was too afraid to fall asleep again.
He drove on.
I thought of what the doctors and policemen had told me throughout the day as I’d gone between rooms. “The drunk driver—a man, according to witnesses—side swiped your wife’s car, hitting Rachael first, but slamming Margaret’s side of the car into another vehicle. Caroline then lost control and hit the car in front of her, shattering the windshield. The airbags activated perfectly, but just didn’t do the trick.”
Didn’t do the trick…what a thing to say to a man who’d just been told exactly how his wife and two children were jolted into a coma.
They told me statistic after statistic. Each percentage of survival pulled its noose around my neck tighter and tighter, until my eyes were bulging and my words couldn’t escape anymore.
There was a five percent chance of survival for Rachael—little innocent Rachael, afraid of dying. I could feel her big dark eyes watching me from outside of Jim’s car window, her haunting laughter dancing in my ears.
There was a fifteen percent chance for Mags, my fiery-haired, energy-filled daughter who could never tell a lie; like me in so many aspects, with her clear perspectives and broad understandings. She never cried without good reason.
Tears stung my swollen eyes for the hundredth time that day.
And Caroline, my wife—there was a twenty-five percent chance she would ever get up out of that filmy fold-up hospital bed. I knew she wouldn’t want me to feel as terrified and alone as I was feeling without her, but then again she’d promised me I wouldn’t have to be alone. She’d promised me she’d be there, but had never told me what to do when she wasn’t.


That night Jim warmed up a pot of chili. He told me he didn’t expect that I was very hungry, but to try and eat some anyway. I thanked him as sincerely as I could but couldn’t touch it. The thought of eating a meal so far away from my family didn’t seem to make any sense—all I could imagine was spooning Rachael a mouthful, or telling Mags to slow down, eating dinner wasn’t a race; telling Caroline it was delicious, that we should have chili more often. My bowl sat before me until it turned cold.
I slept on Jim’s huge bachelor sofa that night, completely unable to sleep for fear of having the same dream I’d had the night before. He had told me to call him if I needed absolutely anything; he was there for me.
It had only been the night before that I’d been sleeping beside Caroline, our breathing in sync. The girls had been safe in bed, their sleeping faces traced in moonlight—smiles pulling at their lips.
Now the stars shone in through the window, a million dashed dreams.

* * *

Rachael passed in the night, her tiny soul seeping out of her unused body and into the world that she’d never had a chance to encounter.
The monitor’s beeping had slowed, bit by bit, until there was nothing else to do but stop altogether.
Jim had been standing with me when Doctor Montgomery, the new doctor assigned to us, informed us. When he sighed and said Rachael’s name I had stopped breathing, closed my eyes, and imagined her face with every pore of my body. Parts of it were already fading away, like the shape of her nose or the location of the freckles on her cheeks; even her eyes seemed dimmer in my labored recollection of her.
They asked me if I wanted to see her. I said no, I wanted a picture.
“I’m sorry, but all we have is her body…” the worried looking doctor had said.
I’d roared in agony, tearing at my hair, shaking. Doctor Montgomery had jumped, afraid of my pain; too stupid to see that it was my pain that made me weak.

Room 646. The nameplates on the door had reduced from two to one.
Everything in the room had been diminished by half—only one bed, one chair, one vase of flowers. Rachael had been wiped away like a spill on the counter.
My hands shook as I stood in front of a dark window in the room, staring at the hard sterilized floor. My soft gray shadow wept silently for a while.
I turned to what I had left.
Mags’ body only took up a quarter of the hospital gown she was tucked into. I could see the folds of the crinkly fabric rise and fall with her slight breathing. I wanted to bring her the pink bathrobe from home that she loved so much; I wanted to hang the collage of gardening tools she had made for school over her bed. I felt the urge to make the room her own—because there was no way of knowing if she would ever walk out of it.

* * *
The deep, melancholy chords of the organ filled the cathedral and reverberated in my chest. A mountain of assorted flowers was arranged in the front of the church, their thick aroma blanketing the congregation. Jim was standing at the altar looking solemn.
“We’re all gathered here today on behalf of two deeply beloved people in our lives…”
I looked away from the tears brimming in his eyes, trying to control my own. I gazed instead at the lacquered wooden coffins before me—one large, one small.
“…selfless, beautiful people that we all wish we could have had more time with. We’re here to remember Annie and Rachael Phillips…” His voice cracked, and he was silent for a moment.
I felt Caroline squeeze my hand, and looked over to her. She was dressed in black, her slim body propped up in a wheel chair. Her eyes were squeezed shut above a white neck brace, tears mingling on the surface of her face. I held her hand powerfully, unwilling to let her go.
“I know everyone here admired Rachael’s endless fascination with life and her sweet, joyful personality. She was always the life of the party.”
A small, appreciative murmur rose from the mourners around me. Caroline cried harder.
“And I know we’ll always remember Mom’s strength and brilliance as we look back on our memories with her…and we’ll treasure the love she gave out to those in need.” Jim paused, composing himself.
“Mom, Rachael, we’re all here today to say goodbye, but as for me I know we’ll meet again. See you on the other side.”
Jim stepped away from the altar and put a rose on each of the coffins. He placed his hand on the larger one, and bowed his head for a long moment. As he took his hand away, its ghostly outline remained for an instant, then expanded and disappeared.
I stood up and walked to the podium.
As I looked out over the people that filled the pews before me, I shriveled. My words did back flips in the back of my throat—small, terrified acrobats trapped in an impossible situation. The speech I had prepared scampered away from me, out of reach. I looked down at my mother and daughter’s wooden tributes for inspiration, but found nothing—all I could think of was Mags, all alone, breathing softly in her hospital bed, unable to come even to her sister’s funeral.
As I lifted my eyes again, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A shaft of afternoon sunlight was shining through a stain-glass window, filtering its soft light into the cathedral. The window was made up of light blue and gold shards of glass, forming the striking image of an angel with long, flowing hair. With the sun behind her, she glowed like a vision. Her wings encompassed the entire window, and around her feet were various animals; one of them was a meek-looking fawn.
I cleared my throat. Everyone was looking up at me patiently.
“About four days ago, Rachael came to me and confided in me.”
I could feel the stain-glass angel’s warm eyes peering at me from above—Rachael’s eyes.
“As I was holding her, she whispered to me that she was afraid to die.” Caroline’s face twisted into a mixture of pain and surprise, and I felt my expression do the same. I focused on keeping my voice from faltering.
“I told her to do something for me. And I’m going to ask all of you to do it now.”
I reached into my pocket and traced the edges of the note that Mags, Rachael, and Caroline had left me. I had memorized Rachael’s words:
Hi Daddy. I thought about the deer a lot yesterday and I don’t think I’m very afraid of dying anymore. I think that maybe Grandma was like the deer, and that she wasn’t afraid when she died. I forgot to tell you that earlier.
As the people before me awaited their instructions, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I prayed. I prayed to the stain-glass angel that wherever Rachael and Mom were, they were listening.
“Close your eyes. Imagine that you’re in a summer field with tall grass and flowers. Imagine the colors of the beautiful butterflies, flying all around you. There’s a fawn in the distance…”