The moon sits in the corner of the sky

As a warm yellow crawls to cover the cold blue,

I sit perched on my bed—

Smiling right at you.

Birds seduce each other with melodies of passion,

The sun begins to rise, bringing in a bright hue,

Your soft murmurs make the corners of my lips rise,

Blinds open their eyes to take a peak of the view,

The fluorescent light slips in,

And I turn my head to smile at you.

My fingers lace themselves with yours,

Tightly bound, our lust acting as glue,

Like a drop of honey put into tea,

Amber waves encompass us right on cue—

Bringing whispers and promises of something new.

I think about:

Those two months that went by,

My boy and I

Spent our time

Endless laughs. Side by side.

But if only I could have known

It would all have suddenly stopped.

In one blink. In one breath.

Hopeless.

I reminisced that:

In 7th grade he caught my eye

In 8th grade he made me cry

Freshman year I thought he was lost.

Sophomore year he came back across.

Junior year I had him. I held him.

He was mine.

Then I watched him go by,

In the blink of an eye

Vanished. Gone

My boy. My love

My middle school crush.

You ever find that boy in your life

You can’t let go of?

Where each memory you hold

Is more painful than the next

Because all this time you spent

Thinking he was the best you would get

Then to realize he had disappointed,

Everything you wanted.

It almost became a relief to say:

Goodbye to you, the boy I knew

The one I thought would never hurt me

The one would then made me see

Falling in love takes years of time,

Yet some things just aren’t made to be...

Small hands

Knocking on neighbors’ doors

Can Macy play?

why don’t we play anymore

Just a group of youngsters

Running

Smiling

Laughing

Chasing

Across the grass

Tag your It !

Full of energy and grass in our hair

A bunch of games we would play

Till night

Then again the next day

When did we stop playing

When did the game end

And reality kick in

Growing up my Father always told us of the sycamore tree that stood tall in the field behind the barn, rooted quietly on the hill but with leaves ever so dynamically flitting through the wind. Generations, he says, his grandfather was a boy and it was there. Still was the sycamore tree, always, as he recalls, watching the pass of events, resilient and sturdy through each decade.

Under the sycamore tree, my great-grandfather proposed to my great-grandmother, each member of the family has followed this tradition since. We all know of the sycamore tree in my family, it holds a little piece of history from each and every one of us. The sycamore was known for its strength and durability through the harsh seasons and long years. Marriage, birthdays, celebrations, the tree as a link between ancestors, a watchful eye accompanied with empty actions.

And when my little cousins came along, now conscious of just how old the tree really was, they climbed and climbed. Climbed the resilient branches of the sycamore tree, starting slow then racing to the top, snapping and breaking the slender sticks in their path, and when one neared the canopy high in the sky, he slid on a particularly slippery branch and fell crashing to the ground. The sycamore tree is a stoic, unmoving object, but when cousin Benny had to be rushed to the doctors, my cousins didn’t care. They split the thick bark off and cracked its branches, leaving deep scars on the sycamore tree. As wounds heal and scars never fade, patches of uneven bark circle its trunk along with the large branches scattered around the tree, telling the story in itself.

Aunt Kelly was ready to marry a man named Richard, she was at the farm with him and everything. Mama says that Richard knew Aunt Kelly since grade school, a coward Mama says, for waiting this long to come back to her. A steady buzz of the news rang in the fields, through the sycamore tree onto the road and into the town. Aunt Kelly was never this happy, according to Mama, we’re all just listening for the good news. And when he proposed, under the sycamore tree, everything built so soundly, caved when he was found to have bedded another woman. That day the tree wept for the walls forming around Aunt Kelly’s once kind heart, and for the upset of the tainted words spoken near its wandering ears, ever listening but never doing, overseeing but only feeling.

But what is remembered was the winter. Bitterness pushing past the leaves, a white icy veil resting on the fallen sycamore branches and the still violet irises, a once colorful floor of reds yellows and oranges now a muted brown memory underneath the snow. Caught off guard, unprepared for the brutal back and forth exchange between supplies running sparse and the kind of weather where the wind bites your skin, and rosy cheeks, chilled finger tips, and wet feet welcome the dancing flame growing in the fireplace. Where icicles dangle from the gutters dangerously above the porch, or where a whirl of snowflakes bury any sense of autumn in one sitting. For winter brings breathtaking scenery outside, with ice intricately laying on the sycamore tree, the house’s roof occasionally warping from the weight of the snow, and the steady smoke puffing from chimneys. Early winter brings wide grins from children, unbeknownst of the whispers that make their way through town and finally to the farm. Murmurs that we all know, the silent spread of illness making its rounds once again. And when said whisper trailed downstreet, the fetching of cold rags, steaming cups of tea, and the bitter medicine from downtown revived once again, as it is that time of year.

