Inevitably, the universe will end; electrons will no longer spin around nuclei, and everything will stop. But before that, the Milk Way will be consumed by the blackhole at its core, leaving only void in its wake. But before that, the sun will swallow Earth as it grows into a red giant and explodes. But before that, living on Earth will no longer be sustainable; temperatures and sea levels will rise beyond the point of any coping mechanisms. But before that, you will die; a small tragedy on the scale of things, but a tragedy nonetheless.
Tag: Writing
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.
trees in maryland
mid april after a cold snap their trunks twisted agony branches desperately reach a merciless blue sky amber leaves on cold earth
you cannot escape what you did
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from October, 2020.
I. Father-Lasher, n.
Grayson locks his car; its beep travels over the empty parking lot. He walks toward the school, shrouded in thick fog. His lanyard wraps around his fist as he puts his keys in the pocket of his raincoat. His steps don’t echo, and he thinks about that when he looks up at the flag, already risen, hanging limp against the pole in the windless, predawn sky.
II. Garboil, n.
“Good morning, guys! Just give me a sec to click the record button, since that is something adults do. “Al- right. To- day, we’re going to need our handy, dandy notebooks for our entry task— I’ll share my screen, so you can read it there. “It’s so weird talking alone in a classroom, you guys. Like, I know I’m talking to all of you, but I’m just so conscious of the fact I’m the only one in here, ya know? “Sorry, anyway, I’ll give you a minute to write your response to the entry task.” He jerks his head over his left shoulder, holds it there for a few seconds, turns back to his computer, blinks slowly several times. “Did you guys hear that?”
III. Deleatur, v.
It sounded like a gasp, a desperate attempt at breath— right behind him. The chat fills with students saying variations of “no” and “what.” He looks again. Must be the heating system; he writes a note to put in a work order at lunch.
IV. Hore, n.
The district prioritizes HVAC issues, so a maintenance worker arrives that afternoon. He shows up as Grayson packs his laptop. A lanyard, polo, and mask with the district logo, denim pants and work boots. “Grayson Chapman?!” he exclaims as he puts his toolbox on a nearby desk. He gestures at himself. “Bryan Lloyd. Ms. Olson’s English class in 8th grade? We worked on that poster project for the Giver together?” Grayson puts his mask on. “Bryan! Oh man! How have you been?!” “Oh, ya know, getting by. Tons of HVAC work lately between the virus and the wildfires.” “Ugh. No doubt.” Grayson shakes his head. “Oh! Ms. Olson still teaches here! Still has her old room too!” “No way! How old is she?!” “No idea, but she looks EXACTLY THE SAME!” They reminisce and joke as Bryan inspects the HVAC system of Grayson’s classroom. “Yeah, dude, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s filthy in there, for sure, but I don’t see anything functionally wrong with it.”
V. Schlep, v.
“Nothing? Really?” “Nothin. The building’s 20 years old, so there’s just a ton of dust in there. What the issue you had?” Bryan asks, flipping through forms on his clipboard. Grayson stammers, “Uhh it was like a gasp, like it sprang a leak or something.” Bryan puts the clipboard down, pokes a pipe with the end of his pen. “Yeah. I don’t see anything that would cause that sort of thing.” “Huh,” Grayson nods. Bryan packs up his tools, waves goodbye, says he has another job across town. After zipping up his backpack, Grayson squats by the vent on his way out of the classroom. A dull wave of static. Even. Regular. There’s an ache in his back as he climbs down the stairs, his backpack heavy.
VI. Dictitate, v.
A message from Nevaeh, a student who missed the live lesson that morning: “hey mr. c sorry I missed class today. I had to help my sister get set up in her class and her computer wouldn’t load teams right. I went to watch the video for your class and there’s something weird with it. It won’t play right.” Grayson follows the link on his class’s page, the video loads. He hears himself talk about notebooks and the entry task, then it skips. “… so conscious of the fact I’m the only one in here— I’m the only one in here— the only one in here— the only one in here— the only one in here— the only one in here—"
VII. Junk, n.
A dream: high noon salt air cloudless sky a boat 360 degrees of ocean the only one onboard clouds spiral sky darkens wind rain a sudden familiar gasp He wakes up. His shirt soaked in sweat. His lungs empty, his ribs heave as he searches for air.
