One side of my heart is for myself and the other half is what other people see. Nestled deep in that half of my heart for me is a large black stain. That is where deaths have landed. Grandpa; Grandma; Mrs. Brown, the mother of my fifth-grade friend Tiana; and many others sit there. And Marie. When I was eight years old, I took a visit to my ancestors’ home, green Ireland. I remember Dublin, I remember cows, but mostly I remember Marie’s farm. Marie was my mother’s cousin—and my friend. She lived with a crowd of other friendly, elderly people. I remember one man with large hands and thick, dirty clothes from staying out all day. Marie was sixty-nine, a bit older than my parents. She was a kind woman and, although I did not remember her, it was as though she was always my best friend. The two of us set out tea and sat close to the stove—their only heating appliance. Being traditional Irish farmers, they had an old-fashioned home and heated only the main room during the day—a common practice throughout Ireland. Later, I’d spend time picking dewy, green Ireland flowers with my sister, Libby. We gathered them into great bouquets and I always gave mine to Marie. On a day that seemed ordinary enough, my family drove up to the house with its gray stone wall and swirling fog. I unbuckled and hopped out, smoothing my sweater as I did so. The air was wet and cool and I adored it. Smells of water and grass, and even cows, drifted along. A small sun shone weakly on my head, illuminating fiery red hairs. Glittering like tinsel on a tree, dewdrops trembled on their grass stems as I walked into the warm embrace of Marie. Everyone talked for a while and then the big-handed man asked, “Would anyone like to see a movie?” I walked into the warm embrace of Marie Everyone nodded, of course. But, after I realized that the movie was about milking seasons, I decided that picking flowers amongst the real cows was more interesting. A few hours later, I came back in, shivering and sporting a wide grin. The flowers went into a vase and Marie and I started afternoon tea. Throughout Ireland, friends and family gather each day for a small meal. Marie and I put out cream, tea, milk, biscuits, and cold cakes and sandwiches. We ate the crispy, hot, fresh biscuits and drank the thick, buttery milk and the hot, pronounced, sharp tea. Everyone talked and ate and laughed. Then Marie got a bit faint and we all quieted down. She was a bit twitchy for a few minutes. Then she was kind of just deflated. I asked her, “Are you all right?” She looked brave as she could manage and moaned, “I’m OK.” And for some reason, that was when my mom said, “You need to go up and get some rest.” But she found she was too weak to walk up the stairs. So we all helped her stand, and when my dad saw me holding her up, he told me to go away for a moment. Marie was lifted upstairs and I never have seen her since. My dad and mom finally came down. I wanted to stay and help Marie, but my parents told me to get in the car. So I did. But I fought and ran, back to the car and slammed the door, and begged my parents to turn around. But we left through those foggy gates, past that foggy brick wall into the foggy world. We went home to New York after that. Never did we get news. I soon learned to forget. Or pretended to, at least—until two weeks later, on St. Patrick’s Day. I loved St. Patrick’s Day— the green, the joy, and the celebrations. It would have been a marvelous day if the overseas phone call had not come. Marie had died. I appeared to be the same as always, outside—silly, talkative, understanding and listening. But inside, a part of my heart felt numb. My understanding about the permanence of life was now clearer. No more Marie. No more tea in that house beyond the misty gray lane. I learned to treat relationships with friends and family more deeply. I realized that, at any moment, loved ones could be ripped away from you. Outside forces, like people, can write your life story and take you down unexpected paths. My outlook about friendship has been edited because of Marie and that foggy brick wall. Marie Lee lived with her husband, Michael, on a cattle farm in County Cavan, Ireland. Cassie Armon, 11New York, New York Jessa Fogel, 13Bow, New Hampshire
March/April 2009
Song of the Harp
Brrriing!! The bell announced that school was out. Kids poured out from different classes and the slams of lockers could be heard. While the rest of the kids ran out the door and into the winter air, Odette Barry walked patiently to the outside of the school. She was in no rush to arrive home to her demanding grandmother who insisted on being read her favorite childhood books. If Odette was lucky, she would arrive home at the time of her grandmother’s nap and enter through the back door. Barry House was like a manor. Clara Barry, Odette’s mother, had suggested it had a rich look. There were gates, stone columns, heavy oak doors, and three chimneys. Through the back there was a great, majestic pine forest that had a stream flowing by. Odette discovered a path that led to the stream, across a tiny bridge, and then a stump. The stump allowed Odette to hoist herself over the wooden fence that dropped into Barry House’s lawn. On this particular day, Odette was in for a surprise when she crossed the back door into the kitchen. Her mother was standing over the stove, shelling peas into a bowl. Odette froze. Trying not to make a sound, she tiptoed across the kitchen floor. A wooden board creaked and Odette’s mother turned her pretty head. “Hi Mom,” whispered Odette. Her harp looked like something the angels dropped into the room by mistake A look of understanding crossed her mother’s face. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to read to your grandmother, Odette,” said her mother. “She’s sleeping.” Her mom was everything: understanding, intelligent, beautiful, and kind. Odette’s mother was a nurse who traveled around the world helping poor villages. She only came home once a month and when she did there would be a delicious dinner and Odette would play her treasure, the harp. She tiptoed past the sitting room where her grandmother napped, past the parlor where she played her harp, and up the stairs to her room. Odette’s room was exactly like a composer’s office. There were three sections, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a mini-office. In the bedroom there was a bed and a quilted pillow with violins on it. It was next to the window that welcomed sunlight. A rolltop desk filled with notebooks and test results stood on the wall opposite the bed. In the bathroom, a pretty purple towel hung on a rack, while the smell of shampoo and soap danced off the walls. In the mini-room were mini-bookcases filled with papers and framed pictures of Odette and her harp. Two music stands stood together in a corner and a small table was put in the center. Her harp looked like something the angels dropped into the room by mistake. Its gold furnishings glinted in the sunlight that would sometimes reach the office by the small skylight. The small jumps provided slides for Odette’s fingers. After finishing her homework, Odette grabbed a notebook entitled Music and seated herself on the stool next to the harp. Odette reached for a music stand to put her notebook on. On most days, she would turn to Composer’s Chapter and practice music for the harp, but today she decided to write her own song, “The Return.” At the beginning it was lonely and mysterious but then it turned gleeful and loud. She wanted to have cymbals go with it some day. These were the emotions that Odette felt during the return of her mother, but she wasn’t showing anyone her songs. “Child,” said Odette’s grandmother. They were passing around bowls of egg salad at the dining table. “You didn’t read Treasure Island to me today.” Granny’s voice was stern and tired. Odette glanced a look at her mom, who exchanged a mischievous smile. After the salad was finished, brownies and ice cream reached the table for dessert. “Odette,” said her mother, “I saw a pamphlet for a junior symphony called Angel’s Music. Do you want to join?” Her eyes looked expectantly at her. Odette gulped a brownie and knew exactly what she was thinking. Her mother wanted Odette to finally make some friends, not to play the harp. “I’ll think about it,” replied Odette. She got up and went upstairs to get her harp. Odette needed some way to avoid the symphony, but she always wanted a chance to prove she was a great harp player. Odette decided to think about it later. She heaved her harp down the stairs, into the parlor, and started playing “Ode to Joy.” “OK. I’ll do it,” said Odette that night in her mother’s bedroom. She had considered joining Angel’s Music and decided to do it. “That’s wonderful, Odette,” replied her mother, smiling. “I’ll take you to rehearsals on Tuesday.” As Odette lay in bed, arms on the back of her head, staring at the sky, she wondered if she really wanted to do this. Would she make a good impression and get a solo? For the first time in a while, Odette Barry looked forward to trying something new, even if it meant making friends. * * * Time flew by and soon it was Tuesday. Odette was seated in the car while her harp lay in a case on the back seat. “Odette, you are simply going to love this,” said her mother for the entire trip. “I did some research and Angel’s Music was the start for some really famous musicians.” Odette was silent during all this; she began to doubt that she would have fun with this symphony. They finally found a place to park next to a giant building that had a sign that said Devin Hall. Odette stepped out of the car, opened the back-seat door, and got her harp. In its case the harp looked like a giant red mitten on wheels and Odette thought it was embarrassing. Odette and her mother were soon inside a maze of empty hallways that had doors every few
The Blueberry Family
