November/December 2012

Breeze

“Is this your dog, kid?” a tall policeman asked There’s a funny thing about love. Love can twist you and tie you in a knot. Love can make your heart burst and your eyes fill with tears, and love can make you so jubilant even when there’s a tornado outside. Love can bring you together and tear you apart. Love did all of these to me when my dog Breeze came along. I loved Breeze. He was my dog and we were inseparable. Now he is an image in my brain and an echo in my heart. Back then we lived in the Crestfall Mountains. In winter, the tall mountains would be filled with white snow tops. The lakes would be covered in ice and the snow would fall lightly and gracefully, creating a winter wonderland. In summer, the waterfalls would release all their water, rushing down the stream and into the Garmelen River which flowed through my backyard. Crestfall Mountains was a beautiful place to live. It was a cheerful November day when I first asked my parents about having a dog. I was eleven years old and in my life, all around me my friends had dogs to play with and take care of. They had dogs that could do tricks, dogs that could play catch, and dogs that could protect them. My friend Samuel even had a police dog because his father was a canine officer. “Father?” I had asked. “Can I have a dog?” My father was a big man. He had short stubbles growing along the bottom of his mouth and his eyes were always cheerful and sparkling or dark and serious. Whenever he was happy, the whole world would be happy and the flowers outside would smile. Whenever he was angry, the birds would fly away, and the window panes seemed to shake thunderously. My father pursed his lips. He obviously didn’t expect me to ask this question. To my surprise, he smiled and softly said, “Jay, if you think you’re ready for a dog, you may have one.” That day I was happier than ever before. My mother and father took me to a local shelter where I could pick a dog. There were several dogs and at first I had a hard time choosing. There was a dog with a spot over his left eye, a dog with fluffy ears, and many other dogs each better looking than the next. Finally, I spotted an Alaskan Husky in the back. He had sparkling gray eyes, fluffy brown fur, and when I saw him I knew he was perfect. I easily picked him. The next thing we had to do was name him. My mother, father, and I thought of names in the car ride back home. “Ruffee!” “Cody!” “Nelson!” “Brownie!” “Skye!” Nothing was perfect enough for my beautiful new dog. I sighed and looked out the window. The wind was blowing lightly. A soft breeze drifted lightly all around the mountains. The breeze made the mountain air feel wonderful. Finally, I knew what I was going to name my dog. I jolted upright in my seat. “His name is Breeze,” I said. My mother and father sighed happily. “It’s perfect, Jay!” my mother exclaimed. Breeze and I became best friends fast. Every day while I was sleeping, Breeze would curl up in his dog bed and fall asleep. While I ate breakfast, Breeze ate breakfast. There were other things I learned about Breeze, besides being just like me. One day during my winter break Breeze and I went figure skating on Caramel Lake. The light shiny ice sparkled and every child that lived in our town was skating. I tied Breeze up against a bike rack and leaned down by his face. “I’ll be right back, boy. Please stay here and be a good dog.” Breeze’s ears twitched. I smiled and went off with some of my friends. It was twenty minutes later when I heard a loud, vociferous bark. My heart leaped. Was it Breeze that I heard? The bark became louder and louder. People stopped skating. Suddenly I was aware of a big splotch of water in the ice. The lake was melting! In the splotch of water was Breeze! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Breeze seemed to be gnawing on something. With a lift of his head Breeze pulled out a little boy. Everyone rushed over to Breeze and little Jonny Tompson, who was soaking wet. He was the boy that Breeze had saved. “I-I fell in-t-to the wa-te-r. The doggie sa-aved me.” Breeze stood confidently on the ice. Policemen in puffy uniforms rushed over to us. “Is this your dog, kid?” a tall policeman asked. “Yes,” I said quickly. “Well, son. Your dog just saved that little boy’s life.” I was shocked. “But I tied my dog Breeze to that pole. How did he get out?” The policeman shrugged. “He must have gnawed his way through the tether and pulled on the scarf of the little boy. Funny none of you people saw the boy. Your dog is so observant.” I beamed. The cold day suddenly seemed warm and bright. People and family members of Jonny Tompson thanked me and came over to pat Breeze’s body or rustle his fur. Breeze was always amazing at helping people. His watchful eyes saw things that even watchmen on the mountains couldn’t spot. Often, I would take a walk around our small town in the mountains with Breeze next to me. Every time Breeze would spot something going on. He spotted a crook stealing apples from Old Fisher Trechtin’s store. He spotted children falling off trees. Every place that Breeze had helped in some way, we were both given lots of thanks. Soon enough, we got calls from lots of people who had heard about Breeze. They said they would pay lots of money to have Breeze come and solve their problems. One day in the deep path of winter, the

