I am the memory rock, I will keep your memories safe. I’ve been here for ages, I am a special place. Here’s a list of things I’ve heard, things I’ve seen, a few thoughts, and one request. The things I’ve heard, the things I’ve heard! I’ve heard the seagulls . . . talk, talk, talk. But my favorite song is . . . the song of the tide in out, in out, in out. The things I’ve seen oh, what I’ve seen. I’ve seen “I do’s” and the happiest kid play. As the sun sets I watch a picnic and a hermit crab play. But come close . . . let me tell you my favorite part. It’s at night when the sun sets and says good night, just for the moon to say hello. Now this beach is my home, it’s a lovely home, and I’m not the only resident. This is a home to thousands of creatures both big and small. Some in the depths of the ocean and some on top of me. You see, I am the memory rock so come see me and make a memory, I will keep your memory safe.
March/April 2024
You Remember
The second-person protagonist pieces together memories of a life You know that you’re falling before you open your eyes. You are plummeting rapidly through the darkness. Nothing is around you but pure blackness, uninterrupted by color or light. You try to scream in a panic, but you can’t tell if any sound came out. The silence is too loud. You want to sit up, to grab onto something solid, but your arms are pinned to your body and you can’t move. Struggle is pointless, you realize as you continue to fall. There is nothing, there never was and never will be anything at all other than the darkness. You feel numb, like every piece of you is slowly fading away. You disappear into the darkness, you succumb and let it wash over you, lulling you to sleep. * * * You open your eyes. Blue, blue, blueness fills your view, and the light is so bright that you’re blinded temporarily. Blinking, you realize that it’s the clear, open sky you see above you, smooth and unblemished like a perfect china bowl. Groggily, you reach up to touch it, expecting it to feel cool and smooth. But nothing is there. Aching, you sit up, every part of you feeling like it weighs more than an anvil. As you shakily stand, a wave of heat surrounds you and the air almost bubbles as it meets your skin. Your mouth feels so dry, like it’s coated in sand. Water, every part of you is begging. Water, water, water. You stumble forward and look around. Dry, sun-parched grass sticks up from the ground in dangerous spikes, a menacing shade of yellow. A wide, boundless expanse of sky meets the flaxen grass on the horizon. Everything is flat except for a few buildings, far in the distance. Gray and plain, they cling to the earth like hunched, weeping figures, crumbling around the edges. You know you need to get to the buildings, get water, and figure out where you might be. Have you ever seen those buildings before? You reach into the recesses of your mind, but all you find is a great blankness, like an empty room swept bare. Only this most primal need for hydration moves you along. You continue toward the house, its mild destitution appearing to you like a palace if it contains the thing you seek. The buildings are easily a mile away, however, and you’re unsure if you’ll make it that far. Head throbbing and throat burning, you feel exhausted. Continuing on is futile. You fall to your knees, the sharp grass pricking your hands. You close your eyes, but respite does not come. * * * You are in a lovely garden, full of beds bursting with beautiful flowers. Birds sing from fruit-speckled, velvety treetops, providing a canopy of shade over the soft blue daybed on which you recline. Spreading out around you is lush green grass, soft and inviting. A little girl, clearly no more than seven or eight, with long, flowing dark curls dances around, her soft white dress billowing out around her as she spins. She giggles and smiles at you, her deep brown, sparkling eyes trusting and warm. She holds out a hand to you, and you take it, the little fingers wrapping around your palm. Pulling you up, she spins you around the garden. “Dance with me! Dance with me!” You laugh and spin her around, and she twirls and twirls, free as a bluebird, until she collapses into the grass, still laughing. You lie down beside her, and she rolls onto her back. Her fingers are still intertwined with yours. Together you look up at the trees and the summer sky. Her head nestles into your shoulder, her silky hair tickling your ear. “I love you, Papa.” You don’t respond, just squeeze her hand. * * * You start awake, your breathing hard and jagged. You pant for air, and then choke as you remember how hot it is. Your mind races, rushing to catch up with everything you saw. That girl in the garden, her name is Calliope. Calliope, your daughter. Where is she? You suddenly recognize an ache in your heart that you never realized had been there the whole time. You miss this child with the wild, beautiful spirit. You love her more than anything. You need to find her. Frantically you scurry to your feet, ignoring the sharp, hot flashes of pain that shoot through your legs, and you run. Racing, stumbling, and racing again. Your eyes squeezed shut, you feel the sticky air rushing through your ears. Suddenly you trip over a thick wooden beam. You snap your eyes open and see the porch steps beneath your feet, rough wood peeking through the worn whitewash. Seeing this rubs away at something in your mind. Something itches in your thoughts, but you can’t tell what. Your eyes shut again in concentration. * * * You are holding a box made of elegant, glossy blond wood. A small, delicate latch holds the lid flush with the base, every carved detail displaying peerless craftsmanship. You are standing on the shoreline of a beach, feeling cold waves calmly lapping against your feet. Grits of white sand and pieces of broken seashells float to your ankles, softly drifting through the tide. But the stronger feeling that is coursing through you is writhing apprehension. You feel like electricity is coursing through yourveins, and youswallow hard to fightthe waveof nausea thatsits in your stomach. Focus, you think to yourself. You ignore your shaking hands and instead run over your words that have been writing themselves in your heart for months. You hear a noise behind you, and you quickly slip the box into your satchel. You turn around and see a
