Dear Reader,

Somehow, we all managed to make it through this year. From the uncertainty within the hybrid and remote stages of learning to the increasing confidence brought by the in-person learning stage this spring, we continued to hope for a better tomorrow and maintained positivity and kindness within our LS community. We stayed strong amidst a pandemic and countered boredom and hopelessness with resilience and creativity. In this issue of The Fountain, we hope to remind everyone that, despite all the challenges we have faced this past year, we can still find inspiration and hope in the artwork and writing of others. Enjoy!

~ The Editors

Banner Art: Groovy by Jasmyn Gonzalez

Goodbye

To say goodbye is hard enough,

but harder still is this:

to never say goodbye at all;

no chance for one last kiss

upon his wrinkled, pained forehead.

"He's better off," they say,

"he'll go on to a better place

and feel no pain," they pray.

But if a place like that was real,

or holy "God" they say will heal

the pain and anguish that I feel,

he wouldn't die at all.

I'd get the chance to say goodbye,

just that, those words at least. 

But no, he'll pass across the sea -

won't know all that he meant to me

because I'll never hold his hand

or tell him, "Khalo I am here."

And that's the greatest thing I fear:

to never say goodbye.

By Maria Hamandi

A Penny for John

The buzzing drone of bees intensifies as the cruel rays of sun scorch her back. The loud, joyful laughter of children can be heard from inside the farmhouse. The sweet fragrance of peaches ripening on the leaning tree in the backyard entices her to pause her work. She plucks a peach from the tree and her crooked teeth cut into the plump fruit, round beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Sunset-colored juice squirts on her cotton apron. There is a muffled thump as the peach pit hits the ground. She feels that same pit in the center of her stomach…tightening…tightening. Wiping her dirt-covered hands on her apron, the quick sun-kissed shimmer of her simple, silver wedding band catches her eye. Her mind travels back to her quiet wedding in the countryside. A handmade white dress. Her fingers wrapped in John’s callused hands. Long brown hair wrapped in a twist at the top of her head. Floral bushes and fruit trees crowding the small white farmhouse with the crumbling brick wall in front. She had never wanted a fancy wedding anyway. That day had been perfect. Peaceful. Unembellished. Sincere.

Heavy boots tromp down the path as dirt and dust swirl in the air. John takes the brown paper bag filled with the lunch that she had carefully wrapped for him early this morning. A quick kiss on the check. The rough stubble of his beard. Water trickles down from the spout, filling his canteen. And he’s off to the farm again. Seeing him fills her insides with fluttering butterflies all over again. It reminds her of what she has to do. John would be angry if he found out. Not angry...ashamed, disappointed even. She would have to compose herself in front of the children.

Thwack. The heavy front door, paint peeling off on planks of sturdy wood. closes behind her. The children run up to greet her. Messy blond pigtails, bare feet jumping on the dark wooden floor, and dolls made from worn-out socks surround her. Tiny hands tug at her apron from every direction. She tells them Mommy has to run an errand. To be good for their father. She must get ready.

Cold water splashes on her face. She hangs up her apron on the wooden hook over the cracked tile on the bathroom floor. Swollen feet slip out of her work boots. In the mirror she can see rounded stains of dirt at the knees of her trousers. She must look presentable for them. They would judge. She puts on the outfit that she usually reserves for church: a plain brown dress with a cream-colored ribbon around the waist. Keyhole neckline. Scuffed black boots. A slight pinch on her big toe. She wishes she had jewelry. She prepares herself to face the scrutiny. The looks of pity and embarrassment on their faces. Cheeks becoming hot with anger. Palms dampening with sweat. She slings a large purse over her shoulder with ease; there is hardly anything in it. Picking up a bouquet of flowers she had picked from the field in her shaking hands, Penny checks herself one last time in the mirror, and leaves her home with nothing more than a pocketful of dignity.

By Erin Delaney

Twin Flame

It seems almost impossible,

The tie between our souls.

Born to mirror one another.

I see myself in you.

All the more reason as to why I believe

Our souls split into two.

And when reunited from miles apart,

I recognized you in my heart.

And every night,

My dreams further proved

That even our subconscious’ knew

The tie between our souls.

And even if you can’t understand

The power this link entails,

Just know that there won’t be a day

I ache and wish,

That close we’d stay.

But somewhere deep deep down,

I know,

If in the physical this is the end,

We’ll meet in another walk of life,

Like once before.

