For Mother’s Day, your partner’s mom wants to try out their new kayaks.
You (and everyone else in the county, apparently) go to Nolte State Park.
You carry your kayaks around picnics, frisbees, and dogs,
enter the water next to a man fishing from the shore.
A fish jumps from the water.
It’s quiet after you get a hundred feet away from the swimming area.
Anglers hike around the lake, station themselves on the trail’s offshoots.
You do your best to paddle around their lines.
Your partner’s dad tells you his uncle died.
A fish jumps from the water.
A couple floats on personal inner tubes,
drinks hard seltzer from a cooler on a leash.
Some kids race on the edge of the swimming area.
A woman lounges on a large Lapras floaty.
A fish jumps from the water.
They tell you about how his uncle died,
the person who helped him in his last months,
the cousins who are already calling dibs
on his possessions from across the country.
A fish jumps from the water.
A man sitting on a tree root
asks you which way you’re going,
so he can cast around you.
You point, apologize, start paddling.
A fish jumps from the water.
You get a lesson in executor responsibilities,
California gun laws, the history of a defunct airline.
They summarize their wills,
the lessons they’ve learned.
A fish jumps from the water.
Tag: family
I Just Want to Be a Good Dad
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2024.
I. mob-lolatry, n.
I just want to be
a good dad,
you know?
They’re always on about how
we never go anywhere.
And, it’s so damn hot,
I don’t mind the idea
of being in a car all day.
The 12 straight hours of Taylor Swift
doesn’t sound that bad either.
II. devil’s horse, n.
Logically, I know
bugs happen in campsites—
it’s their home.
I didn’t expect
them to overwhelm our tent
while I pumped up the mattresses.
I also didn’t think
Aria would give a name
to every grasshopper.
III. panchreston, n.
Aria’s attention span
is what you would expect
of a six year old.
Unlike her older sister,
she does not want to sit in the shade
rereading The Maze Runner.
So, instead, I send her on a quest
to find the perfect walking stick.
Works every time.
IV. nosebleeder, n.
The next day,
another long drive
down California.
Claire looks up from her book,
asks about the mountain
out her window in the east.
“I think that’s Lassen,” I say,
squinting toward the morning sun.
“That’s where we’re camping today.”
“ON the mountain?!” she asks.
After I say no, she focuses on it again.
“Can we try to climb it though?”
V. megstie, int.
“What?! You can’t be serious!”
I gasp. “It’s a volcano!”
Aria looks up from her iPad.
“I want to climb a volcano!”
“You too? There’s no way
we could do it.”
“It has to be possible,” Claire responds.
“I’m googling it.”
VI. kass-kass, n.
Claire says
the hike to Lassen Peak is
“only five miles long.”
I say
we don’t have hiking essentials and
would need to go to a store first.
Aria says
she wants to plant a flag on the top
“like Neil Armstrong.”
I say
she can barely focus
through an episode of Bluey.
They say
I’m “a force of inertia”
and “a big meanie.”
I tell
Claire to find
the closest Big 5.
VII. hdb, n.
We have to stop in Redding
to get ourselves
actual hiking shoes and packs.
Claire’s directions from Apple Maps
sends us meandering through
three neighborhoods on the way.
VIII. bellywash, n.
They do a lap around the store
to break in their new shoes and packs
while I find some for myself.
They return with
three tall glass bottles of lemonade
while I stand on the balls of my feet.
They tell me how hot it’s been and
we’re buying expensive shoes anyway
while I check my card balance on my phone.
Aria hugs the bottles and
Claire balances the shoe boxes
while I lead them to the checkout.
IX. biblioklept, n.
During the drive to Lassen,
Claire finishes the Maze Runner,
infodumps about new details she noticed.
Don’t worry, she packed a backpack
specifically for backup books
just for this situation.
She takes out a brick of a book
from her mobile library,
starts reading.
X. onion, n.
I successfully get them both
up and in the car before dawn—
a literal miracle.
The drive is winding switchbacks.
Aria complains about her ears popping.
Claire eyes the wildfire remnants we pass.
The sun rises as we pull into the parking lot.
Another family starts their hike
as we get ourselves ready.
XI. dumb phone, n.
Don’t know why, but when
I put my phone in my pocket,
I feel her phone in my hand
from the last hike we went on
before she passed.
She loved hiking, looked forward
to taking our daughters
on her favorites when
they were old enough.
She never got to do that.
Her equipment is still
in the back of our closet—
I can never bring myself
to look at it.
XII. tragedietta, n.
Aria is ready to run up the mountain,
Claire right behind her.
I stop by the trailhead to look at the map,
check for safety notices.
The hike description says,
“Strenuous.”
XIII. southpaw, n.
“Come on, Dad!” Aria yells,
drawing zigzags in the dirt
with the walking stick she found
the first night of our trip.
XIV. oysterling, n.
For the first 500 feet,
Claire keeps a constant pace.
Aria, on the other hand, runs
straight to the first switchback,
leans around the interpretive sign,
stares at the fading social trail
that goes straight up the ridge,
taps the wall with her foot.
“Don’t even think about it,”
I warn, stopping to stretch my legs.
XV. blackberry, v.
Aria sighs. Her walking stick
leaves a snake in the dirt.
Claire picks pines off
branches as she passes,
twirls them between her fingertips
as she hums “Cruel Summer” to herself.
XVI. sprig, v.
Loose dirt and gravel
shift underfoot on the
next stretch of trail.
Almost wish my shoes
were spiked like cleats
to stop from slipping.
XVII. hap-harlot, n.
The last time I looked over
a talus on the side of a mountain,
she was still alive and smiling.
We laid a blanket on the shore of a lake.
She told me about an article she read
as a pika ran around the rocks behind her
with a mouthful of wildflowers.
XVIII. peepling, n.
We rest at the next switchback
in the shade of a clump of trees.
Aria hands me her walking stick,
jumps onto a log along the side of the trail,
announces, “Now on beam: Simone Biles,”
cautiously walks across the log and back,
jumps, lands with her arms above her head.
Claire and I, and some passersby, applaud.
XIX. milder, v.
Little shade
covers the next section of trail.
Relentless sun
bakes the rock underfoot.
Sweat pours down my face
like rain on a windshield.
Whimsy becomes determination;
irritation grows on their faces.
XX. ramgunshoch, adj.
The morning sun warms up
quicker than anticipated.
Aria’s shoulders are slumped;
her walking stick drags behind her.
She asks Claire why the trees
get shorter the higher we go up.
Claire gives a short, uncertain answer
and a short, sudden insult.
Her walking stick hits the ground
as she runs further up the trail.
XXI. hyphy, adj.
When I try to talk to Claire about
how what she said was wrong,
she erupts into a loud tirade
like a pan of forgotten pasta on the stove.
Listen, nod, watch her eyes.
She needs to sit down and drink water.
I pick up Aria’s walking stick,
lead Claire to the nearest shade.
XXII. oxford comma, n.
A tree, a stone, and shade.
Sweat, dust, and sunscreen.
Sit, drink, and breathe.
Me, Claire, and—
oh shit.
Where is Aria?
XXIII. chicken dance, n.
No sign of her.
No sign of her.
No sign of her.
I drop everything,
run up the trail.
How far could she have gotten?
Never felt such speed before.
Never played such a frantic game of I Spy before.
Never investigated footprints like a crime scene before.
Her name comes out
of my arid throat
like a squawk.
XXIV. gabster, n.
Magnolia would never
lose control like this.
She was an attentive mother.
I did my best,
but I couldn’t compare.
She had a way of talking,
connecting with people
that I can’t replicate.
XXV. pepper-water, n.
Tears sting my cheeks.
My thighs full of magma.
Rocks fly under my dashing feet
like arrows in a boobytrapped tomb.
