Feeling It All
They move around me, their warmth brushing along the sleeves on my arms folded across my chest, but I don’t feel them. Their voices are booming in loud whispers, bouncing around the various walls, but I don’t hear them. I know they’re there; it’s impossible not to, but I just don’t care.
I continue to stare at the two-feet by two-and-a-half-feet canvas in front of me. In the top left corner there are small red lines leading away from a center point. Light blue lines and sharp edges jet into the red like needles in a pin cushion. Following the light blue lines, the brushstrokes are visible as they turn a darker shade, almost black, in the bottom right corner.
I hate this piece.
Misplaced Ghosts
She absently runs her fingers through the stiff grass, feeling the smooth, cold touch between her fingers. Trying to squeeze the blades and pull them out, she curls her fingers to get more strength, but she can’t find it.
Sighing, she lets her hand rest on the bed of grass beside her thigh and leans back against the stone. She doesn’t feel the way it digs into her spine, making it an uncomfortable position. She doesn’t feel the hard ground beneath her either, which will inevitably make her butt numb.
She peers up at the sky, barely noticing the clouds blocking the sun with their dreary wall. Signing again, she returns to slowly comb through the grass, pulling at the end of the blades.
Suddenly, she sits up and readjusts her position as she lets out a mirthless, bitter laugh. “It’s odd,” she says softly, “definitely odd.”
I Want To Wake Up
I used to dream of being chased by a man with a knife through a crowded market, but I realized that was irrational. That knife is now a gun, and that market is now my school.
I used to dream of falling eternally through an abyss, and I understood I was dreaming, but I still could never stop. When I awake, I see that the abyss is actually inequality, and I keep falling and falling and falling, but understanding that descent doesn’t allow me to ascend.
Gerthly, The Girl Who Could Have
As she looks looked at the world, she sees saw everything it can could give her. As I look at the world, I see everything it can take from me.
I don’t remember my first words to her or my last, but I remember the pain. I remember waking up on a Sunday morning and having my parents waiting to tell me the news. I remember the dullness in the world when she stopped coming to school. I remember a lot, but I don’t remember her voice or our conversations.
She was outstandingly generous and kind, and everyone knew it, but no one really cared. To everyone else, she was a grain of sand on the beach, but to me she was my best friend. To her family, she hung the moon, but to the school, she was a series of grades on a piece of paper that were bringing their average up.
COVID's Little Moments
Watching the sunset with my best friend as she sits six feet away at the park. Playing online cribbage with my grandfather as we banter over the phone. Taking walks around the neighborhood with my mom and paddleboarding with my dad on the lake behind our house. Laughing with my cousins on a Zoom call.
These little moments have characterized my growth since in-person schooling ended and quarantine began. Slowly, as time at home progressed from an extended spring break to a stay-at-home order, I developed these habits to find my peace in the chaos of the age of quarantine. Despite the high school activities I’ve missed out on, I’ve found unexpected value in this global event.
Breathe In, Breathe Out
Breathe in, breathe out.
I scan the room again, trying to see what I didn’t before. What makes this room different than it was yesterday? What makes this time more important than any other? What makes this school the chosen school?
I see the lab tables in neat rows running throughout the room, one right in front of me, illuminated by the window behind me. I see the lights off, just like every other room in the school. I see my teacher crouched in the far corner to my right, not tearing her eyes away from her phone.
I see my classmates shaking, crying, whining, lying down, huddled together.
But it’s not really about what I see, because we weren’t blind, but our sight didn’t matter. No matter how much we watched and analyzed, our eyes weren’t enough.
The Filling Of Connection
As I stare at the piece in my hand, a soft, white napkin lying below it, I wonder what it holds. I can feel my hands itching to curl around it and my mouth watering for the taste of it. The slightly toasted outer layer of the pastry would sing to the most gluten-intolerant individual, let alone me.
“It’s spinach and cheese wrapped in filo.” I don’t have to turn my head to know it’s my mother’s whisper hitting my ear.
“I know what it is, Mom.” And how could I not when Spanakopita is part of our family just like the amusing uncle who doesn’t know when to stop his jokes?