VIII. Fun, n. and adj.
Next lesson ends with a game of Kahoot! to review vocabulary related to colonial America before a test. An upbeat jingle plays as he reads each question, announces each success. The chat scrolls quickly— ggs and emojis. He barely registers the blurb announcing a new student joining the Teams meeting.
IX. Perlage, n.
It’s not there when he scrolls the chat back up. The blurb is gone. The name isn’t there. Was it really there? So familiar. Why her name?
X. Water Thief, n.
That’s where the recording of the lesson, which eventually gets uploaded for his students, ends. For Grayson, however, the lights went out. The faces of his students froze as the internet died, the screen dimmed. The gasp again, followed by crying. Quiet sobs from someone behind him, under his desk, which he stopped teaching online lessons from after a week when his legs got antsy. He crouches to look, soft pops from his sore knees. Nothing there. The crying stopped. The lights come back on.
XI. Ethnobotany, n.
A memory: Eighth grade. Winter. Grayson wears an AC/DC shirt under his band uniform. A bouquet of poinsettias strategically hidden behind his backpack and trombone case in the corner of the band room. Going to ask her tonight. The concert ends, and the mob of teenage, tuxedoed Santas pours back into the band room. High fives and unclasping cases fills the air. Grayson puts his trombone away, clasps the case shut, takes a deep breath. He looks over his shoulder, spots her. Now or never. He picks up the poinsettias and walks across the crowded room.
XII. LOL, v.
Grayson steps back from his empty desk, hesitantly sits in his chair. He shakes his head, laughs. “Just hearing things,” he says to himself. “Probably just need more sleep.” He looks at the tree line outside his window. His shaky fingers type her name into a Google search. The top result, an obituary. The blinds shutter. A laugh. H er laug h.
XIII. Coddy-Moddy, n.
He jumps from his seat, grabs his jacket and backpack, runs out of the room fast and wobbly as a starved seagull. The door bounces off the wall, swings slow to a stop before closing. the keyboard clacks in the empty room opening a new tab to edit the description and viewing permissions of the recorded lesson the link copied pasted onto the class’s website a sigh floats over the screen and modem as they shut down
XIV. Nyctinasty, n.
A memory: Poinsettia leaves bounce frantically across the band room, red with embarrassment. They hesitate, stutter, then lean forward, their earth shifting under their feet. A silence. They wince, look up in time to see a crater open, laughter erupt like a geyser. They turn away, bump against giant pillars, fall into a dark room that crinkles under their weight.
XV. Participation Mystique, n.
The morning after, Grayson locks his car, stands in the stillness of the parking lot. “It’s nothing. Random coincidences. Possible the blinds just fell on their own— they’re old and janky. Just overly stressed between “teaching, grading, preparing for conferences. Your brain just filled the silence. Not sure why her voice though. Probably just a random memory.” Cloudless sky. A breeze flows by a nearby streetlight, cuts right to his bones.
XVI. Grand Coup, n.
After three books fall off the shelf during lunch— The Hate U Give, Looking for Alaska, Wintergirls— he spends the night searching “curses,” “ghosts real,” “how to get rid of ghosts.” Grayson devises a plan: He will politely— but firmly— ask the ghost to leave.
XVII. Pravilege, n.
First one in the building, Grayson disarms the security system, walks up the stairs to his classroom. His key sounds extra loud unlocking his room’s door. He places his backpack in his chair, keys on his desk, then clears his throat. “Good morning. I understand you may have some unfinished business to take care of, but I must insist that you leave my classroom to do it. There’s a lot of work that I need to do to help my students, and I just can’t get it done with you here. Please leave.” faint sound of velcro ripping two eyes open on the whiteboard his phone dings in his pocket siri’s voice says you think im really just gonna leave because of some random bullshit rule you read on the fuckin internet “Heather. Please.”
