Amy ran. She ran and ran and ran and ran because she never wanted to stop. She flew past churches and office buildings, the sound of her Nikes crushing the gravel guiding her. Her muscles didn’t hurt; her skin was simply a garment she could peel off when she got hot. Amy wanted to get as far away from that building as she could get. The smell still permeated her nostrils and she ran harder, ran faster, as if the closer she was to home the faster she could get rid of the smell. Sweat dripped down her back, nestled itself in the crevices of her face, but she didn’t care. Amy ran faster. Never had she run like this before, but she found that the more she thought, the more she wanted to go home, the farther her legs would take her. Running was a mental sport, Amy decided. She had heard the words—I love you—but she had not responded to them Amy did not slow down for several miles. How far away was she from that hospital, that place she never wanted to see again? Seven miles, she reasoned. She approximated the route at thirteen miles, which seemed reasonable, so she would have about six to go. On any other day, Amy would be intimidated, but not today, not when all she wanted to do was go home. Away from that hospital, which reeked of antiseptic and sick people, away from her father, who couldn’t say two words to her, away from the nurses and doctors all in white, who fake-smiled at Amy while secretly feeling sorry for her. Forty-five minutes, give or take, she’d be home. Home. The image of her mother flashed in her mind as she ran, becoming more vivid and then suddenly blurry in a flash; she found that she had to probe her mind to find the good images of her, not the ones where her mother was small and frail, but the energetic woman Amy knew her to be. A twinge of guilt stabbed her heart, letting misery flow through her veins; it took extra energy to keep running now. She had been selfish, uncaring. She had left the room in a hurry, wishing she would never have to go back, despite the calls from her father. Her mother had even called her name, whispered three words down the hall, where they floated in her ears, but she had not turned around. Amy wished she had. She had heard the words—I love you—but she had not responded to them. Amy had not cried, although anguish was pouring out of her in buckets. And Amy knew that the way to rid herself of the permanent melancholy that had overtaken her was to cry, but she never cried. She had stopped crying a long time ago. Four miles to go. Amy pulled her watch up to her face; she had forgotten to wear her glasses that day. Nine twenty-four. The little display glowed in the darkness, the only light she could see that was not a streetlight. The moon wasn’t even out to guide her… her mother loved full moons, she thought. But Amy pushed the thought out of her head and ran faster. Harder. Amy knew they glowed because her mother was there with them, no longer with her Amy felt a blister form on the back of her heel; she did not slow down to accommodate it. She pulled her watch to her face again. Astonished at the speed of her running, she silently thanked her mother for that gift. The sudden remembrance of her mother brought a whole rush of memories into Amy’s consciousness, and Amy came to a direct halt. She stayed at a standstill for several minutes, her blood pounding and her heart racing. The sky was stained with pitch, as if someone had thrown blueblack paint, the same color as her heart, over the sky and blanketed it in darkness. Amy looked up, expecting to see only a sea of misery blue, and she instead saw that the stars glowed with a different kind of light. They cast a sheer glow on Amy’s face; Amy knew they glowed because her mother was there with them, no longer with her, but in the stars somewhere, glowing that different kind of light. And Amy cried, for what she had left unspoken. Catherine Babikian, 12West Des Moines, Iowa Grace Lackey, 13 Lynnwood, Washington
Family
The Gift
Jennifer was heartbroken to learn that Grandma Bea had landed in the hospital for a hip replacement. True, the heavy-set woman with the perennial cheery disposition, with cherries in her cheeks and a twinkle in her hazel eyes, had been slowing down as of late. The diminutive eight-year-old child, with hair the color of straw, who wore it in braids that reached to her waist, had noticed that their daily strolls along the winding paths in Boston Garden were taking longer now. Lately, Grandma couldn’t catch up to her and she had extra time to feed the pigeons the crusts of toast she had squirreled away from breakfast, before being gently prodded to resume the circuitous trek home. Each day, the gentle woman with the soft doughy hands met her bus stop after school, which occupied the northwest corner of the garden, and walked with her kitty-corner across the wide expanse to her mom’s Beacon-Hill brownstone, which sat at the southeast corner near the shiny gold dome of the State House. Mom was an attorney, who often had to conduct late-afternoon business luncheons at fancy hotel restaurants just at pickup time it seemed, but Grandma was always