For nothing else keeps me up at night

Besides wondering about 

The tie between our souls.

By Anonymous

Simply Put (Chronic Pain Crazies)

I can’t play M.D. no more.
Too fragile to be saving lives now.
This year, my body was picked apart, piece by piece.

Pelvis shattered, bones stuck in all the
wrong places.
Wrists and ligaments peeled away,
Snapped one by one.
Achilles heel, pinched a bit too hard.

A few months and I still wince when my brain swells and churns.
Forget medical school, I need a fairy godmother.

Spine carved out and thrust back in where
it might have belonged.
Wrists a bit too itchy for civility, and
Shins injected with poison that only comes
from within.

 "Wherever you are, there you are"

If a ghost can fly away from it all, then make me a shell and take my colors away, push up into the midnight sky where my body isn't a trench and my brain is merely a device to aid. Take me higher than I can see, strip me of all humanity, and then tape me back together. I'll meet you on the wayside. Promise me a smile, and I'll flit back in with all the grace of a soul untethered and yet frozen; to live in contradiction is the only reality I can accept, so please forget philosophy and just pinky promise me a smile, and I'll come back for a while, come live without pain for a while, and if I love you, then I'll live with your crow's eyes and elbow taps to get me through this God forsaken trip that I bartered for years ago.

By Ava Guleserian

"Is Violence the Answer?"

"He didn't know any better." 

Honestly, I wanted to believe it.  

Me (a queer teen), my mom, and a grown man sit at the kitchen table. I don't remember how the conversation started, but we had gotten into the topic of gay men. The grown man had tried to make it clear that he had no problem with LGBTQ+ people, but his words said otherwise. 

He says, "I don't care who you are or what you're into, but if you're a f*ggot, don't try and hide it."

My hands start to shake and my ears burn. I look at my mom to see if she heard that, but she doesn't bat an eye. 

He repeated that phrase about 100 times more, and I wondered what would happen if I slapped a grown man.

By Jasmyn Gonzalez

Ode on a Kitchen Counter

O kitchen counter, ancient marble, cold
  hearth of sustenance, both body and mind.
Here we congregate, here we are consoled,
  here we’re fed, driven, loved, tutored in kind.
The helm of our ship, where the captain reigns:
  she steers, plans, and conjures young dreams and hopes,
sets sail, drives our course, lovingly sustains,
  foresees coming storms, and knows all the ropes.

Mealtime sharing: here are memories made,
  days are recounted, rose and thorn discussed.
Here grace is given, our day is surveyed,
  hearts and hurts mended, in familiar trust.
Here we air our regrets; on a cold slab
  we lighten our load, and focus on joys.
Here we joke, teach, and laugh, we argue and gab,
  here all are safe: women, men, girls, and boys.

Cleared at day’s end, an ordered illusion:
  children sleep, parents chat, dogs get their due.
Til the morning, when all the confusion
  of life yet again begins to accrue.
And so it will go, for all of our days,
  a repeating cycle, this whirlwind ours.
Still, you cold slab, keep supporting our gaze
  —carry us quietly, through dark and bright hours.

By Matt Skelly

The Babysitter

She kicked her foot up on the beanbag ottoman, scrolling through Instagram for the third time in 20 minutes. I could get used to this, she thought. Making money doing nothing is what I’m great at! 

Reaching over for the remote, she popped on Netflix, going immediately to the Horror Film section. She felt bold to be starting a scary movie alone at night, as the only adult in the house. Scanning through the pages, trying to find a movie she hadn’t seen before, she encountered all of her favorites: Get In, The Purge, and Panic Room. But she had yet to find one that she hadn’t seen, one that really fascinated her.

Just then, the monitor blared, and she heard the baby start wailing in its crib down the hall.  

Huh, that’s new, she thought. He never cries at this hour. 

She got up and started her way down the hallway. As she walked, her eyes were struck by the hundreds of dusty family photos on the wall, almost fully covering the mauve paint. However, she gravitated toward the one splotch of paint that remained clean and uncovered. The space was only about 4x4, maybe only large enough for a square portrait frame. 

Weird… 

Ignoring this, she continued down the hall. 

As she approached the room, the baby gradually got quieter. Layla smiled with pride, imagining that the baby knew she was coming and calmed down. When she got to the room, she still picked up the baby in hopes to comfort him further. After 15 minutes, the little one was snoring. Layla laid him down in the crib, shutting the open closet door subconsciously on the way out of the room. As she walked back down the hall, the TV got louder as she drew near. Her eyes were drawn to the opening credits of Get In, which she recognized immediately. She settled herself onto the couch, and dozed off to sleep—phone in hand. 