XVIII. Art Mobilier, n.
A memory: “So, how’d it go? What’d she say?” “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” “Oh no. That bad?” “… She laughed in my face.” “She what?” “She laughed. In my fuckin face.” “That bitch.” “I know. It’s fine.” “It’s NOT fine, man!” “No, it’s alright. She sucks anyway.” “Yeah, I bet she does. That slutbag.” “For real, though. She’s probably done it with like half the dudes on cross country team.” “You think people realize what a whore she is?” “Definitely not. I know I didn’t until l was out of her spell... We should help people see her for what she really is.” “Yeah! Like start a MySpace group or something?” “Yeah! And we could like take the pictures from her profile, edit them to show what a whore she is, and send those to everyone too!” “I’m on it.”
XIX. Blue Law, n.
after what you did you really think you can just ask me to leave and ill just comply like its that simple how fuckin dare you insult me like that why should you get to dictate the ground rules for my trauma you asshole my business does not need to fit into convenient boxes for you why can’t you see five goddamn feet away from yourself
XX. Slobberhannes, n.
grayson’s encounter with heather ends as quickly as it began He stands in his quiet classroom alone. That night, between matches in Overwatch, he mutes himself so that Stephen and Jim don’t hear him debate with himself as he orders an EMF meter on Amazon.
XXI. Woodhenge, n.
The EMF meter arrives on Saturday. Grayson reads the manual twice on Sunday. He enters his classroom Monday morning, hyperaware of the meter sitting in his backpack against his hip. The desks, once in neat rows spaced six feet apart, sit fishbowled, inner and outer circles. Cautious steps along the wall; eyes glued to the desks until he gets to the whiteboard, now eyeless. a pale translucent head rises from the floor in the middle of the fishbowl
XXII. Anxiogenic, adj.
floating above the desks now the figures arms raise their fingers extend like spiderweb on a breeze a mouth yawns open revealing a spiral that spreads wide the web entangles graysons arms as the vortex envelops him you a girl sits on her bed head cocked mouth agape laptop on a throw pillow in front of her the screen flashing with notifications in multiple applications she stares at a page for a group with her name in the title next to word whore she rhythmically clicks the refresh button and the number of members grows each time cannot a girl sits alone at the corner of a table in a crowded lunchroom neighboring tables overflowing with two students in each seat she looks up occasionally as someone approaches the table before quickly turning a different direction escape a girl stands in front of a fulllength mirror analyzing her body molecule by molecule pausing only to turn to her laptop refresh a discussion post in that group where she learns about another feature of hers someone finds inadequate what a girl does crunches on a bathroom floor while the shower runs counting and cursing between each rep the ceiling encased in steam you a girl sits at a crowded table with people sharing stories with exaggerated arm movements and scooping macaroni and cheese out of a large serving platter in the middle of the table she sits with her shoulders hunched hands between her knees holding the ends of her hoodie sleeves over her wrists her eyes steady distant various side dishes meticulously scattered mixed together across her plate did a girl falls asleep on the floor by her bed returning to where no pain lands
XXIII. Brightsmith, n.
Back in the classroom. Sweating. Panting. He stammers, sobs. “Heather, I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I was just a dumb kid— I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry— I— I’ve spent years trying to become a better person than I was back then. I’m so, so sorry. Please believe me— Please. God, I’m so sorry. I realized way too late how much of an asshole I was— I swear. I’m sorry. Oh my god, I— Heather, I’m sorry. Oh god—“ He curls into a ball at the foot of his desk.