At the top of a man-made staircase,
behind a boulder, by a squat pine tree,
Aria hugs her knees to her chest,
crying, crying.
Approach slowly. Say her name gently.
Wrap her in my arms. Never let go.
Her tears, sweat soak my shirt.
My tears, sweat soak her sunhat.
XXVI. bada, adj.
I tell her I’m glad she’s safe,
that what her sister said
was inappropriate.
Her face is pink, but
I can’t tell if its the heat,
the hike, or her feelings.
I get her water bottle
out of his backpack,
tell her to drink some.
XXVII. pussivant, v.
Big feelings come out
like shaken up soda.
She’s speaking a language
I can’t understand.
I listen to her timbre,
read her face.
XXVIII. anthomania, n.
Air enters her lungs
sounding like worn-out brakes.
Rhythm becomes steadier,
the sound less harsh.
Her eyes on the wildflowers
in the valley below us.
XXIX. chao tom, n.
I help get Aria back to her feet,
get her things back in order,
say we need to find her sister.
Claire comes around the bend,
carrying Aria's walking stick,
which I realize I dropped in my panic.
She offers it to her along with an apology,
says the heat and lack of water got to her,
but it's no excuse for hurting her.
XXX. taffety tart, n.
She digs a Kind bar out of her backpack,
tosses it to Aria and says,
"We've almost conquered the volcano."
Within seconds, chocolate is smeared
on her face. She holds her stick aloft,
screams like a soldier running into battle.
XXXI. upful, adj.
Finally, the trail flattens.
Four interpretive signs greet us,
a large rock in their center.
Haze on the horizon,
a cloudless sky above.
Claire drops her pack
by a sign about butterflies,
pulls out her phone to take pictures.
Rocks cast short shadows
under the merciless sun.
Aria scurries around a sign
about the different types of volcanoes,
plants her stick between rocks above the forest.
The wind amplifies her cheer
as it echoes down the mountainside.
I think I did okay.
In the Foyer
There we were
in the foyer
fussing with backpacks, tying shoes,
unsure
what the world had planned
for those we love.
We went to see my grandfather
A stop before a three-hour drive home. A subject I, at fourteen, avoided. A hospital. I walked in last, stared at the tiles on the floor until I was nudged to say hello. When I looked up, I saw him. A gown. Wires. Tubes. Shadows from an overhead light. My mind saw him die and I cried. No words. He frowned — scowled, maybe. “Get out of here with that!” he yelled. I remember him raising his arm up to shoo me away. My mom gave me the keys to her Expedition. I sat there trying to find air. When she joined me, she asked, “Why were you crying?” My thoughts intercepted by arguments and counterarguments shouted across a crowded conference hall. Reverberating echoes off a tall ceiling. No words. I leaned my head on the window away from her, watched the world blur.
Through a Fog
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from September, 2021.
I. padfoot, n.
They sit cross-legged, back against the fence, head low, next to a rock the size of a football painted in blue and green swirls. They murmur between deep breaths, place a dandelion by the rock, walk back inside their mom's house.
II. mycophilia, n.
Their stepmom is in the kitchen humming to herself, slicing white mushrooms, throwing them into a saucepan. They walk along the wall opposite her, a balance between quick and stealth, in an attempt to avoid any opportunity for her to ask how they’re feeling.
III. whangai, n.
Successfully back in their room unnoticed, they sit on their bed, open their laptop from school, get greeted by a log-in screen with a first name they wish would die, a last name from a woman they wish would leave.
IV. good-sister, n.
“Hey Z,” Layla, their brother’s wife, says as she enters their room. Since their brother’s deployment, Layla has come over each Sunday after her morning shift at Applebee’s. She flops on the bed, releasing a wave of french-fry-scented air.
V. goodsire, n.
“Your grandpa told me dinner should be ready in about an hour,” Layla says as she digs through her apron. “Should be enough time for the next episode of Wild Wild Country.” She retrieves a joint and her lighter, as is tradition.
VI. micromania, n.
While the citizens of Antelope describe how the Rajneeshees overthrew their local government, Z stares at their toes shrinking in the foreground of their laptop’s keyboard. Maybe their whole body with shrivel, finally take up less space. What kind of life is it when your sister-in-law is the only one who uses your name?
VII. mumblecore, n.
They lose the thread when Layla goes on about a movie she watched last week they’ve never heard of. Everything spirals back into place as they realize the episode’s credits are scrolling by. Dinner must be almost ready.
VIII. humidex, n.
After establishing an alibi for their bloodshot eyes, they walk with Layla into the dining room. Sweat drips down their spine. Their neck aches, their breaths shallow.
IX. urbanscape, n.
Luckily, their stepmom doesn’t notice Layla and Z enter the dining room, too busy going on about her trip to the glass museum downtown with her friends and their kids which Z wasn’t invited to.
X. boody, v.
Z experiences dinner through a fog. They eat silently, can’t hear anyone.
XI. gribble, adj.
You can’t be that surprised. You’re not her real kid. She wanted to be with your mom. You were just part of the package. Maybe Nevaeh left your mom because she just wanted to get away from you. You’ve probably always stood in the way of your mom's happiness. You are just a burden. When people talk about pride, they aren’t talking about you. When people talk about liberation, they aren’t talking about you.
XII. necessarium, n.
Put on pajamas. Go to the bathroom. Brush your teeth. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. A bottle of melatonin. A bathtub and hair dryer. A razor with a loose blade. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.
XIII. human, adj. and n.
While dreaming, Z isn’t confined to the body they were born in, which locks them in a box people force on them. They can exist in a body free of gender.
XIV. hens and chickens, n.
When Z wakes up, they feel it wash over them in waves. Dread of confinement in a body that doesn’t fit. Pressure to be someone else by everyone around them. Hunted by an idea of who they’re supposed to be.
XV. yom kippur, n.
Not wanting to be a burden to everyone around them, Z takes up less space. They don’t eat. They don’t speak. Maybe this will make up for how much they’ve worn out the people who have had to put up with them.
XVI. spiritdom, n.
After school, Z sits in their backyard watching their dog’s ghost chase squirrels through their mom’s garden.
XVII. min-min, n.
Lights float somewhere above the roof of their house. Closer than a star. Blurry and flat like an out-of-focus comet. They imagine Herry chasing a bone across the Milky Way.
XVIII. urbs, n.
Z thinks about graduation — just a few months away now — then moving to the city for school, maybe, but mostly to get away from this house. In the city, they can be their true self without the shackles of their family, knowing it is also without the stars they can watch Herry chase bones across.
XIX. hearty, adj., n., and adv.
Sometimes, Z isn’t actually sure they’ll make it to graduation. They drag an anchor down every hallway until exhaustion grips their heart and brain and nothing seems worth all the effort.
XX. boohai, n.
alone, engulfed in the smoke from pickups trucks without mufflers.
XXI. tziganologue, n.
What if there is nowhere you will be accepted you for who you are? Maybe no one else will ever call you your name. You may be alone forever.
XXII. paddling pool, n.
Z sits on the side of the cafeteria with friends who forget what their name is, who say it changes too often to deserve extra effort. If high school is this and the future is made of people like them, then why would it be worth getting to.
XXIII. almondine, adj.
Z walks in from the backyard, past the living room where their stepmom sits on the couch eating almonds. She asks “Aaron” if they want any, clearly forgetting their name, their allergy. As usual.
XXIV. garden room, n.
From their room, Z stares out the window toward the backyard. They wonder about the height, how fast they would fall, the force with which they’d land on their stepmom’s tomato plants.
XXV. feastly, adj.
At dinner, they savor every last bite. Their mom, home for dinner for the first time in weeks, takes a large scoop of the macaroni and cheese she spent the evening making. Z eats until their stomach hurts.