Lillian

Everybody seems so happy except for me I wake up to the sound of my little brother, Carson, screaming. I plug my ears with my pillow, trying to block out the noise, but it doesn’t help. “No, Daddy, no!” Carson laughs. Laughs. That’s something I’d sure like to do. You see, ever since Carson was born, my parents really haven’t paid attention to me. All they care about is whether Carson is crying or not, or whether my older brother, Parker, is happy. As for me… well… it just doesn’t seem like anybody cares. The next thing I hear is Parker yelling, “Hey, Mom! Do you know where my cell phone charger went? I can’t seem to find it! And I know I didn’t take it out of my room!” Well if it’s in your room, then of course you can’t find it, I think to myself. Parker’s room looks just like a normal thirteen-year-old boy’s room would look: dirty clothes scattered all over the floor, bed unmade, light always on whether the room is being used or not. “Oh, you can’t find it?” my mom replies, with an edge of concern to her voice. “Here, let me help you find it.” Wow, if I ever lost my cell phone charger, I don’t think my mom would help me look for it. She’d just tell me that I better find it or I don’t get my phone. I rest my head on my pillow, getting angrier and more depressed every second that goes by. Why don’t my parents care about me? Ever since Carson was born, I’ve never heard them say, “Hey, Lillian, how was your day?” or “Lillian, are you feeling all right?” or “Here, let me help you.” I wish Carson didn’t exist. He’s only four, so I know he might get a little bit out of control, but this is way out of control. Carson breaks just about everything he touches, he yells and screams, and he takes up just about all of my parents’ time. They use the rest of their leftover energy on Parker. Now Parker. Parker’s usually pretty nice to me, but if you were looking at him through my perspective, it would probably just seem like he’s trying to take all the attention that I’m supposed to get. “Lillian?” my mom pokes her head into my room, pulling her dark, auburn hair behind her ear. “Can you come downstairs? It’s time for breakfast.” “Yeah, one minute,” I mumble. My mom leaves, without even smiling or saying good morning or anything. I want to run up to her and beg and plead for her to wrap her arms around me, to tell me that she loves me. But that seems so far away from where I am right now. The thought makes me mad. Suddenly, I feel like I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t bear it any longer. I am going to change things today. I am going to make a difference in this family. And I won’t rest until I reach my goal. *          *          * Breakfast seems worse than it usually is, even though nothing is abnormal, on a typical Saturday at my house. Everybody seems so happy except for me. I feel so out of place. I take a few bites of toast and then dump the rest in the garbage. “Hey, Lillian?” my mom says, and I turn around to see a surprising look of concern and possibly anxiety in her deep brown eyes. “You not hungry today?” “Well,” I sigh, my stomach churning for some odd reason. This was my chance to talk to my mom—and my dad—and tell her how I really felt inside. But I don’t want to say it in front of everybody. I take a deep breath anyway and say, “Well, I just… I just wanted to talk to you and Dad for a few minutes.” “OK,” she replies, sounding suddenly cheerful. A spark of hope lights up in my head. “Just let me finish my breakfast here, and then meet us in the living room.” “OK,” I say excitedly, and try to walk into the living room and sit on the couch, but it’s hard. I can’t believe it! My parents are actually going to listen to me! It’s hard to believe that just a few minutes ago I was so angry and depressed. Now, I feel energetic and happy, and I feel like I am actually going to make a difference in my life. I smile to myself. My mom and dad walk in a few minutes later. They each take a seat in a chair. “So,” my mom says, “what would you like to say to us, honey?” “Well,” I begin, thinking how I should word my feeling of rejection to them. “Ever since Carson was born, I have kind of felt you don’t care about me.” I pause, and my mom nods, taking in the information. She nods at me to go on. “It seems like you only care about Carson and Parker, and when Parker lost his charger and you offered to help him find it, it just made me mad because if I lost my charger, I knew you wouldn’t help me look for it.” My parents both nod thoughtfully. I even think I see tears welling up in my mother’s eyes. It feels good to say all this to them, it really does. They’re listening to me, I know they are. And best of all, I know they care. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry you felt that way,” my mom says, and sniffles a little. A tear falls down her pale cheek. I want to cry, too, but I can’t seem to do it. “I wish you would have told us a long time ago, though.” “Yeah,” my dad chimes in for the first time, and part of me wonders why he hadn’t said anything the whole time, while another part of me is just happy

Dreamer of Dreams

I can capture a bird’s flight, a mountain’s splendor, a tiger’s roar. My pen marks the crisp white paper like footprints on a snowy trail. My dreams are alive, and leaping like sparks in my hands. To dream is to speak a thousand words and never speak at all. In my dreams, I fly like a new bird, like the quiet of the storm. The music that flows from my eyes is like currents of electricity, and it powers me, the dreamer of dreams to live. Danielle Eagle, 12Winnipeg, Manitoba,Canada