XXIV. Noodge, n.
“I’m better now. I’m better now. I’m bet- ter now. I’m better now. I’m better now,” Grayson says into his hands, knees to his chest. the figures spiraling maw ripples wavers with a chuckle the webs constrict into short arms the pale intangible shape of hair restricts from ringlets pulled back into a ponytail into a short shaggy cut that puffs out above the ear the arms wrap around the torso as the chuckle becomes a laugh holy shit youre so fucking easy i cant believe it
XXV. Kannywood, n.
Grayson grabs the crucifix hanging around his neck, holds it to his chin, begins praying the Hail Mary. you really think god is going to help you now god didnt help you before and they wont help you now its bonkers that you would have even tried to pray away the greatest prank ever pulled and now you act like youre above it like you never even did it finding god doesnt erase everything you did
XXVI. Fankle, n.
Grayson looks up from his clasped hands mid-verse. the voice a familiar timbre His hands split, palms fall to the floor. the face a reflection in a decadesold mirror He lifts a hand, tentatively runs his fingertips over his cheeks and nose. what is there something on my face
XXVII. Smartful, adj.
Up on his weary feet. “I— I don’t understand.” for real is there something on my face you gotta tell if I got shit on my face “Are you— me?” ugh i hate it when there’s shit on my face so goddamn irritating “But I’m not— dead? Am I dead?” no one said youre dead bro so fuckin dramatic “But you were— her? She wasn’t—“ naw that bitch wouldnt spend her time haunting you “So then— was that… her life… just a trick? oh no all that happened i was there it was fuckin hilarious
XXVIII. Garbageology, n.
“How can you say that? There’s nothing funny about someone killing herself.” oh come on dont act so superior “I— how dare you? I would never—“ ugh shut the fuck up you haven’t changed at all your targets did Grayson furrows his brow, mouth agape. god i become so dense holy shit you wanted heather dead you hated her for what she did to you for what she made you feel sure you never said it out loud whatever dont bother giving me any of that shit i was there i know the thoughts you had i know the hate that flowed in your bone marrow sure you dont wish death on people who wrong you anymore but you havent evolved at all hate groups or billionaires whatever you still watch the news and mumble about the president youve sighed and groaned and wailed at the ceiling asking why he couldnt have died by now im trash youre trash just fuckin accept it
XXIX. Zeppelin, n.
“No way.” He slowly shakes his head. “I’m not that person anymore. “I’m not you. “I recognize the terrible things I did, I said— I own all that. “I have changed. “I donate to charity. I work extra hours to help students. I run clubs for kids who don’t fit in. “I’m better now.” a pause a smirk a chuckle the figure evaporates slightly with each laugh creating a pale cloud that grows darker every inch it crawls across the tiled ceiling the laugh grows deeper echoes off the trembling walls its nice you think that
XXX. Fairy Godmother, n.
the cloud gathers envelops the fluorescent light dangling from the ceiling above his head in its black fingers small pops like knuckles being cracked as the cloud wrings it a spiral grows from the middle outward exposing the gnarled casing for the fluorescent light at its center grayson feels a gust grow in the room rustling his clothes dismounting the student artwork on the walls fingers frigid as warmth is pulled out of him he watches his skin turn gray as dry concrete labored breath sweat eyes heavy ribs rattle with every heartbeat dark muffled sound a bright light sparks in the center of the ceiling. a beam intense as the sun. the saber swings up and down left and right, dissipating the cloud, killing the wind. Grayson pants, gray hand on his chest. a new figure stands on his desk, the beam of light reaching out several feet from her right palm. it retracts as she balls up her fist, stares at grayson over her shoulder. it’s her. heather.