XXVI. slow-bellied, adj.
A full stomach, they take slow, deliberate steps up the staircase. Committed, still, to the plan they made completely.
XXVII. pacable, adj.
It used to be bearable, when Herry was alive, when he could comfort them after a hard day. But since he died, each day feels more torturous than the last.
XXVIII. almuten, n.
A force beyond words. A slow crescendo inside their skull. Words they cannot ignore: You are a burden; Nobody wants you here; You do not belong; Everything you touch decays.
XXIX. hat tip, n.
Cold air through an open window. Cold words on crumpled paper. Cold acrylic of a bathtub. Cold steel of a razor blade.
XXX. alogical, adj. and n.
There isn’t really a word for the grief that drowns you when you find your child dead in their bathroom. There especially isn’t a word for the waves of grief and guilt when you find your partner’s kid, who you never particularly cared for, bled white, their final note in your trembling hand.
Maybe you don’t go back
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2021.
I. placcy, adj. (and n.)
You’ve avoided the inside of grocery stores for over a year. A pickup order every week, Fred Meyer insists on using their own plastic bags. Your bag of tote bags in the trunk remains unused; your stash of plastic bags under the sink steadily grows.
II. pseudosopher, n.
Your brother’s podcast plays as you drive up Meridian, back to your apartment, so you can know which propaganda the algorithm served him this month — which arguments to have and avoid at the family reunion.
III. zizzy, adj.
The engine revs louder as you climb the hill passed the fairground. As you pass the assisted living facility across the street from the private Christian school, the sky — orange with wildfire ash — comes into view.
IV. bearding, n.
Your brother’s voice becomes a yell as you turn down the side road to your apartment. He yells about a fraudulent election orchestrated the bankers and Hollywood elite. You know he means Jewish people.
V. off time, n.
Your Absence has been Approved This email is to notify you that your requested absence has been approved. The following are the details of the absence: Leave type: Personal Start date: Friday, August 13, 2021 End date: Monday, August 16, 2021 Confirmation #: 611391225
VI. baku, n.
You watch as buildings shrink under the wing of your plane. You sigh as the hypothetical gender critical rant by your aunt in your head fades under Antonioni’s "Malcomer" as you secure earbuds in your ears.
VII. lotophagous, adj.
You read the same line in your book four times without realizing it. The words unfocus into ridges of a nurse log along a trail you’re hiking alone. You swear your partner was with you, but they’re gone. Their voice flows through ponderosa pines; you feel calmer.
VIII. goombay, n.
Awoken by the thumps of wheels against runway. Your heart carries the rhythm as your book falls off your lap onto your bag between your feet.
IX. chicken rice, n.
Among the din of impatient passengers waiting to leave, you feel so alone. You start to text your partner to tell them you landed, unsure whether they’re sleeping or driving to work — you feel like an inconvenience. You wish they were here, but remember how they said during their first post-reunion dinner they couldn’t do it again after last time.
X. muharram, n.
Your father meets you at baggage claim. Happy to see you, but somewhat hurried, he keeps staring beyond you. Following his gaze, you find a hijabi woman waiting for her luggage. He remarks how she’s “just been standing there,” wonders how “those people are even allowed on planes.” You gather your thoughts enough to start explaining how wrong and racist he’s being. He waves his hand at you, says, “Better safe than sorry.”
XI. oscines, n.
His truck is loud; his radio is louder. He attempts to yell over the hair metal shaking the door frames to ask you about your flight. You struggle to focus on anything.
XII. machinina, n.
When you arrive at home, you ask for some time to unpack and nap — the problem with red eye flights is the sleep you get is always subpar. Your bedroom is as it was before you graduated. Posters on the walls, notebooks on your desk, a stack of novels on the floor by your bed. When you sit on the comforter, you remember the nights you couldn’t sleep, where you’d watch Red vs. Blue until three in the morning.
XIII. owczarek, n.
Groggy, half-awake, you hear paws pat at the door. A head rush as you sit up. You barely turn the knob before the door flies open, a white blur rushes in, lunges at you, licks your face. They somehow still remember you.
XIV. chinchy, adj.
You finally feel prepared for your family. You leave your room, walk down the hallway toward the dining room. Around the corner, just in earshot, you hear your parents tell your uncle how much you all still owe on your student loans. He groans about how foolish they were to pay someone to poison your mind.
XV. queenborough mayor, n.
When you were younger, they’d talk about how intelligent you were. When you were younger, they’d praise you for your computer skills. When you were younger, they talked about your bright future. When you were younger, they repeatedly said college was important. When you were younger, they cheered when you got accepted. When you were younger, they implored you to reconsider your major. You walk tentatively into the dining room.
XVI. oppo, n.
The subject of their conversation shifts abruptly when as you enter the room. They greet you, tease you for napping, ask how you’ve been, how and where your partner is. You make up a story: they couldn’t get off work to come. Your family accepts this and your other short responses to their questions.
XVII. changkol, n.
Guilt about lying to your family. Guilt about how easy it was. Guilt digs into your bone marrow. You feel seedlings sprout on your forearms.
XVIII. gentlefolk, n.
Quiet for the rest of the night. Claim to be jetlagged, but really just lament the actual reunion tomorrow, when your grandmother gets there. What questions will she ask? What lies will you have to tell her?
XIX. busybodyism, n.
Your extended family start arriving throughout the morning — a caravan of pickups and trailers. As you help set up the food table in the garage, you are bombarded with questions when each new group arrives.
XX. freemium, n.
You fill a kiddie pool with ice for the various potato and macaroni salads when the news breaks: The Taliban have encircled Kabul with little resistance; the US sends troops to evacuate citizens from the capital. You hear it from your father complaining about ungrateful savages who can’t appreciate all that the US has done to give them democracy.
XXI. pythoness, n.
Your mother chimes in, says she knew it would be a disaster after Biden “stole” the election. “Incompetent,” she calls him. A bang as she open a bag of salt and vinegar chips. “Senile bastard.”
XXII. dangdut, n.
It is constant — dog whistles and foghorns, racism and conspiracy theories you had filtered from your Facebook feed. It is overwhelming — your heart rate increases with your internal scream. You don’t know where to begin or how. It is bewildering — you’ve read so much, but your throat tightens. You are in a cage.
XXIII. ophiolatry, n.
Your grandmother finally arrives in a minivan driven by your brother. He helps her get on her Rascal scooter, then she slowly drives herself by each picnic table in the yard, excitedly greeting and hugging every person she can reach. You brace yourself for her proximity, her embrace, her questions, her theories.
XXIV. tom tiddler’s ground, n.
You hear your name. She exclaims it as soon as she turns away from your cousin’s table. She brings up how long it’s been since she’s seen you. Her questions are rapid-fire: How is school? What can you do with that degree? How’s your partner? Where are they? Why aren’t you married? When are you going to have kids already? You struggle to catch your breath.
XXV. irritainment, n.
They seem so coordinated, they must have spent weeks planning, rehearsing what to say to upset you. It must be funny to see you silently fume, to see if they can find your breaking point.
XXVI. spinback, n.
When your brother starts explaining how Jews corrupted the US military, siphoned off billions from the budget, and made us lose in Afghanistan, you’re done. A quick rush of air catches in your throat. The dam’s concrete fissures. The dregs at the bottom of the lake surface.
XXVII. antwacky, adj.
You see red. Your brother is yelling, but he sounds far away. He’s saying something about his First Amendment rights. Now, your mother is telling you to not ruin the reunion by taking things too seriously. Your uncle tells you to stop forcing your beliefs on everyone.
XXVIII. genteelism, n.
Walls are rebuilt one goosebump at a time. You offer an empty apology, excuse yourself, head back to your room. The closed door, a silent monolith of judgement. Its corona filled with shadows and laughter of people happy to be around one another, probably happy to not be around you.