Seemingly an end of the high fevers and dry throats on the farm was but only a start. All the children contracted a terrible cold this time around, but it was nothing that Nan couldn’t fix to save a trip to the doctors and an extra penny. All the neighborhood children welcomed back their absent friends that missed only but a day's worth of winter. And while the boys and girls played in the abundance of light fluffy snow, Nan was indoors scrubbing the floorboards, washing dirty laundry, or tidying the messy rooms in the house. She was always there, the only time you’ll catch her outside in winter is when she goes to get eggs from the chicken coop near the back porch. She says going outside in this weather is just asking for the flu. Many of Nan’s childhood friends growing up caught the flu, and she even had it once herself, though her body didn’t handle disease as well as all the other kids at the time. She ended up near the brink of death. It’s irresponsible, she said, to go outside and risk getting sick when my help is needed inside. That was until a vicious storm hit the town with a mighty force. Levels of snow rising foot by foot, with roads slick and driving being futile. On this day, Abigail, my older sister, went out to fetch spare sugar from the neighbor's house. It was only a short trip, though when she left and hadn’t returned within a half-hour, worry grew a pit in mine and Nan’s stomach. Like the slow thickening of Mama’s famous gravy, what was a hint of doubt flourished into full-blown worry for Abigail. So, after a quarter to an hour, Nan grabbed her winter boots, jacket, and thick gloves, all bundled up, and told me to stay inside while she looked for Abigail. Waiting inside knowing Nan and Abigail were outside in that weather didn’t help to calm the anxiety rushing through my veins. I sat atop the windowsill looking at a field once colorful and bright now covered by a stark white layer with no sign of Abigail or Nan. Finally in the once undisturbed snow piled high, emerged Nan, with Abigail in tow.

When Nan fell ill, it was no surprise to me or Abigail, even Nan. She was right, Nan, that she gets sick easily, and that it was irresponsible for her to go outside. For when Nan was in bed, the house grew messy and laundry unwashed, the slack left from her lack of presence was never picked up by anyone. Sure, someone could have stepped in, even me, and yet the house filled with laughter now held silent whispers as to let Nan sleep peacefully. It was no surprise when Nan passed, to me or Abigail, but along with the rest of the family, we mourned the loss of our anchor, Abigail struck with more guilt than any of us, the person that held everything together without any of us knowing. We grieved in the chilly atmosphere of the winter.

Overhill, the sycamore tree, once stood tall in the field behind the barn, seemingly crumpled and withered after the loss of Nan. For the sycamore tree’s lament was felt by our family, reverberating through the fields the cry of the tree, for the whole town heard it. After Nan’s passing, the tree that stood proudly with scars on its trunk that once weakened it, now wilted and shriveled. The sturdy branches cracked and the weakened twigs fell. The strength of the sycamore tree through generations dwindled. And our family moved away from the farm, breaking away from tradition to live somewhere less painful. The last to go was Mama and Papa, long after Abigail and I left to find work.

And when they left, the sycamore tree, oh once so fierce and lively, fell, for no one was there.

Dewdrops rest on the leaves

But they will soon be No More

The meadow from afar still breathes

But that will soon be No More

And so the Rabbit’s timid clock begins to tick

And Alice must find her way back home

You seem all but a trick

For there is no longer time, to run free and roam

Sheets of clouds enwrap the sky

While the sun still remains in my hands

Birds now trying to get by

Forever consumed in this Wonderland

An umbrella of light over my head

But that will soon be No More

Frogs croak upon the riverbed

And they will soon be No More

See the Lost Boys are the Lucky ones

With their never-ending cycle

Of dancing and drums

And Mary pulls magic out of her bag

Just so the kids will have a little fun

But yet a seed’s sprouting

Will soon be No More

A tutor who tooted the flute

Tried to teach two young tooters to toot. Said the two to the tutor,

"Is it harder to toot, or

To tutor two tooters to toot?"

A swan-feather quill sits at the head of the table which is namely reserved for the leader of the assembly. And if it weren’t for that skinny disposition of his, he might be in a suit.

His plumes are few and scarce, with the topmost ones curling in frayed lines. He is of course, a literary genius, but having no arms or legs or...any​ organs, for that matter, may pose a bit of a problem. He does, however, have that one spine that he uses to trace ink.