XXXI. Question and Answer, n. and adj.
Grayson’s legs wash out with a wave of relief. He props himself up with one arm, feels his heartbeat with the other to make sure it’s real. He laughs— loud, gasping, wheezing laugher. “Oh my god, thank you! Thank you so much!” she turns, still on the desk. her arms straight at her side, fists tremble. “But why? Why did you come back here to save me?” she steps forward, flows off the desk like a waterfall onto the floor. “I just don’t understand. I was so terrible to you.” her eyes are gray fractals, her gaze intense, unblinking. “I’m so sorry, Heather. I would take it all back if I could.” she places her hand on his chest. its warmth spreads like spilled coffee. “I don’t deserve your help. I—“ she opens her hand. the beam of light goes through his hand, his chest, his back, into the floor. she leans in, her face close to his. “fuck you. your blood is mine.” she leans back, balls up her fist, watches the light leave his eyes. she sighs, a weight taken off. waving her left hand counterclockwise, the artwork remounts on the walls, the lights ungnarl, the blood soaking into the carpet evaporates, his wound closes. she leaves his corpse on the floor, his hand still on his chest, eyes wide with fear, surprise— a plausible facade for a simple conclusion that whoever finds him will believe.
haikus for distance learning
each section is based on the oxford english dictionary’s word of the day from september, 2020.
i. delibation, n.
dim empty classroom desks shoved together chairs stacked you’re alone in here
ii. situla, n.
yawn walk brew sit meeting in fifteen minutes you need to wake up
iii. smack talk, n.
a grid of faces nodding and mumbling about low expectations
iv. chin-stroking, n.
should you say something they all seem to agree maybe you don’t know
v. bird colonel, n.
your principal closes with encouraging words a hurricane’s eye
vi. croquembouche, n.
mailbox run before first class a stack of cans along the top it might not be so bad
vii. wallyball, n.
first live lesson camera chat emails lecture ricochet endlessly
viii. coze, v.
office chair swivels does not move away from the desk vines around your legs
ix. dep, n.
you try to build bridges with students made of pixels something’s lagging
x. ruby murray, n.
in your eye’s corner relics from previous students convoluted contexts
xi. walklet, n.
passing period mask up stretch your legs in the hall see only ghosts
xii. pronoid, n.
no laughs after your jokes all thirty-eight students muted you’re sure you’re funny though
xiii. sea-puss, n.
your eyes strain head aches dim your screens close the blinds blink slow fight against the current
xiv. gypit, adj.
you cover your desk with toys you name and talk to stave off loneliness
xv. yat, n.
use abbreviations codes other learning tools make something together
xvi. chritophany, n.
look into the ceiling a smile there says you’re doing great maybe just seeing things
xvii. dulciloquy, n.
afternoon classes with faces tired anxious sad help them feel welcome
xviii. cannet, n.
last class ends you sit first time in what feels like days lump of exhausted flesh
xix. transitarium, n.
fight sleep need to plan figure out how to help your kids sketch diverging scaffolds
xx. ambidexterity, n.
talk chat help assess teacher counselor tech support you wear so many hats
xxi. rooked, adj.
cover your walls with your students's artwork it’s their house too
xxii. headwark, n.
temples in a c-clamp eyes gripped in wool mittens too much screen time
xiii. pupil-monger, n.
wake up the next day ready to try it all again always getting better
xxiv. kibitz, v.
a tech issue try turning it off then back on a rote response
xxv. nutual, adj.
you blank on a word wave your arms to convey its meaning somehow they get it
xxvi. titanolatry, n.
think before you speak they’ll remember how they felt here don’t be that white guy
xxvii. adimplete, v.
log in see hundreds of messages in your inbox monday morning
xxviii. antennation, n.
sit for an hour grade respond delete archive reach them as best you can
xxix. arr, int.
spirit week hat day make do with what you have take pride in your work
xxx. ruderal, adj. and n.
this year isn’t what you thought it to be dig your roots deep
i sped down the highway
i sped down the highway standing in my kitchen my heart a crash test dummy’s head bouncing off the windshield phone in hand a ghost escaped the teakettle the ringtone layered sirens from emergency vehicles your name strobing lights from a police car phone dropped to the floor waves across the lake surface
A Scrapbook for Our Anniversary
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2020.