XXIX. bonny clabber, n.
Things get quiet as night falls. Your room’s ceiling darkens the longer you stare at it; you stay wide awake. The afternoon keeps replaying, every comment echoes. You miss your partner; they’d know what to do or say. You can’t stay here anymore.
XXX. cantopop, n.
Hastily pack your suitcase, download Lyft, request a ride to the airport. Leave a note on the kitchen counter apologizing for ruining the reunion and leaving early. To stay awake, your driver plays loud, uptempo music by an artist their dash calls Zpecial. It’s enough to make you feel far away from that house and those people. You can breathe again.
XXXI. merdeka, n.
In your partner’s arms barely through the threshold of your apartment. Welcomed. Accepted. Loved. It’s all here. Why did you ever leave? Maybe you don’t go back.
A Moored Ship After a Storm
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from November, 2020.
I. Spiritato, n.
Rosa sits between her sister, Haylee, and Uncle Martin. Tired from the four-hour drive across the state. Her grandma asks Uncle Martin to lead the family in Grace. He clears his throat loudly, so that the kids in the other room hear too. His Grace is long— as it is every Thanksgiving— expressing thankfulness for every event in the family’s year he gathered from his Facebook feed. She stretches her neck left and right, looks at each bowed head with closed, reverent eyes— utterly baffled at the sincerity.
II. Volcanello, n.
Uncle Martin closes Grace quoting the priest of his church which Rosa stopped attending her junior year in high school after he gave a sermon about women’s role in the home. She bites her cheek, metal on her tongue, closes her eyes, a scream escapes as a restrained sigh.
III. Pastinaceous, adj.
Grandpa Leo carves the turkey, serves a slice to each person around the table, same as he does every year— a tradition passed down to him from his father, from his father’s father— a taproot reaching down so far no one can see the end.
IV. Overberg, n. and adj.
A polite smile on Rosa’s face as she accepts her slice from Grandpa Leo. He pauses, smiles. “We’re so glad you were able to make it this year.” She nods, fidgets with her napkin on her lap to avoid eye contact. When she looks up, it feels like looking at a mountain range from a fire lookout.
V. Sprusado, n.
The Walker-Estradas are not a sedentary family. As soon as it seems like everyone’s done eating, there is no sit-and-talk like business people during a lunch rush. No, the dining room is abandoned for places to stand— the kitchen, the patio, the living room. Rosa gets up from her seat, pinches the button-up she wore on Wednesday’s shift through her cardigan, flattens any potential wrinkles, adjusts her tie. A deep breath before she grabs her water glass, tentatively walks toward the patio.
VI. Hot-Brain, n.
Rosa didn’t really plan ahead— the decision to drive over the pass to see her mom’s family for Thanksgiving was last-minute. She was wiping down the tables and booths in her section after the last party left— the Wednesday before Thanksgiving always nonstop. All night, she heard people talk about their plans— seeing their families, elaborate recipes. The hosts were talking about it while wrapping silverware in napkins for Friday when the dam broke— she missed home. Afraid of chickening out, she stopped by the Arco on the corner of the parking lot, bought gas and a 5-hour Energy, drove toward the highway. Her only stop was at a rest area outside Srague for a nap.
VII. Cheesed, adj.
Maybe it was a reasonable response, maybe it was because she slept in her car, but when she got to the patio, heard Uncle Martin grimace about “illegal votes,” she groaned, “Oh shut up, man!” All eyes on her, every conversation halted. “Um, excuse me." She sips her water, walks back inside.
VIII. Chedi, n.
Solace in the bathroom down the hall by the guest room. Rosa places her glass on the counter next to a picture of her sister waving from the top of a ladder leaned against exposed plywood. She sits on the toilet lid taking deep breaths to center herself. She stares at other pictures, souvenirs on the wall from Haylee’s white-savior, voluntourism trip to Mexico with her church group.
IX. Waynpain, n.
Before enough time passes that her family would think something’s wrong, Rosa flushes the toilet for the illusion of normalcy. She washes her hands— pure muscle memory— stares at the soap dispenser. She remembered an afternoon when she was a child watching Legends of the Hidden Temple reruns when her dad came in after working in the yard, his shirt inside out over her ears, draped like a ponytail. “Wanna see a magic trick?” he asked between gulps of water from a weathered half-gallon jug. Rosa jumped up from the couch, followed him to the sink. He ran the water. “Clear, right?” He filled his jug to illustrate. “Watch.” He paused, concentration on his face. “Abracadabra!” He shoved his hands under the water, gripped his fists, twisted them like he was trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube. The water pooling in the sink turned brown, matte. “Whoa!!!” Rosa exclaimed. He snickered, leaned close to her face, whispered, “I turned it into poop.” Rosa continued yelling, but out of disgust, as she ran back to the living room.
X. Presentific, adj.
Deep breath, Rosa. They’re family, Rosa. It’s going to be okay.
XI. Earthfast, adj.
Hand on the knob of the door, one step from rejoining her family, after practicing all of her small talk. She freezes. Her fingers twitch. Her breaths short. Fully conscious of how long she’s hidden in the bathroom. Move. Move. Move.
XII. Pricket, n.
She closes her eyes, counts to ten between inhales, exhales. Thaw the ice in your skin, Rosa. She gulps the rest of her water.
XIII. Spiritus, n.
She breaks through the door like a pika out of its burrow, fueled by adrenaline and guilt.
XIV. Callidity, n.
"Oh, don’t worry. I’m alright.” Interspersed head nods, sustained eye contact. Ask follow-up questions to avoid saying more than necessary. Be a screen they can project onto.
XV. Ambilogy, n.
“Oh, you know, work’s work.” “Yeah, bills have been tough, but I’ve managed.” “No, haven’t really been up to much else.”
XVI. Fascine, n.
To get a break, Rosa walks over to the fireplace, a fresh cord of wood on tightly layered kindling. She sits on the carpet, cross-legged like she did as a child during story time. Closing her eyes, she feels radiant heat wash over her. She imagines it mixing with the warmth under her cheeks. She starts to cry. It shouldn’t be this hard.
XVII. Brewstered, adj.
She could feel the distance palpable between herself and her parents— her shoulders and the mantle accented with plaques, senior portraits. A dark marble slab floating in a red brick facade.
XVIII. Badderlocks, n.
“Hey Rosa!” She shakes her head, back in her body. Haylee is behind her, leaning to her left, a plate in her right hand. “You doin’ alright?” “Uh, yeah,” she stammers, rubs her eyes. “I was just, uh, cold out there. Needed a minute to warm up.” Haylee straightens up, nodding. “Mind if I sit with ya?” She scoots over, gestures at the space before hugging her knees to her chest, placing her chin in their crevice. Haylee sits, picks a grape tomato off her plate, eats it. She asks, still chewing, “Want one? I grew ‘em in the planter out back.” Rosa looks at the little bulbs on the tilted plate, smiles. “Sure.”
XIX. Reptiliferous, adj.
“You think you’ll ever tell ‘em?” Annabelle asks from the bench adjacent to Rosa’s. She wedges her mask down to sip her mocha, readjusts it back up. “I don’t know.” Her head shakes. “Maybe.” “Why wouldn’t you?” Annabelle asks, adjusting her scarf back over her nose. “I don’t wanna pressure you, but they should know.” “It’s not- it’s hard. My family’s not like yours. We don’t- I haven’t even been back home in two years. “And, like, everything I say has to go through so many filters when I talk to them. Layers of social appearances, Jesus, money- I can’t just… say it.” Annabelle nods slowly, sips her chai tea. “They know you’re gay, right?” “Uh, yeah. I told them in high school. It wasn’t a big thing.” “You were able to tell them that. Is this that different?” Rosa stares at where the sidewalk ends. “It feels different.” Annabelle reaches an arm forward, clasps air, struggle in her eyes. “Is there anyone in your family you could tell?” She takes another sip of her mocha. “Haylee, maybe.”