He has the voice of a long-time smoker, a scratchy tone that might make him drop dead at any moment. Who knows. He is a talking feather quill. There are no such laws as far as anyone knows.

Next to him is a French butter dish. She is one step above the quill, because she, most regrettably, has a mouth. Her lid clatters like porcelain teeth when she speaks, and lacks the cushion of lips to soften her words. She is short, and obtuse, and blue like a robin’s egg. She takes pride in this comparison, although nobody will tell her that according to the old label on her backside, she is not a robin, but an Aegean blue.

Opposite to her is a pair of broken reading spectacles. They’re cracked, which is perhaps how they ended up here. They’re rose gold, and bent at the arms, but maintain a sense of balance with their wide, circular lenses. The fair lady butter dish despises the left lens, but is rather gentle with the right. Nobody knows why.

Lastly, there is a lantern. She has an hourglass figure, and is lined in metal painted a deep green, like pine. She rattles from time to time. She does not speak very often.

These four objects make up an assembly that deals with conundrums.

Mr Quill begins. “Miss Butter Dish, if you could be so kind as to read out today’s dilemma?”

She clears her butter dish equivalent to a throat and reads (strikingly).

The following is what I, the assembly historian, hear.

“Mister Left and Right Spectacles, if you’d be so kind to make an opening statement.”

“Clearly—​clearly—​ There is not—i​s not​—a single modicum of conflict—​conflict—​ in the problem at hand. Is it harder, my esteemed colleagues, to teach oneself to toot, or to tutor oneself in the art of tooting, and then disseminate such knowledge—knowledge?​ It can be said enough that the glorified artistry of teaching is a phenomenon which we may never know the answer to, for the complexity of the craft is as amorous a mystery as a fine vase.” Historian’s note: Miss Butter Dish is n​ot​ a vase. Do with that information what you will.

Miss Butter Dish shivers with animosity, but Mister Quill is quite used to this chemistry. Actually, it’s more tame than usual. It does make for some lovely partisanship, though.

She lifts her lid to intervene. “But could you not assert that the recipient of the question, the tutor, will give a significantly different answer than the two tutors?” She affirms once more, “Would it not be a matter of perspective?”

“Subjectivity and objectivity draw a fine line, Miss Butter Dish. But this conundrum can only have one answer. So truly, I must ask: who is the more important of the two, for we can only align with one train of thought,” Mister Quill says.

“I—​I—​ would like to assert—​assert​—that clearly the teacher ought to be the perspective of importance here.”

“Pray tell, Left Spectacle, under what circumstances do you make this assertion? Clearly it is easier for a tutor to have the forethought of the art of tooting. Is it harder, I must ask, for one to relay understood knowledge, or expand your mind to accept this new knowledge entirely? You discredit those who carry the crown of learning.” Her lid clatters particularly loud on the word learning,​ as if it is something Mister Left Lens has never done.

“You insult me! You insult—“

“Now, now, if we could just calm down and gather ourselves for a moment—“ Mister Quill attempts to mediate, but it is difficult when you are caught between the deeply rooted feud between a lens and the admirer of his disenfranchised brother.

“Mister Quill, I suggest you stay out of this, because if this incorrigible—“

At this point, I, the historian, am getting tired of writing in dashes, so I will skip the fighting to the resolution. Furthermore, there is ample reason to believe that the rest of the fight would not be appropriate for a younger audience.

Miss Butter Dish and Mister Left Lens fought for some time. To put it simply, Mister Left Lens supports the tutor, and Miss Butter Dish supports the tooter. Mister Quill is losing years on his life trying to keep peace.

Have you, the reader, ever seen a deus ex machina?​ It is one of the more criticized movie tropes for its unoriginality nowadays, but in a forlorn situation such as this, it feels appropriate.

Miss Lantern spoke.

There have been only two other times where she has spoken. I was not alive for them, but I have heard that after her words, the last two historians quit. Her voice is sotto voce, like a phoenix learning for the first time that it has talons. She had a slight accent, a deep and disembodied tone that might be from years of silence.

“If I could make an assertion.” The others become quiet quickly. They all turn, and if they had eyebrows, I imagine they’d be raised. Mine certainly are. Jaws slightly dropped as well.

“We’ve spent a good portion of our night here, exchanging opinions which we could engage ourselves with for eons. But consider what is being asked. Is it harder to toot, or to tutor two tooters to toot? You will find that there is one infallible answer.” She turns to me, and I feel as though perhaps I finally understand the mechanisms and thinkings of the objects. My heart is the only beating rhythm in the room.

Her words enunciate as she declares her final testament.