there right on cue, as steady and as timely as the arrival of the deep magenta magnolia blossoms that lined nearby Commonwealth Avenue come May. Oh, how Jen loved Boston Garden in the spring! The fresh-smelling earth came alive with dewy stalks promising blooms with rainbow hues in the upcoming weeks ahead. The blitz of color and mixture of scents would prove tantalizing to passersby with few able to resist its unspoken beckoning. Upon entering the huge iron gate which hung on a spiky black fence surrounding the Boston landmark, resembling a crown in its full majesty, Jen thought it made her feel like a princess, and the treasures within were her personal castle garden. In the early summer, Grandma Bea and she would stop to ride the graceful swan boats which had become celebrities amid the garden. How she loved the stately swans that heralded the start of every summer. Their passengers who visited the historic city from all around the globe were never disappointed by the sauntering boats, led by the graceful swan figureheads, enjoyed by all ages. Looking out from behind their expansive sculpted wings, one could look down and see families of emerald-and-brown-headed mallards paddling alongside their revered ancestors with their rubbery webbed feet in constant motion to keep up with the legendary birds which, with a little imagination, came to life. How she loved the stately swans that heralded the start of every summer At the height of summer, when school was out and camp was in session, Jen remembered that Grandma and she would once again be entranced by the light raspberry perfume of the full-blossomed crimson roses that grew in the garden’s center. If you closed your eyes, their hypnotic scent made all your troubles evaporate. Just one whiff could revive and elevate your spirit, so you felt as though your feet could lift off the ground, and within no time you had flown home with only the pigeons to guide you. In the fall, as it was now, Grandma and she would often make their way over to the duckling parade, a celebrated group of siblings who made their home in the park and were always available among sun or rain showers in a cast-bronze version, although everyone knew their real-life namesakes made their domicile under the large bridge which spanned the winding river the swans made their own. When you least expected it, they tiptoed near to inquire what special delicacy you might share from your picnic cuisine or what royal fare you might have brought especially for them, perhaps a buttery madeleine from Montberry’s French Creme Bakery atop the hill? Just last week, the grandmother and granddaughter couple couldn’t stop smiling on their way home. The vermilion, Halloween-orange and lemony leaves now danced and mingled in the autumn bewitching twilight, casting an ever-changing stained-glass mosaic along the familiar path. On their route home, Jen and her best companion loved listening to the rustling leaves, whispering from the two-century-old trees which served as a canopy to the statue of Paul Revere and his horse. It was as if they held untold secrets they would share if only their Revolutionary-period dialect could be deciphered. Winter brought its own special life to the garden. Jen happily recalled how in the clear crisp blue air, the orbs on the bridge lit up just as the sun sank to resemble low-hanging stars twinlding merrily with their more distant cousins in the bright dusky sky. * * * Jennifer wondered what gift she could bring Grandma Bea on her visit to the austere hospital the day after tomorrow. It would have to be something especially delightful. Jen thought about the traditional get-well gifts, like a card or perhaps a checkered box of candy from Brigham’s, the local confectionary and ice cream shop, a frequently called upon neighbor by locals. But checking her piggy-bank stores, she knew she barely had enough, even if she scraped together the few stale and discolored coins that remained at its bottom after purchasing her mom’s birthday present just last month. But if she could scrape some amount together, what could she buy that would be special—special enough for Grandma Bea? * * * When Grandma Bea’s stand-in, amiable Uncle Harry, arrived to meet her at the bus stop the next day, Jen had an idea. She knew she would need to find something from the special afternoon walks they both cherished. A magnificent citrus-colored leaf? No, it would wither in no time and eventually crackle into dry, brown dust. A drawing of a duck? No, the ducks had already flown south to find solace from the frigid New England winter ahead. Where could she possibly find a model that might accommodate her at this late date? With Uncle Harry only a few short
The Forgotten Fort