XX. Molly-Blob
Haylee runs her fingers through her hair— blonde as marigolds— over her ear. Always protective of Rosa, even though she was the younger one by two years. Less judgmental than her youth group friends— bridges she’d torch in public if scripture was quoted to justify hate. A pang of guilt in Rosa’s heart— their roles worn backwards.
XXI. Cockle Stairs, n.
“So, uh, how has Whitworth been?” Rosa asks. “It’s pretty good, actually. I mean, as good as it can be with all the remote learning stuff. Got to save money by staying here though.” “That ever annoying? Like, not getting the actual college thing as a freshman?” “I mean- yeah? I get why, but it IS disappointing, y’know? Plus, Dad decided to start a new project, ‘cause workin’ from home wasn’t enough for him— turns out, most of his work day was talking to his coworkers. “Before he started building that outdoor living room for Seahawks games, he’d try to talk to ME while I was in class. I learned the mute button REALLY fast. “It’s like- I don’t know- like, we’re all trying to get through this, be better and responsible, right, but it feels like no matter how much we do, we keep ending up in the exact same place.”
XXII. Footpad, n.
Rosa nods slowly, sips the last drops of water in her glass. “What about you? How have you been?” Haylee asks, nudging her shoulder into Rosa’s. She regurgitates her rote response. “Oh, uh, it’s been alright.” “That’s good to hear. I’ve heard it’s been really hard over there— closures and restrictions on restaurants and all.” Rosa gulps. “I worry about you is all.” Rosa bites the inside of her lip. “Well, uh” she starts. Deep inhale, exhale. “It actually has been hard.” She nods, swallows. “Most of my cash comes from tips; when everything closed, that dried up fast, let alone the reduction of shifts.” Haylee places a hand on Rosa’s knee. “I, uh-“ A gulp. A breath. “At one point, my dinners were leftover fries. I’d, uh, tell the cooks one of the tables wanted another helping of ‘em, and since Red Robin does endless fries, they wouldn’t question it; they’d just scoop some in a basket, place it in the window. I kept a to-go container under my coat in the back, and stash ‘em there.” “Rosa, you know we’d help you if we knew-“ “I-“ Rosa cuts her off. “I- I know. It’s just…” Rosa doesn’t finish the thought. Her sister does what she always did: hold her close and tight, tell her it’s alright. Rosa does what she always did: nod, go limp, cry into her shoulder.
XXIII. E-Waste, n.
In that moment— a puddle in her sister’s sweater— Rosa remembered what she really missed about home. She thought about the memes her family shared on Facebook spouting love and support unconditionally, how hollow each one left her. But here, it feels real, full.
XXIV. Ambigu, n.
Her grandma’s turkey, her mom’s cheesy mashed potatoes, her uncle’s rosemary garlic bread, her sister’s tomatoes. Warm, familiar, home.
XXV. Cryonaut, n.
Uncle Martin appears above them, clearing his throat. A plate in each hand. A slice of pumpkin pie her grandpa baked, a scoop of ice cream for each of them. He purses his lips, nods, offers a plate to both sisters, who accept their desserts. Rosa scoops a bit of pie and ice cream, bites. She’s five, playing tag in her grandparents’s backyard with Haylee and their cousins. Sundown. Only able to see by the lights outside her grandpa’s shop. Their mom calls them in for dessert. She’s 40, returning to this house again— probably by self-driving hover car or something— maybe with Annabelle and kids of their own, who play tag with Haylee’s kids, and she calls them in for dessert. She realizes she had never imagined a life that far in the future for herself before.
XXVI. Magnanerie, n.
In her head, the house was plain, peeling paint, full of insects gnawing at everything good. She felt, now, her misconception, saw the bigger picture— the soft sweater sleeves wrapped around her torso. “Haylee,” she hesitates. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
XXVII. Amouring, n.
Not ready to say it in front of her whole family, Rosa leads Haylee outside to the driveway. On the way, she rehearses what to say, remembering July— when the cases were low, when she told Annabelle, who immediately drove to her apartment, despite Rosa’s protests, saying: “In an emergency, you have to break protocol.” That night, after it all calmed down, as their legs were entwined on her bed, she felt human connection for the first time in months. Her head on Annabelle’s chest, her heart a metronome in her ear, up and down with her breath— soft as a breeze through cedar branches— like a moored ship after a storm. “You didn’t have to come here-“ she started, waves of guilt in her eyes. “Stop. I had to. I love you,” Annabelle interrupted, then tenderly kissed the top of Rosa’s head. Rosa started to feel like maybe it was worth being alive.
XXVIII. Empedoclean, adj.
The driveway, a large patch of gravel— jagged fragments of earth shift under her feet as she walks. The fireplace, a glimmer flickering in the window, barely visible through the November mist. Deep breath, cold air fills her lungs— a brisk bite, the kick she needs to move. “Okay,” Haylee shivers. “What’s going on?” Rosa sighs, holds her elbows. “So, uh- It’s hard to say.” Haylee rubs her biceps. “It’s alright. Take your time.” “Things have been... worse than I told you. “When everything shut down, I, uh, got laid off for a while. “In July, when it seemed like everything would turn around, “my hours stayed low, and I couldn't covers both bills and food, “I was so isolated— couldn’t even see other people, so-“ She winces, looks away from Haylee, toward the stars over the road. A gulp. “I tried to kill myself.” She lifts her shaky hand, rolls back the sleeve of her shirt and cardigan.
XXIX. Slummock, v.
Haylee stares at the scar on Rosa’s wrist. Quiet. After a few seconds, maybe hours, Haylee speaks. “That’s a lot to process. I appreciate you telling me; it must have been hard.” Her jaw clenches. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Were you afraid to tell me?” “No, no- I just- I didn’t want to worry you,” Rosa stammers. “Well,” a frustrated exhale, “you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I’m always here for you; I’m always going to support you. It’s my job.” “I want to tell you. I wanted to tell you then, but I didn’t know how.” She rolls her sleeve down. Haylee grabs Rosa’s hand, ice-sickle fingers around Rosa’s palm. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Rosa nods rigidly. “I, uh, made the decision around 4, when I would have gone to work. A steak knife from the knife block on the counter. I held it in my hand; I could barely think. I texted Annabelle to say I’m sorry. She called me as I, uh-“ Rosa gestures at her wrist. “I froze, heart racing, dropped the knife on the floor. The clang broke my concentration, and I answered her call. She came over immediately, told me to put a towel and pressure on it and not move until she got there.” A gap. A space for Rosa to breathe. “She saved me that day. She helped calm me down, didn’t try to push me into anything— just sat with me for hours. “I don’t know if it was the blood loss or the heightened emotion of the whole thing or the first time I’d been with her outside of work in months, but I was overwhelmed, lost control over myself— I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her like-“ “Rosa. Gross.” “Oh, right. Sorry.” Haylee laughs, hugs her sister tight as kite string in coastal wind. “You don’t have to apologize; I’m so glad you have a partner like her.” She cries into Rosa’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re still here.”
XXX. Hammer, n.
Her brain may be where shadows loom; where memories echo in jarring fragments; where thoughts, feelings, breaths are held for someone else’s sake. But in the gaps between fractured earth, in the secondary light of the moon, in the warmth of her sister’s heart, Rosa felt like she could overcome them.
Isolated Thunderstorms
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from June, 2020.