Next thing she knew, a frigid fall breeze was brushing her face. She sat up with a start, confused, and then got up and checked on the baby out of instinct. With the baby sleeping soundly, she left, shutting the closet door again on her way out. Heading back to the kitchen, she felt the breeze again, sending chills down her spine. She glanced at the open window and went to shut it, wondering if the breeze had just picked up. Suddenly feeling a little more awake, she reached for her phone to check the time. It was nowhere in sight. Recalling that she fell asleep with it on the couch, she began pulling off the fuzzy throw blankets and yanking up the cushions. Nothing. 

There’s no way I left it in the nursery. 

To be sure, she started back down the hallway yet again, hoping the baby wouldn’t hear her walking. She opened the nursery door quietly, knocking the open closet door with the handle. CRASH! The baby woke up and instantly started wailing, Layla rushing over to calm him down. While swaying him in her arms, she began to take a closer look at the closet, still half asleep, but wondering why the door was open yet again. She recalled shutting it at least once—maybe twice?—before. 

In the closet she pulled the loose string, assuming a light would flicker on. It was dim, but it was enough to see inside. The walk-in housed everything a baby could want or need: towels, blankets, books and necessities. While scanning the little blue and grey closet space, she noticed a door-shaped panel in the back where the wallpaper seemed to not line up properly. She scratched her eyes with her free hand, laid the baby back down in the crib, and went back to the closet, wanting to take a closer look out of curiosity.

She thumbed the outline of what seemed like a door, thinking to herself jokingly, this feels like a horror movie! She then reassured herself, recalling that nothing ever really happened in this sleepy small town except for that one disappearance over a decade ago. Nevertheless, her interest compelled her to figure out what was up with the weird outline. She traced her fingers around, trying to feel out whether there was actually anything behind it. 

I bet these rich people have some super duper big safe with tons of cash hidden in their kids' room. 

She curled her hand into a fist as she knocked quietly to feel if the wall was hollow, just like they did in all those movies she was so familiar with. She wasn’t sure what she was listening for, so she knocked on another part of the wall for comparison. Sure enough, a slightly more hollow sound emerged from within the door outline. 

No way, they TOTALLY have a safe back here. 

Looking down, she noticed a curved line where the floor had been scuffed, as if a door had swung open and closed multiple times. 

Mindlessly, she tapped her toe on where the scuff lined up to the wall, almost suddenly, but slowly the outline separated from the wall in a silent swift motion. The dim lamp shone only enough for Layla to see a narrow descending staircase. The blood swelled in her body, heart rate quickening so speedily that the acceleration beat in her ears. This was no safe. 

The fight or flight reaction escaped her. She was utterly frozen. Thoughts swarmed her head: Is this normal for rich people? Am I the first to find this? What is down there? 

She knew how this went in the horror movies. Young girl, babysitter, goes down the stairs and meets a serial killer. Plot as old as time. She knew she’d have to prepare if she were to venture down those steps to satisfy her curiosity. Reaching for the closest thing near her, a stuffed bear, she thought: great, this will protect me if I meet a serial killer. 

The stairs were so dark, she couldn’t make out what was below without taking physical steps forward. One tiny shuffle was all she could manage at first; the stair was hard and cold against her sneaker, and the air was stale, as if it didn’t hold anything living. She began her journey downward, painfully slowly. One hand ran against the cold cement wall while the other held the bear so close, as if it could protect her. 

She continued to travel down the stairs, faintly being able to make out a bunch of bins. Walking down with a small glimmer of hope that this could actually just be a storage room, she began taking the steps with more ease. Going beyond the last step, she planted both feet on the floor, leaving the staircase behind her. All that was in front of her were the dusty bins in a small enclosed area. 

I can’t believe this is all that’s here. 

She smiled to herself, feeling silly at her own imagination. 

More confidently this time, she turned to walk back up the stairs, when she heard her familiar “Party in the U.S.A.” ringtone take over the silence of the space. A sudden terror washed over her body as the pieces fit together: Her phone. In this basement. Her stomach felt an abrupt drop as the realization hit. She was not alone.