“But you’ll be home to visit?” Ken looked hopefully at his brother, Tim. Tim hugged Ken thoughtfully. “’Course I will,” he said. “College won’t be so much fun that I won’t want to come back from time to time.” “I’m proud of you, son,” said their father. “It’s time for you to see the real world. Gain some independence, too.” Tim hugged his dad. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll miss you.” Unlike their dad, who was broad-shouldered, lean, and stood with the best posture out of anyone they knew, Tim and Ken’s mother was slightly shorter. However, she made up for it with her steely composure and deadly glare. Tim, who was once on the receiving end of many disapproving glances, was now wrapped in a kind, tearful hug. “Now don’t you get into any trouble,” chastised their mom. “I don’t want to hear any horror stories of late-night beer parties.” Tim made a face behind her back and Ken laughed. “He’ll be fine,” boomed their dad. “Let the boy be. He can take care of himself.” Tim had his luggage close by. A backpack, one large compartment bag and a smaller suitcase with wheels. Tim had decided to “travel light,” as their father had said, leaving many of his possessions to a grateful Ken. The scene went silent for a moment, each person lost in their own thoughts of the coming departure. Suddenly, as the faint whistle of the train pierced through the air, Ken felt an over- whelming emotion overcome him. He and his brother had been through so much together. So many happy memories still lingered in his mind. Now his heart was giving way at the prospect of losing one of the closest people in his life. The train gathered speed as it left the station The train creaked to a stop, and passengers stood up to board the train. Tim gave one last family hug and walked bravely away, not daring to look back at the tear-stained group behind him. The door slammed shut with an angry hiss, and the well-greased wheels of the train slowly began to turn. Tim’s smiling features were plastered to the window, as his face was slowly carried away. Their mother began calling frantically to the half-open window. “Be good, you hear! “Make sure to go to bed early! “Don’t forget your homework!” The train gathered speed as it left the station. Tim had time for one last wave before he disappeared from view. And that was it. Ken was left with a strange sense of loneliness, as if he had just lost his best friend. What would life be like now without Tim? He trudged wearily back to the van and climbed in. A light shower of rain was beginning to start up outside. The pitter-patter of the rain banged playfully against the car window, the streaming water distorting the image of Ken’s face. It was a long ride home. * * * The morning air was fresh and cool, carrying with it a faint trace of pine. Ken awoke sleepily, murmuring contentedly in bed as the chilly breezes blew in from his open window. The night before, Ken had cried himself to sleep. It had felt as if he had been swallowed in a pit of sadness and regret. The morning came as a shock for Ken, and he felt as if he was losing his brother all over again. No one was there to fight for the bathrooms, no one was there for their mom to yell at, no one to have their sleep-deprived face blink tiredly at the breakfast table. Ken had always been an early riser, and he climbed out of bed long before his parents had stirred in the bedroom down the hall. He walked outside into the brilliant morning. The dewy grass brushed against his naked ankles, but Ken didn’t care. The morning air was exquisite, and Ken breathed deeply, thankful to be alive on such a perfect day. With no particular motive, Ken shuffled across his backyard with his Nike flip-flops. He gradually walked into the woods that he had spent so many years exploring with his brother. Familiar trees and half-built forts revealed themselves to Ken, dew hanging from the leaves like the tears on his own face. Ken cried openly in the woods, a place of solitude where he had his own privacy. Finally, he rubbed his eyes and ducked beneath some vines hanging at the entrance to one of the long-forgotten forts. Three large rocks sat resolutely in the center, while the area was fenced off by fallen branches and dead sticks. Branches of pine needles were woven between neighboring trees to obscure the view and make it impenetrable to unwanted invaders. The dirt floor was ground neatly and removed of any tough roots, pebbles, or pinecones. Ken ran his hands over the smooth rocks, remembering the laughter that used to emanate from the clearing, the countless hours that he and his brother had spent carefully plotting the fort. Their sweat was as much part of the fort as the trees themselves. But somehow, the air was stiller than usual, quiet without his brother’s voice to accompany his thoughts and feelings. Ken carefully picked up the fledgling in his palms, taking care not to cause it any more pain Ken was filled with grief, knowing that his brother would never come back to play with him in the fort that they had made together. He suddenly missed his brother so much that his heart ached with a longing for just one more day to spend with his brother. He realized that there was still so much he didn’t know about his brother, and questions that he wished he had asked. Ken took his walking stick that was still propped up against the rock and looked around for the knife. Carefully, he started to shave the stick of its bark, trying to complete his walking stick so that it would gleam