Two girls sat on a small, colorful carpet in the living room of their new house. The older one, a lanky seven-year-old redhead, sat up tall and poised, her feet tucked underneath her. The younger one, a chubby four-year-old with brown curls, was sprawled out on her stomach, paper dolls scattered around her. “Allie, play with me?” the little girl, Jessie, said. She was tired of all the moving boxes, and her parents’ distraction. Unfortunately, her parents loved moving and did it frequently, due to both their work, their spirit for adventure, and restlessness. But playing with her sister, the gorgeous, poised Allison, would make up for it. Allison smiled. “OK. Do you want to play with these paper dolls or with the new game Mommy brought us?” The little girl scrunched up her face in concentration. “Paper dolls,” she decided. “OK,” Allison said. “Now, who do you want to be?” “It’s a family,” Jessie said. “I’m the oldest child, um… Andrea.” Allison giggled. “And I’m the youngest child, Jenna. What’s their last name?” “Allie, play with me?” the little girl, Jessie, said “Um… Blueberry!” Jessie said, remembering the fresh, sweet berries they had tasted when they lived in Maine. Allison sighed. “That isn’t a real name. What about… Smith or something?” “No. Blueberry,” Jessie said, still able to savor the sweet berry. “OK, Blueberry it is.” And so the Blueberry Family was born. * * * I kneel on the hardwood floor, peering into a moving box with the set of paper dolls we used as the Blueberry Family. Allison and I are helping unpack in our new Connecticut home. I take out the packet of paper dolls and smile as I hold it up to Allison. “Hey Allison, remember these?” I call out, but Allison continues unpacking. Silent. I sigh and look down at the packet. I had actually never forgotten the Blueberry Family, where I was the bossy older sister and Allison the cute younger sister. Allison and I shared a brilliant imagination despite our three-year age difference. The story we made up was magical: in the Blueberry Family’s world, Jenna and Andrea lived at a magic amusement park near a blueberry field with their parents. At night, after everyone had left the park, the Blueberry Family tried out all the rides and even slept on the Ferris wheel. Sometimes Allison would draw pictures, illustrating our Blueberry Family stories. The Blueberry Family kept me stable through all our moves. “Allison?” I say again, louder. “Remember the Blueberry Family? Maybe we could play with them again one of these days? Hey, remember that one story we played with them when the merry-go-round…” She sighs. “Look, Jessie, I liked playing with you and everything, but we’re older now and I think we need to find our own friends.” I feel numb with hurt. True, I had seen it coming. The graceful, poised, child Allison has grown into an outgoing, social fifteen-year-old Allison, who isn’t interested in me. Once I had adored her, and that felt special, now it seems everyone adores her. Allison gets better and better at making friends, while I continually struggle to find just one. Worst of all, she’s too old for magic amusement parks and paper-doll families. One of the things I used to admire in Allison was her unique way of thinking, so unlike all the other kids her age. When she was nine, she told me that she never believed in magic as in flying, but magic as in friendship. Even as a six-year-old I recognized the wisdom and sophistication of the statement. But she hasn’t said anything like that for a while. I leave the room. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Jessica?” My mom looks over the staircase to see me. “Look at this house, Jessica. Can’t you just feel the spirit?” She takes a deep breath. I don’t respond. “No? Well, you will, soon enough. There’s everything we need here. This is a wonderful town. This is where we’ll stay.” Even though she says that every time, it gives me a boost just to hear it. Maybe Connecticut will be different. Maybe I’ll find lots of friends here, more than Allison. Maybe I’ll find a secret door leading to a magic amusement park… I’m not too old for those kinds of dreams. “Donna, you can’t promise that,” my father says, stepping over a moving box. The living room is cluttered with them. “Why not?” she demands. “Because of my job, and besides, that’s just the way we are,” Dad says. I sigh and edge back up the stairs. * * * On the first day of school, I decide to bike there instead of taking the bus. I want to be away from the prying eyes of children who tease newcomers. “So I’ll see you later,” I say to Allison as I take my cereal bowl to the sink. “Mhmm,” she says. “Maybe later we could play, um, do something together?” She stands up, almost knocking her chair to the floor. “Jessie, I’m going to the mall with Lucille after school. I don’t think there’ll be time for that today.” “Who’s Lucille?” “Oh, you haven’t met her yet? She has a sister just about your age, I think. She lives across the street,” Allison points, “and she’s the coolest.” “Right,” I say vaguely. I miss the days before “coolest” became part of Allison’s vocabulary. “Jessie, you need to get going. School starts at 8:20,” says Mom. She looks out the window and sighs. “Look at this town. We’re staying here, Jessie.” “Humph,” Dad says. “Well, we are!” Mom cries. “It’s best not to get their hopes up, Donna.” “What’s wrong with getting their hopes up?” Mom asks. Both of them have forgotten that Allison and I are in the kitchen too. I look at Allison, hoping to share an eye-roll, but she looks out the window. * * * Wearing my backpack, I dash up the old oak tree right