Facing the other direction now, she saw that there was a whole area beyond the bins that was behind the staircase itself. Almost frozen, she forced herself to inch closer to the sound of the lyrics. Overwhelmed with fear and too paralyzed to begin thinking about how her phone got down there in the first place, she peered around the back corner of the staircase. There she could faintly make out two bulging eyes, and she could feel them examining her. The ringtone stopped, and silence filled the room once again. The room got cold, or maybe it was just her. She felt her heart trying to escape her chest. Her pulse quickened as her breathing intensified. She was frozen. Her thoughts swarmed her head. Almost suddenly, a light flickered on. She could now see the body attached to the eyes. 

Taking a quick survey of the room she noticed a bed as well as a table where her phone rested. The walls were completely barren except for a simple 4x4 picture of the child. She then moved on to inspecting the figure. A tall pale man, dressed in clothes that looked like they haven't been washed in weeks. He was a slender man, having an almost elegant look to him, as though he could move and not be noticed. As her eyes scanned over him she came to his face. The eyes continued to watch her, but what lay below his eyes was his smile. It almost looked contorted in a way that the corners of his mouth reached his eyes, and his chin was angled down, elongating his smile even more. That's when she realized, this man is smiling at her, not in a good way.

The man mangled a couple words. His voice sounded like it had not spoken in years. The scratchiness of his voice sent shivers down Layla's body. The figure said, 

“Chilly night, isn’t it? I hope you like the movie I chose. Also, don't worry about the child, I’ll take care of him. As for you? Well, we will figure that out.”

By Emma Sharif 

All Time Low

The voices in my soapbox head called me crazy.

I asked my reflection in the mirror, is it so?

Imagine my surprise when the first man I ever loved nodded back.

That is the all time low.

When all you want is answers,

But nobody cares enough to hear the question.

I’m not surprised.

When you can’t trust yourself anymore,

And seeking facts

Is sin.

Tell me about it.

When I fell, it was a long way down.

Spiraling, images floated past,

But I couldn’t quite grab tight enough.

The bottom was beautiful.

A mirror, worthy of Versailles.

But it flinched as I neared, and

Shattered itself in self defense.

The red button was safer than facing my green eyes.

Three years I’ve been here,

And the walls only loom taller.

Built of picket fences, they are surprisingly domestic.

But one step closer and the facade drops.

It’s a black picket fence decorated with barbed daisies and attentive watch dogs.

I dare you, go pet that one. No?

I think I may have built this home.

Maybe a long while ago.

I clearly forgot the foundation.

And the construction crew.

What else can a thirteen-year-old do?

By Ava Guleserian

An Ode to the Indian Store on Moody Street

I want to be greeted by the incense
as I walk in

I want the scent to fill my nostrils
and my exhales to smell of their aroma

I want the sounds to surround me like a blanket
Chaos and peace exist in harmony
“Kya?”
“Kuchh nahin”
The beeps from the cashiers rapidly scanning the items
The yells from the owner to the guy stocking the shelves.

I want to lose myself in the aisles
wandering through the shelves
Trying to find that one thing

What did she ask for?
Onions. That’s right
Where are they?

I want to swerve through the people and their carts
coming in every direction
Weaving my way through the crowd. 

I want to taste the chocolate chip cookies
My mom always buys for us
I was a good helper
“Share them with your sister”
“Fine”

I want to find myself in mehendi aisle
Staring at the beautiful designs
Endless possibilities brought to life by
the crushed leaves of a plant

which leaves a stain where it sits
A mark on your hands
your feet
your hair

This place leaves a mark
on my soul
my heart.

By Hannah Zachariah

Daydreams

Sometimes I think daydreams will only bring me trouble, but then I recognize them as my only salvation.

Your smile, though I know it’s not for me, kaleidoscopes in my head, like always and forever.

I don’t even know what color your eyes are here, but I know that they’re all I want to see.

Your soul, mingled with mine, your fingers, claiming my own.

There’s a reason delusions are dangerous, but I can’t remember the difference separating them from the epiphany I know I'd know if given a chance.

Sometimes I want to ask my friends the hard questions

Do I have it all wrong?

Can I please have it all wrong?

But I don’t know why I even consider that. I never ask.

These daydreams are lethal—I know this now. 

They’ll coat me sugar-sweet and then 

devour me from the inside out.

The whole while, I’m the same as every other girl running around your mind.

What does your mind tell you about me?

Can I ask?

Would I want to know?

One game of 2 truths, 1 lie, please call my bluff this time. 