“Nobody actually cares.”

Yes, that is right. I have spent the better part of my evening to tell you that in the end, the council realized that nobody cared.

I have been writing to you, dear reader, to summarize what we all know to be true. This conundrum of ours, tooting and tutoring, was all a farce, meant merely to passively mock children for their poor diction.

If a question does not desire an answer, is there a need for one? If a tree falls but nobody is there to witness it, did it fall? Has all this time been spent uselessly? I, a human being, recounting the tales of dispensable trash?

This record will be considered my letter of resignation, should the council be capable of even perceiving language. I understand things now. Miss Lantern does not speak because her words are dangerous, and rightfully so. She makes us mere historians realize what nobody in the room would like to admit.

We are all fools writing accounts about objects discussing questions that do not lust for answers.

I could go to space if I wanted to With my rocket of chairs and blankets. Blast off!

And I was in space.

There was no gravity

Nothing to hold me down.

I could fly if I wanted to.

Go off and fight pirates with Peter Pan The swingset was my ship

And I was in Neverland.

There were no laws

Nothing could hold me down.

Why must this ever change?

Nothing can hold me down.

As a 2000s kid, realizing that I am at the age of young adulthood,

I think about what I idealized growing up:

TV shows about singing groups and average teenagers,

Who were secretly superheroes or leprechauns.

Where the biggest way to be famous,

Was by putting on a blonde wig and being an international superstar.

Where being “cool” was measured by the amount of silly bands you owned,

Not the number of followers you had on social media.

Where the score you worried about was on Just Dance,

Not the College Board’s SATs and ACTs.

Where you were a doctor, and a chef, and a Nascar driver,

Not just a student sitting at their desk waiting for life to turn back to normalcy.

Where high schoolers could sing and dance and fall in love,

Not just sit on a screen looking at their peers who they haven’t seen in a year.

But soon it's going to all end,

With the graduation caps flying through the air.

A dream is the wish your heart makes,

But apparently, that wish wasn’t strong enough to

Grant myself the perfect life I wished for.

Some days, I stare at my ceiling and think to myself how Lucky I am.

Lucky to be alive

Lucky to be loved

Lucky to have food on my plate and a roof over my head.

Other days, I stare at my four white walls and close my eyes tightly again.

I’ve known the four white walls of my apartment bedroom my entire life.

I’ve watched my neighbors fight,

Start families,

Experience loss,

Get pets,

Move out…

Move on,

Move on from the four white walls I stare blankly at every morning.

Some afternoons, I walk down to the park with my best friend.

We sit on the merry go round and stare at the rows of identical brick buildings holding broken families, holding identical stories of people rebuilding their lives and falling apart all at the same time.

Some afternoons we laugh at the idea of having everything we could ever want and some days we sit in silence knowing the other person's pain and silent bliss of imagining their own house with a great backyard and family dinners filled with laughter.

My friend moved from the apartments last year.

Yesterday, I sat on the merry go round myself.

Yesterday, I stared at the rows of identical brick buildings and imagined a fence marking my great backyard for all the world to see.

Yesterday, I imagined the smiles of children spilling their drinks in the finished basement and the spiraling staircase prominent from the entryway of a grand Victorian house.

Today, I woke up to the white ceiling of my four white walls and closed my eyes again. When I opened them, there was still nothing but four white walls.

I am not the same anymore

I feel like I have simply unbecome

Everything I’ve worked for

Thrown in the trash and done

I am not the girl I imagined

Not the one that I’d dreamt of

I had so many expectations

But I threw it all away for love

I’ve learnt so much now

Crawled back from the pits of Hell

Worked double-time to get back to myself

Seems that I’ve come back to just a shell

I thought I was battling uphill

It turns out I was upside-down

Went in all in on a whim

I never even tasted the thrill

But maybe it’s not so bad

Maybe to my past self I mustn't cling

I might just be restarting

Maybe I’m finally becoming

I remember butterflies swirling in my stomach stepping through the large door,

The first day of a new adventure

And meeting the people I would grow to adore.

Years passed and then we were huddled like penguins under a blanket together

In the stands on Friday night,

Hoping that next Friday there would be warmer weather.

At our own little table secrets were spilled,

Mini birthday parties were thrown and heavy topics were discussed,

But every discussion was laughter filled.

Days I dreaded to go, I would always leave with a smile

And when summer came I would say,

“Thank God I won’t have to go back for a while.”

The thing I always wished for finally came true,

I can’t believe that’s all I ever wanted

Even after everything all of us have gone through.

I wish I could get those times back,

But now it’s all a memory.