I. Astrolabe, n.
“Your first semester will occur during your flight,” the dean explains. His grey hair slicked back, suit neatly pressed. “The course will be broken down into modules that you access on your ship’s console.” He walks in front of a whiteboard covered in diagrams of The orbits of Earth and Mars. “The goal is for you to get adjusted to the rigor of our program and used to life within the confinements of space travel.” He holds up his hand, fingers splayed, points with his ring finger at the earth on the whiteboard. “Following the Hohmann transfer, your trip should take about six months.” He drags his finger along a dotted line that connects the Earth’s circle to Mars’s. “That should be plenty of time to complete your studies and be ready to join our program. Any questions, Emilia?” I finish my doodle of a western meadowlark in the margin of my notes. “No, sir.”
II. Histrion, n.
Hey Em,
I don’t know how long it’ll take for this message to get to you, let alone when the university will send out the batch of transmissions, but I just wanted to talk to you.
It’s possible your dean explained some of the logistics of this to me before you left, but his uniform was so loud, I couldn’t really hear half of what he said. I just nodded the way dad told us to when we talk to the cops. I realize that probably wasn’t the best move now.
When we came to your launch this morning, I was a mess. You may not have noticed, since I tried to be strong for you. You know, the whole stoic-man thing— you were the one who explained that to me in the first place, so I don’t really need to explain it, I guess.
We stood at the designated viewing area, and as the countdown echoed from the speakers, I felt the dam start to tear down. You were a small dash ascending into the blue sky, and I was so scared— my little sister was flying to Mars, and there was nothing I could do to protect her anymore.
I stood there long after your dash became a period became nothing. If it weren’t for Malik taking my hand, I’d probably still be out there staring at the space where you were.
I’m so proud of you, and I miss you so much.
Jon
III. Sunshiner, n.
Getting used to artificial days and nights takes a while. The tint of the windows, intensity of internal lights change with a clock set to DC’s time zone. The cabin spins slowly— enough to simulate gravity. I watch a glimpse of sun not caught by the solar panels outside scroll along the floor at midnight.
IV. Phlizz, n.
Hey Em,
Still don’t know when the university is sending these messages to you, but I hope you’re doing well. It’s been about a week since I sent my last message, just to give you an idea of my timeline. Do timelines matter when you’re alone in space?
Anyway, I have some big news: Tre’von is starting kindergarten next week! We went back-to-school shopping to get a dope first day shirt, and— is it still back-to-school shopping when he hasn’t done school before? I guess Head Start counts. Doesn’t matter, still excited. We got him a shirt with a rocket ship on it; that’s the point of the story.
He chose it from the rack, practically ran right up to it, and I said, “Oh you wanna go into space too?” And he looked at me all confused, so I added, “like Auntie Em?” He nodded slowly in that way you do when you don’t really understand, but you want to try on the shirt with a bedazzled rocket ship so bad. Who can really blame him?
I wish you could be here to see his first day, Em.
We all miss you terribly,
Jon
V. Nipe, v.
Sometimes, when I can’t focus on the console, I make it read the chapter out loud to me while I go through a yoga sequence. I get up from Shavasana to take a quiz on the reading. It feels like my consciousness is tethered to that screen, those quizzes— check marks on a to-complete list. Portioned meals dispensed on timers— enough to sustain myself. Arbitrary measurements of time tell me when to eat and sleep, but there is no time here. Sustain. Enough. Repeat.
VI. Summum Jus, n.
Hey Em,
Hope you’re doing well.
Tre’von’s first day of kindergarten went brilliantly! He wore his rocket ship with so much pride. He was so excited, he woke me and Malik up by running into our room and singing the Sesame Street theme.
The rest of the week, however, was a bit weird. I don’t need to tell you how good Tre is at making friends— that kid can talk to anyone about anything. Well, he heard about and saw other kids’s moms for the first time in a while. So, naturally, at dinner, he asked us about who his mom is. Just like when he started day care.
We’ve treaded this water before, so we went over the talking points again, and even tried to fruitlessly explain surrogacy. He got quiet and made this face— it just broke my heart, Em. He had never made that face before, but it was aching with pain.
Malik says we should talk about it. I’m not sure how to even start. You’d be helpful about now.
Missing you,
Jon
VII. Imperturbable, adj.
Summer internship: an apple orchard in Yakima, experimental crops in mineral deposits, spreadsheets and graphs. They called me a problem solver, cool under pressure, promising. My mentor wrote a glowing review, recommended me for the program trying to make Mars habitable.
VIII. Quank, v.
Hey Em,
There’s so much to tell you, but it’s all dammed up. There’s so much noise, it’s hard to find the signal, sort it into manageable parts.
I couldn’t sleep the other night, probably just the changing of the seasons. But, I got up to get a drink of water, and as I went down the stairs, I heard this sound. A guttural cry. It only let out a couple times, but I saw the origin: Tre’s door.
I inched up to it, slow and quiet. There was faint rustling of sheets, high-pitched breaths.
There are times when dad-instincts take over. No rulebook, no manual, no flowchart. You just do— like an aching autopilot.
I opened his door, peeked in, saw him laying in bed, one leg out from under his covers. In the faint glow of his nightlight, there were wet spots on his pillow. He looked at me.
“Hey Tre, you awake?” I whispered. He nodded. “I had a bad dream, could I sleep here for a bit?”
He sniffled, nodded, wormed over to make room on his bed.
I didn’t say anything else. There was nothing I could say. My son was hurting, and I would do whatever was needed to help him.
I hope you’re not hurting too.
Jon
IX. Guntz, n.
Sometimes, when I look out of the window, see the vast void of the galaxy, stars whose names I can’t quite remember, I feel the excitement that’s waned since launch— that feeling of endless possibility, that vision of skyscrapers standing tall in a Martian sandstorm. Then the cabin revolves, and there is abyss, bone fragments poke out of red sand dunes.
X. Hench, adj.
Em,
I’m hoping that it’s just taking a long time for data to travel across the solar system, and that these messages are finding you well.
I’m going to give you some good news this week. Since Tre’von’s going to school now, I’ve decided to get back into acting. Now, believe me, working on the production team was great and had a way more manageable schedule, and I’m so thankful they were able to find an arrangement that kept me involved, but I’ll be honest: I’ve missed being on the stage, the makeup, the lights, the crowd.
Our theater held auditions for our upcoming production of Les Mis, and your big brother is going to be the first Black Jean Valjean in the Ave’s history! Really. In a century, I’m going to be the first one.
Just practicing with the soundtrack after getting the role tired me out, so I have to start exercising more consistently. Cardio is the worst. You don’t have to do cardio in space, right?
Wish you were here,
Jon
XI. Anent, prep. and av.
Episodes of effort are followed by sagas for lethargy. My console dings, notifications build up. But I can’t get up to read them.
XII. Summa Cum Laude, adv., n., and adj.
Em,
I can really feel the distance between us now, and knowing that it has to be normal, at least for some time, is difficult. Writing these messages makes me feel at least somewhat closer to you, however tenable.
So, some more good news. Tre’s class had a spelling bee this week. Not like, national-spelling-bee level, of course. Maybe spelling bee is a strong term for what it was. It was mostly naming the letters of the alphabet when shown, and reading or spelling short words.
His school made it an event instead of just a test in class. There was cheap catering, the PTA brought in some desserts, the kids got name tags that hung around their necks like the real thing. So cute. Kids weren’t eliminated, but earned points for correct answers on their first attempt, and the crowd cheers for everyone, obviously.
Tre’s face. His smile after he’d name his letters, read those words. He shined, Em.
It was the last round; he hadn’t missed a single question. They were naming letters shown on sheets of paper. It was Tre’s turn, and the teacher noted Tre’s accomplishment, and said he was going to get a challenge. He was so excited for the challenge. They held up the paper, and Tre squinted at it for a second, before saying, “That’s not a letter!” He thought for a second. “That’s a nine! MWAH HA HA HA!” He seriously did the Count’s laugh and everything. Malik and I were dying.