                                             please see through my delusions of you and

                                             tell me what I need to know to make this real.

Every time, I lie.

I build myself tall, while I hold this precious, opal, impractical foundation on a fingertip, eyes closed in a daydream.

Isn’t it funny how I can fool myself but never you? You’re too smart for that kind of fairytale hoax.

I’d ask you to sweep me off my feet, but you already have. A million times.

I’d ask you to sweep me off my feet, but I trip all the damn time. I don’t need help there.

I’d ask you to sweep me off my feet, but who knows if you’d catch me? I know I’d fall.

So please, when my head’s in the clouds with the fairies, let me rest in a gif of blessed springtime and perpetual rebirth.

Don’t make promises, just hold the door for me once and say goodbye kindly.

By Ava Guleserian

What it Means to be Trans

I am trans, and this means I have to make choices every day. When a stranger tells my mother that her daughter is well-behaved, do I say something? When a teacher calls me ‘she’, what do I do? When my grandparents forget how to refer to me, do I call it out? 

If I don’t call it out, it will continue, but I have never been good at speaking up, especially for myself.

I have to decide how to dress every day. I feel more comfortable in dresses, skirts, long hair, and lace. If I dress this way, it means there will always be those who see me wrong. Even if I dressed in baggy hoodies and loose jeans, there would still be mistakes, but it's a sure way to ensure no stranger will know who I am at a glance. 

I am trans, and this means I have to decide who I am. My gender is something that shifts on a whim, and I am used to this, but if someone asks me what I am I have to make a decision. Do I want to explain myself? Or should I lie and say something that has never felt right. I must decide which door to go through in the back of a gas station on a road trip, and if should I risk harm to my body by simply deciding to not go in either.

I am trans, and that means I have a community of people who support me. 

I am trans, and that means there are communities who bar their doors to people like me. People who hate who I am.

I am trans, and that means being myself is a political statement, even when I would rather it not be. 

I am trans, and that means every day I must decide whether or not to be myself. 

I make these choices every day, and they haven’t become easier, but they have become habits, and maybe they're the same thing at this point. 

Some days I wish I was better at saying ‘they’, or I was someone who wanted short hair and androgynous clothes. I wish I could be someone who does not feel like crying when I see two bathrooms, each with clearly labeled signs denoting this or that. 

Most days I don’t, though; most days I am proud of who I am, my community, and the fact I have maybe one cis friend on a good day. Most days I am proud to be myself, and that makes those choices easier.

By Gray Birchby

Prelude

I find a curious comfort
in the songs I knew,
the songs I had met
‘fore I was acquainted with you. 

The words that washed together
before your existence,
the sound waves that held me
when you were a ship in the distance. 

The lyrics, the melodies
I chose before you,
the stories they painted
a warm summer’s hue. 

The songs that are free
of all your disdain,
the crisp, white sheets
unwrinkled by pain. 

Like ancient documents
encased by glass,
the songs before you
fragments of my past.

Those are the songs
that are frozen in time,
not yours
not ours
but forever mine. 

By Joanna Schwartz

My 100-Word Memoir

Two first graders sitting on a swing set. It was the first day of school, and I was excited to be in a new class. I sat next to the new girl because I thought her sparkly headband looked cool. 

“Can we be best friends?” she asked. 

“Sure,” I replied. 

Who knew that question would spark a seven-year friendship full of the happiest moments I will ever have. A childhood full of family vacations, bike rides, and sleepovers with my best friend. Who knew she would sit with the popular girls in middle school and we would never speak again...

By Siena Kurth

Inescapable Past

memories are like framed photographs on a shelf
there to be observed and reflected on and relived

they tell long and complicated stories
vaguely 

sometimes the details fade and become fuzzy around the edges
leaving only a brief blurred sense of time

but sometimes the rich descriptions full of emotion and quality
paint the larger picture

and the most painful memories
the ones deeply desired to be forgotten
remain vivid and potent
emitting repercussions which vibrate and echo
reminders of unforgettable moments
those never fade with time

meanwhile happiness becomes shrouded under the dim glow of repetition
their potency dwindles
drowned out by the chaos of similarity

but even though memories can have mixed consequences
they remain a vital part of a person’s character
for we are shaped by our memories and experiences
and even though they are just old photographs on a shelf
they matter
don’t forget 

By Melanie Sciammetta

Let Me Hear You

I hear your voice, so quiet and so small
Drifting away to a sad melody
I almost see your movements as they stall
Painting the picture to a tragic scene
It pains my heart to know you feel so hurt
Over the phone I hear you breathing, loud
I need you to listen as I whisper
“Just tell me five things that you see around”
It takes a lot to break free from this place
But know that you should go at your own pace

By Olivia Shienbrood

Trapped

It’s the deafening silence that wakes me. The hum of machinery I had grown so accustomed to has been absent for days, but I still can’t seem to get used to the eerie quiet. My ears almost try to compensate by creating a faint, persistent ringing; I no longer know if that sound is real or in my head. I shake my head and look around to the stark furnishings of what is now my bedroom. 