I Don’t Want to Run
Bird-watching helps Dante find peace after the death of his grandfather The freezing wind howled past me like a ferocious wolf, biting at my toes and fingers. A foul smell arose from the deep black garbage bags, stockpiled messily on the sidewalk. The buildings looked like metal bars, imprisoning me inside my own mind. This was New York City, not a good place to grieve or endure loneliness. The past few weeks had been weeks of sorrow for my family. My grandfather had just died and it hit all of us hard. My grandfather had died after stumbling on a treadmill. He had already been struggling with diabetes and heart problems, but none of us anticipated for him to pass this soon. At the time of the accident, my grandfather was living in California so none of my immediate family saw him before he died. The funeral had been especially tough for me. At the time of the funeral, I did not know my grandfather very well. My family didn’t visit California very often, maybe once every two years. I was nine, so that meant I had been with him only four times in my life. At the funeral, everyone was crying. I didn’t know how to feel. I was young, and this was the first major loss I had experienced. I had never attended a funeral before. The walls were lined with pink and purple flowers and the priest gave a homily for a long time. I was bewildered. What were all the crazy words he was saying, such as “congregation” and “resurrection”? What was that long red-and- black cloak he was wearing? I did not understand his job. When the pallbearers carried the casket with my grandfather’s body in it, I was too frightened to look at his dead upper body. My mom said, “You don’t have to look at the body. It’s okay.” I felt guilty anyway. I remember thinking afterwards, I should have gone up and given my final regards to him. After the services, the remainder of the funeral was a blur to me. This was the second weekend after his death and we were all still in mourning. The absence of his cheerful presence every time we called was evident. We were sauntering to Central Park on a cold autumn day. I had brought my binoculars and had decided to go bird-watching. I had been bird-watching for around a year, so I had gotten used to going every so often. I had my head down, trying not to think back to the funeral when a voice interrupted my blank state of mind. “Are you okay, Dante?” my mom asked worriedly. “I’m fine,” I replied in a dull voice. “Okaaaay,” my mom commented while raising an eyebrow. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m here,” my mom stated. The sidewalk felt stiff on my feet and my heavy clothing held me down to the ground. The sky matched my downcast mood and was gray and gloomy. I was pushing my way toward the 90th Street entrance to Central Park. Just a few more blocks in the heavy wind until I arrived in Central Park. The second I stepped into Central Park, everything abruptly changed. The giant brick skyscrapers were replaced with bright cherry blossom trees and the garbage smell became a warm earthy scent. “We’re here!” I enthusiastically remarked. “Where do we go now?” I asked. “Well the best place to go bird-watching is in the Ramble, so let’s start walking southwest from here,” my dad replied. We started strolling toward the Ramble, and I had the chance to appreciate all the plants and nature. There were spider plants, with their bright green-and-white leaves sprawled in all directions. Striking red, blue, pink, and purple flowers blooming in the spring. Towering red oak trees with their bright scarlet leaves. I loved the way the red, green, and yellow colors blended together. There were too many brilliant plants and colors to count. I also observed many different animals. There were squirrels scavenging for nuts. Sparrows seeking seeds under the benches. I felt my chest widen with all the beautiful animals and plants, all thriving in Central Park. The stroll to the Ramble took about twenty minutes, but it seemed all too fast with my eyes darting this way and that, taking in all of Central Park’s nature. I barely noticed the sign that my family had arrived at the Ramble until my dad declared, “We’re here!” “Already?” I asked, astonished. “Yes, look at the sign in front of us,” my dad replied. I took a glance at the sign and it read, “The Ramble” and was followed by a map. We walked along a rough dirt path into the Ramble and experienced another change in scenery. The trees became denser and their translucent leaves allowed little light on the ground. There were more lush bushes and the path was now completely soil. We went down a dust trail until we reached further into the Ramble. A stream trickled as we walked across the bridge over it. It was a small stream but flowing fast as it rushed and glided downhill. The chirping of birds intensified as we got closer to the center of the Ramble, but we were yet to see our first rare bird. We kept listening and gazing around for bird signs, trying to spot a rare bird. The trees and bushes all seemed still and silent around us, like time was frozen except for the plodding of our feet and the running of a nearby stream. After a few minutes of restless glancing and pacing I sensed movement in a spindly young tree next to us. I focused on the tree for several seconds before I saw a dash of red as a brilliant male cardinal showed itself. The cardinal was striking red. Its lizard head had a dash of white and its tail also had a hint of black.