Tre was right, of course. He won the competition and got a certificate with his name on it. He was so happy, he couldn’t let go of it from the moment they handed it to him, and the audience erupted for him, to when he had to brush his teeth to go to bed.
I’m so proud of him. All of those hours of Sesame Street were worth it!
Jon
XIII. Ambiate, v.
There’s a future where humans are not tethered to one planet. There is so much universe to traverse, so much to learn. I can be a step there. My research can build the foundation that launches the human race out of this star system.
XIV. Pandemain, n.
Emilia,
I’ve focused on good news the last couple weeks, because I needed to reframe myself. This last month has been really hard on all of us.
You know how Malik has been at his accounting firm for forever? Well, there was an opening for a management position in his department, and Malik, being a total Hamilton, applied for it, because he was more than capable of the work. He was passed over, because of course he was, and some white guy got the position. He says he’s fine with it, but I see the way he sighs after he finishes his coffee before going to work.
Tre has been lowkey struggling in school. Not academically— he’s a genius like you. He soaks up everything at school and regurgitates it to us at dinner. But, I still hear him cry in his room some nights. He still asks questions about his biomom maybe once a week, pausing after retelling one of his classmates’s stories about their moms.
And, his teacher is taking a race-blind approach to her curriculum, because we’re “all one big human race.” I was about to tell you at the beginning of his school year, because she said that in her welcome letter. I even typed it, but deleted it, thinking I was blowing it out of proportion. But it’s there. The books she selects for story time are about white people and by whites people. Malik told me to bring it up to her if it bothered me, but I don’t even know how to start that conversation.
Why is it that every decade or so white people think they’ve solved racism? They elect a black man president one decade, they get rid of century-old confederate statues the next. Every time, they pat themselves on the back and move on. They don’t seem to realize that there are still people in positions of power that will turn their strides of progress into steps into inches. It happens every. time.
I hope you’re doing well.
Jon
XV. Kvetch, v.
The console dings as more messages arrive. I don’t remember how long I’ve been hurtling. There’s probably some math I could do to figure it out, but what’s the point? There’s a red dot somewhere that I’m going to land on. That’s what they tell me, anyway. A recording of a voice tells me about acclimation techniques, but can lungs really learn new tricks? I don’t remember what my voice sounds like. When I try to speak, nothing comes out. The console dings again. How long have I been laying here?
XVI. Barney’s Bull, n.
Emilia,
I am exhausted. Are you too?
Rehearsals have really picked up, and I feel like I’m on a perpetual treadmill. I wake up, get Tre ready for school, drop him off, then rehearsal goes all day. It’s more intensive than I anticipated. I get home in time for dinner, which Malik has to prepare most nights, and as soon as dishes are done, I crash on the couch. Malik has to wake me up so I can go to bed. Bless him.
Maybe I just need a new rhythm to land. Some kind of routine to take root, you know? I just feel like I’m tumbling haphazardly. Taking so much time away from the stage really made me rusty. But the thing is, I can see how to do all the things. I know how to do them. My body is just slow to get back up to speed.
I can feel the progress happening, but it’s a phantom. It’s there until I look for it, then it’s gone. Nowhere to be seen. Gotta just believe it’s there, I guess? I know you don’t do well with the whole “lack of observable evidence and data” thing, but you can imagine it, right?
Jon
XVII. Foot-Hot, adv.
At fake-sunrise, instead of a ding, the console says our voyage is halfway to our destination. I’ve done barely any of the assigned modules. I lean up, my back stiff. When did I last stretch? I sit in front of the console, a mountain of messages populate the screen. So many from Jon. Save them for later. I open the program and speed-read the modules, guess the answers on some quizzes. Whatever it takes to catch up. In my periphery, I see several meal trays pile up. I wake up with my head on the keyboard. Not sure when I am. The console shows a progress bar at 55%.
XVIII. Mihi, n.
Dearest Emilia,
It would be an honor to have you in attendance at the premiere of the Ave’s production of Les Misérables next month on Friday, the 15th of November.
Sincerely yours,
Jon
P.S. I know you can’t make it, because space and stuff. I just wanted to make to gesture, because you mean so much to me, even when (especially when?) you’re on the other side of the solar system. The theatre said we all get to reserve a few seats opening night, and after Malik and Tre, we all decided you were the obvious choice. There will be a seat with your name on it.
XIX. Simit, n.
Everything feels determined, stuck— spirals within spirals. A current takes you. You gasp, jump. Your father takes you to brunch downtown one Sunday during your grad program. He comments on how proud he is of your achievements, before pausing to remind you to make sure you're eating. You look at the meal trays stacked by your desk— two days worth— think of the cost being wasted before thinking of your own health.
XX. Puckerbrush, n.
Emilia,
One of the things that frustrates me about the way Dad raised me is the lack of emotional expression. You’ve told me about this, of course, but no amount of awareness on my part really gets me out of this straightjacket.
Malik was raised the same way, which shouldn’t be too surprising. I think all boys are all given these lessons. They’re in the air.
It doesn’t help that both of our schedules are so busy now, and its easy to become isolated, set up barriers across all lanes of traffic.
I brought this up to him years ago, when we were anticipating Tre’s birth. We agreed to try to raise our child, regardless of gender identity, so that they should feel comfortable expressing whatever they’re feeling. We didn’t want them stuck in the same restraints that we’re trying to escape.
But, it’s not the explicit teaching, which we have done. Its all the static that he picks up outside of that. He sees Malik and I suffer in silence. He sees us bottle it up.
Then he emulates it. It’s clear when I can hear him cry in his room, but then pull it together when I come in to check on him. He always says he’s okay.
How do you break a cycle for someone when you can’t break it yourself?
Jon
XXI. Satisdiction, n.
In undergrad, I wanted to master everything. I read the old textbooks, watched all the supplemental videos I could find online. I was competitive. In this spiral cubicle, I don't see the benefits of overexerting myself for some letters in a spreadsheet I will never read. I am competent.
XXII. Bumptious, adj.
Elimia,
One of the nice things about theatre is the opportunity to escape the real world and inhabit a different person for a while. Sure, you may be a poor fugitive constantly on the run for a vindictive cop, but it’s a different rhythm from your actual life.
The person playing Javert exudes their confidence constantly. Even when we’re not in a scene. They just have this aura of superiority, like it should be an honor that they grace our theatre with their talent. Some holier-than-thou thing. Just like Javert.
It makes playing against them easier at least.
Two weeks until opening night! Wish you could be there!
Jon
XXIII. Sprunting, n.
I don't know what this feeling is. Always seemed like a distraction from work that needed to be done. Saw others on campus take inefficient routes to class, check their phones while studying. Never felt like I was missing anything until I was so isolated. To walk around a park or downtown. To hear about their day, tell them about mine. To have conversations with no set goal, no endpoint. I don't know what feeling is.
XXIV. Delenda, n.
Emilia,
Balancing time between work and home is difficult. It must be even worse for you, having them be in the same place. I can at least try to leave work at the theatre when I go back home. I don’t know if you’re really able to do that as well. I hope you’re capable of balancing somehow, since it’s been months now.
Our director had an epiphany while on a hike in Olympic last weekend, and has decided to make some… tweaks… to Les Mis. I’m all for revivals changing the original text, the thing is a century old, but a week before opening night doesn’t seem like the best time for those changes to come through.
The revisions have meant that I have to spend more time at the theatre in order to learn the new lines, new blocking, new sequences. That means I’m spending less time at home. I can tell Malik is getting stretched pretty thin with taking up more of the everyday tasks. I do what I can when I can, but it’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. He says he can handle it. He always says he can handle it.
Tre’s been acting out more now, too. He’s never bee an unruly kid; you know that as well as I do. I’ve been working at the theatre his whole life, and it had never really been a problem before. But, when I started working longer days this week, he became more distant. He’s even started sharing less about his school day when I ask him about it.