The bed and single chair completely fill the 3 by 4 foot room. I remember the warm home that I shared with my wife and daughter. I long to feel the soft sheets of the bed with a hundred pillows. I visualize the dressers with pictures, framing happy family memories, crowding the surfaces. One deep breath and I realize where I am again. My feet hit the ice cold metal floor as I declare a start to my day, knowing it's going to be an exact repeat of yesterday. What is the point of getting out of bed? I don’t have any control anymore. There is nothing I can do to change my fate. The memory of my family makes me get up anyway. 

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror as I move from my room. I barely recognize the face staring back at me. Puffy dark circles under my eyes testify to endless sleepless nights. My blue eyes are shot with red lines and squint back at me. My face once appeared full of youthful vitality and enthusiasm for a promising future. Now all I see is vacant desolation. The clean cut hair I go for is something else beyond my control. How many months since a haircut? It touches my shoulders in a black, disheveled tangle.

The corridor to the kitchen is long, stark, and without windows, which is probably for the best. The kitchen is really nothing more than an over-sized closet with prepared food packages in bins that are stacked up the walls on all sides. I opened up a package of cashews and started making instant coffee, savoring the crunch of the salty nuts. The coffee is the highlight of my day; for maybe an hour I can feel a jolt of energy and motivation that is lacking from the rest of my day. June used to ask me and mommy why we drank so much coffee. We’d exchange smiling glances and tell her that when she got older, she would understand. The brief memory stabs as the reality that I will never see her grow up comes crashing back to me like a freight train. I resist the thudding in my heart that leaves me unable to move and force my brain to use the pain to jump start motivation - motivation to keep going, to keep trying. I look at a photo of my wife, Caitlin, and my three year old daughter June, taped to the kitchen wall. I think about how they might feel abandoned by me and this thought haunts me. I think about how I never should have taken the three month work assignment that was offered to me. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, but definitely wasn’t worth my life.

I cling for survival with routine. Tasks distract me, keep the bad thoughts out of my head. I get started by cleaning my coffee cup. I count my food packages, then count them again; I evaluate how long my rations will last, and when I will need to reduce my food intake. The numbers are the same as yesterday. I walk to the system control center and make an attempt to get a functioning response of something. I play with the communication apparatus to establish communication with someone, anyone. I do this every morning, knowing it will result in disappointment.  I run my diagnostics with the same result: silence. I am desperate to hear that hum of machinery doing its job, but there is nothing. I know I am trapped. 

The window in the systems control center fills the wall, floor to ceiling. Earth is beautiful, a glow of blue and green just beyond my reach. Home feels so close I could touch it, but without working engines or communications, I will probably never get there. I am drifting wherever space takes me.

By Cole Sinclair

Liam

The room was half-way empty. With each item they moved into a pile, it felt like she was losing a piece of her heart. 

“Keep, donate, or trash?”

“Sophie, his teddy bear? No, no he loved that thing…” 

“Mey. You can’t say that about everything. You get to pick five maybe six things to keep, but you can’t have it all. Otherwise, we’re doing this for nothing.”

Mey sighed. 

“Okay. Okay, fine…fine, donate. But I’m keeping the drawings.”

* * *

“It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen you. In this setting, anyway. What made you decide to come back today?” 

Mey eyed the floor, fiddling with her fingers. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words remained lodged in her throat. 

“Does it have anything to do with Liam?”

Mey swallowed. Contorted her face in an effort to push back the tears fighting to burst out. She nodded. 

“What happened?” Sophie asked softly.

She closed her eyes. Two years ago she’d stopped seeing her therapist, Sophie, because she’d finally managed to grieve, to get back to being healthy and okay. Or…at least she thought she did. 