Something is off-kilter here, and I need to figure out how to find equilibrium again.
Opening night is this Friday. Wish me luck.
Jon
XXV. Downcycling, n.
When I wake up, I drink a glass a water that used to be my urine. The first time was a challenge, I'll admit, but it's a necessity, and logically must be accepted. When you think about it, though, everything is recycled. The metal and wires in this ship were repurposed from old electronics which were made from the devices before them and material excavated from the Earth's crust. Everything comes from something, then gets reused to adapt to the current state.
XXVI. Tinkerman, n.
Emilia,
Opening week has been exhausting. We’re running an eight-show-a-week schedule for the remainder of November, except for Thanksgiving of course.
One of the factors that makes this particular run so tiresome is our director’s fickleness in settling on what they want. The last-minute epiphany wasn’t the only change they’ve implemented. They keep saying the dynamic isn’t quite right, and keep changing the ensemble night after night. While I’ve had to perform every night so far, much of the other cast was replaced by understudies at least once to see how that would, as they put it, “shake things up.” There is a weird electricity that runs through the cast when things change so suddenly. I don’t know if that’s a positive or not, but I’ll take it.
Malik and Tre sat by your empty seat near the stage. The last couple weeks have been rough, but it started to feel worth it when I saw their faces. Malik’s face so full of prideful tears. Tre’s eyes. This wasn’t his first musical, he’d been to a couple when I was working in production. This was the first time he saw me act though. His eyes were so full of awe. Have you ever seen someone so evidently out of their body? So palpably transported into a story? Eyes wide, mouth agape.
At the end of the first act, I peaked at them from the edge of the stage, and it took Tre a few seconds to land. He then excitedly looked to his left at your seat, then right to Malik. I couldn’t hear him, but I could see his mouth flying a mile a minute, his arms waving like he was trying to fly back out of his seat. Malik joined his excitement and flapped his arms too. I love them so much.
Wish you could have been there. I miss you.
Jon
XXVII. Manners-Painting, adj.
Realizations come like gusts of wind in a storm. They knock you down. My eyes strain to see the full progress bar. A countdown clock widget, recently added to the hud, says seven days remain. Fourteen notifications still in the mail app, all from Jon. Saving them for later, meant later never came. What kind of sister am I? I read them all.
XXVIII. Chop-Chop, n.
Emilia,
This will probably be the last message you get from me for a while. I know you’re busy with work for your program, and while I’ve benefitted from writing to you, it might just be putting some undue burden on you.
The show wrapped, as well as my acting career is seems. It turns out, the last-minute changes to the play were intended to artificially inflate the cost from investors so that the director could pocket the excess cash. The theatre was already struggling financially, so we thought the Thanksgiving weekend shows would cover it, but it didn’t do well enough to keep it all afloat, especially with so much money funneled out.
There isn’t another community theatre in the area, not one within driving distance at least, so I can’t really act anywhere else. I’ve had a few days to process it, and it’s not the worst thing, really. The schedule that we were subjected to at the Ave was a strain on all of us, especially Malik and Tre’von. I honestly wasn’t sure if I would do another show after seeing the effect it had on them in the first place.
Seeing Tre’s face light up that first night, the excitement emanating from him made me realize I want to bring that to other kids like him. So, I’ve decided to try become a drama teacher. Central has an online program to get the teaching credential in drama, and I think with my career history, there might be a way to expedite the program. I don’t really know if that’s possible, but it would certainly be nice if it is.
I feel good about the career change, don’t get me wrong. The idea of a stable, predictable schedule that should— SHOULD— allow me more time to spend with my family sounds relieving.
We’re going to be alright. I hope you are too.
Jon
XXIX. Simi-Dimi, n.
Dear Jon,
I am so sorry I never responded to any of your messages. You shared so much with me, and I didn’t say anything. I got stuck in my head for a while, and then I went all in on my work as I always do. But, there are no excuses that will suffice justification for my inaction.
I can’t believe you kept writing me every week for so long even though I ghosted you. I kept meaning to read to your messages, I really did, I just— You are an amazing brother, and I appreciate you so very much. You are never a burden to me.
Time gets really funky in space. Like, they attempt to mitigate it with some artificial lighting that brightens and dims with the ship’s perception of time, but knowing that it’s artificial, that time is a measurement that we created to make sense of a chaotic universe, just starts a whole different spiral about the line of demarcation between what is socially constructed and what exists naturally. Humans create so many arbitrary categories that they take to be fact— like race and gender.
Just like on Earth, you can still feel the implicit biases while isolated in a box flying through the solar system. So much of the materials I had to read for this program were just like what you said Tre (so proud of him by the way!) had to read at school— by white people, for white people (men, in this case). They’re also old, because history, and they’re full of the usual sexist tropes, the subtle erasure of women from the development and audience of scientific research, and it’s apparent that they still have not tested their devices on women or non-white people in the design process. The sensors they use for the automatic taps still don’t sense my skin that well. The console is supposed to have a face ID system for easy log in, but the camera doesn’t detect my face well either. Sorry for that tangent. It’s been a long six months.
I can’t believe you got the lead role in Les Mis! That’s so incredible! I wish I could have been there! Mom would be so proud of you! I remember how she made us go to all of your school plays. She’d always have some sort of bouquet with her, and as soon as you came out to bow, she’d throw it at you, even when you were just in the ensemble. And now you’re going to be a teacher?! I’m so proud you!
I’m so glad Tre seems to be growing into a proper genius. He’s going to ask a lot of questions, because all geniuses do. I’m sure it can be frustrating to have to have what seems like the same conversations over and over (I felt that way with my college-aged students a LOT), but if the questions are being asked, then there’s still some space that he needs to fill. You have been so patient and understanding, and that’s all you need to be right now. As long as you and Malik are there for him, and he knows you’re there and will still be there in the future, I think everything will work out.
Again, I am so sorry for not responding, especially since your last message was almost three months ago. You must have worried that I died or something. I’m not dead. And I appreciate you putting so much time into writing to me, it made the end of this flight so much better. I wish I had read and responded to them throughout the trip. It probably would have helped me keep it together.
I like you, I love you, and I miss you.
Em
XXX. Lifemanship, n.
Hey Em!
It’s so good to know you’re not dead!
You don’t need to apologize. Really. I know your program is really intense— that was one of the few things that registered when your dean told me about what to expect after you launched. I knew that I needed something to tether me to you, and I thought you might need that connection too, even if you weren’t able to respond at all. Again, I have no idea how any of this space communication stuff works.
I was able to get into Central’s teaching program for winter quarter, and while they didn’t let my experience exempt me from any classes or credits (fair), my experience allows me to work through the courses a bit quicker. They’re all online classes, some proctored tests, some essays. The schedule is flexible, so I’m able to work on assignments when I have time, which tends to be during the day when Malik is at work and Tre is at school. This schedule is way more manageable than the theatre.
You are so right about what Tre needs from us. Since I’ve been home more, he hasn’t been as distant. He still asks questions a lot, because genius, but he definitely seems to become calmer the more we talk about surrogacy and his biomom. It’s still difficult, obviously, but it’s hard work that needs to be done, not dismissed.
Talking through difficult conversations with Tre inspired Malik to have those kinds of conversations at work too. He still has his job, which is good, and they’ve started a task force to look into analyzing the biases in the hiring and promotion systems within the company. It’ll take months for anything to happen on that front, if we’re lucky.
I’m glad you were able to get through your work and survive it. According to my Earth calendar, you’re supposed to be landing soon. You’re going to do tremendous work on Mars. You are an inspiration, truly. I am so proud of how much you’ve accomplished.
I like you, I love you, and I miss you.
Jon
M. Espinosa 