“Well, a week ago…” 

* * *

The wooden box, years untouched and collecting dust, sat in front of her. It mocked her. Filled to the brim with snapshots of happiness; of utter joy and love. Covered in the design they’d painted together. But the paint was old, years old. Chipped and cracking; a mirror image of her heart.

Interesting, how something as simple as rectangular papers could bring her to tears if she only glanced in their direction. So, she never opened the box. Years untouched - six years exactly. And with each one, she told herself, ‘it’s time to do it, Mey. Clean out the room.’ Yet, six years later, the room remained untouched. And so did the box. Six years untouched; until today.

She’d been torturing herself for ages; keeping up the room as if Liam would come back. He wasn’t coming back. Every person in her life who’d tried to talk to her, help her, tell her that it wasn’t healthy - she’d responded to them all with such aggression, such cruelty. It wasn’t fair of her -  they were suffering too and still trying to take care of her. But she wouldn’t have it. Instead, Mey vacuumed the room every morning. Replaced the water in the vase and dusted. For six years.

Today, going about her tidying in his room like she always did, she came across the wooden box. Today… she broke. 

There it was. In front of her, sitting still as any inanimate object does, and yet the box had an energy to it. The flowers Liam’s little hands had painted practically begged her to open it. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She stretched forward a shaky hand and undid the latch. Lifted the top. She could just barely begin to make out the pictures inside and-

She stopped. Slammed it shut and backed up, falling down against the wall short of breath. She heaved in air, desperately holding her head and rocking back and forth, trying to regain herself, trying to breathe. A storm of pain rained down from Mey’s eyes, her quick inhales thundering in her head.  

I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t do this. It’s too much.

Memories struck her like lightning. His sobbing, his begging her to make the pain go away when all she could do was helplessly hold his hand. Him telling her with his last breath, ‘mama don’t cry,’ comforting her. His beautiful eyes closing and never opening again.

* * *

“I don’t know what happened, you know? I mean I just…I just broke. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think. Thanks,” Mey murmured, accepting the glass of water Sophie handed her. “I just…I realized that I guess I didn’t fully deal with everything. I kind of convinced myself that I was okay and that I could move on but some part of me knew it wasn’t true. I just didn’t want to deal with it. But I know I have to, so…I’m here.”

Sophie nodded, listening. 

“Why wait a week? Don’t get me wrong, I’m beyond proud of you for being here today but you said this happened a week ago. You know you could’ve scheduled for sooner, you know I’ll always make it work for you. I’m not just your therapist, I’m your friend. And you know that, so why wait?”

Mey sighed.

“I don’t know. I guess I was in denial.”

Sophie paused. 

“You need to clean out the room. You know that, right? That’s the most important step right now, for you to be able to move on. You’ve been clinging, and that’s not helping you.”

Mey gulped, tapping her foot. She bit her lip, eyes darting from side to side.

“I know…I know I just can’t do it, I can’t bring myself to. Because…because that- that m-makes it-” she stuttered, choking on her words. 

“That makes it real. But hun, it’s been real- for six years. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, giving yourself the illusion that…he’s there. You know?” Sophie handed her a tissue box, giving her a moment to regain her composure. 

“Yeah. I just…can’t do it alone and- and I don’t have anyone, not anymore. Not anyone I can trust with this.”

“You have me,” Sophie said softly, reaching out to take her hand. “We’re doing this tomorrow. Okay? I’m coming over. Come here, let it out,” she said, pulling Mey into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

By Maria Hamandi

Remember

I want to remember
The delicious
Cakes
Pastry
And pies
That my siblings and I made.
The amazing taste
Of each of them
As I bite into them
With my teeth. 

I want to remember
How annoying it is
To put away the shopping
In this interesting time.
Disinfecting food
With wipes and soap,
Making sure that
Everything is as clean as can be.
Drying everything that has been washed,
And putting them
Into the fridge.
And finding space
For the vast amounts of food
To go.

I want to remember
All of the movies
That my family and I have watched
Every Friday,
And Saturday,
As we near
One hundred movies
Since April.
How excited we all get
When it’s finally
Our turn
To choose
What to watch.

I want to remember
The small family
Of three
Tiny birds
That live in the bushes
Next to
My home-school window.
Their chirping
Playing
Fluttering
And just even standing
Is always entertaining to watch
When I’m feeling bored
Or have nothing to do. 

I want to remember
All of this
Because as I grow older,
I probably won't
Remember it all.

By Luc Sciammetta