I. Chicane, v.
A sheet of notebook paper. Wavy as Saharan dunes. Pastel purple ink in your handwriting. Steady, certain curves. Circles for dots. A play-by-play description of your biology class. Casualness I convinced myself meant more than it probably did.
II. Angeliferous, adj.
You. That band uniform Merklin made you wear. Your smile. The way two of your front teeth didn’t quite line up. Your eyes. Your blonde hair a lighthouse in a sea of band uniforms shuffling around the band room with pre-concert jitters. Your sax strap tucked under your collar. You. Just. All of you.
III. Sitz im Leben, n.
A selfie you took of the two of us in our usual seat on the bus. Spring sun through the window. My eyes squinting. A small heart drawn with eye liner under my right eye to match the ones under yours. My cheeks pink as you lean into me, rest your green hair on my shoulder. Each of us with an earbud in connected to my phone playing “Los Ageless” by St. Vincent.
IV. Coorie, v.
A picture of me asleep on my bed that you took after the first time my dad yelled at me in front of you— the first time you saw how small I could get. He stormed out, slammed the door to the garage, and I just stood in the middle of the kitchen, frozen. You lead me to my room and told me to rest. I fell asleep, exhausted in the summer heat. Tears stain the sheet below my face. The picture is mostly empty, mostly shadow around my head, which you filled with a silver sharpie, writing: “ur the best & I love u.” The first time you used that word in direct relation to me.
V. Schola Saxonum, n.
Your family’s dining room. Every seat at the table filled. A roasted turkey splaying like soaked notebook pages. A container of mashed potatoes swirled and steaming. A bowl of green beans. A plate of beets that would remain untouched. A basket of dinner rolls. A vegetarian roast your mom bought after you asked if I could spend the holiday with your family. Half of my face obscured by the floof of your blue hair.
VI. Chicken-Pecked, adj.
A selfie I took of us in the back row of the movie theater when we saw Spider-Man: Far From Home. The light reflecting off your hair makes it look like you’re wearing half a Spider-Man mask— like if Peter Parker was also the Phantom of the Opera. You’re looking off frame, distracted by the kid a few rows ahead of us complaining to their adult that they wanted to see Toy Story 4. By the second trailer, the pair had left the theater and you loudly sighed with relief.
VII. Ambitus, n.
A screenshot I took of the Form our school made for ASB election ballots after they committed to being paperless. Admin called you down to get your picture taken to be displayed by your name on the ballot for 10th grade representative. You flung your green swoop over your right ear and held a peace sign under your left cheek. Your opponent, Dylan Forster, stood stoic in theirs, arms crossed over their soccer jersey. Their campaign posters used the word “no-nonsense” a lot, followed closely by “logical.” We were sad when you lost, but I was so proud of you for running and insisting on being yourself.
VIII. Sinistral, adj. and n.
A selfie you took of us sitting on the steps outside the main office. Yellow leaves tucked behind your ears, blending in with your hair. The office lights off, staff long gone. Waiting for your mom to pick us up, because I forgot my phone in Rosales’s classroom, making us miss the bus. I’m slumped over the steps, staring the at awning’s ceiling, my face hidden by my elbow, probably mid-apology. “It’s alright,” you’d said. “Don’t worry about it.”
IX. Top Bin, n. and adv.
A soccer field. People cheering in the background. I’m wearing my home jersey, black with green lettering, sweating and gasping for breath. You’re cheering, your face half-painted in silver. Behind us, several of my teammates rush toward me. In the moments after this picture was taken, I was tackled then hoisted up on shoulders for scoring the winning goal.
X. Calligram, n.
I had an art assignment in Supang’s class that seemed like a cool idea for a Valentine’s Day present. To do it, I needed to make a picture using words, shaping and coloring them to make the picture come alive. I had the picture in my head that I wanted to do, but trying to think of the words that would fit everything I felt about you was difficult. You know that I’m not great with words— the letters get all jumbled like headphone wires in a pocket. So, I tried starting with just the picture first and then I could fill in the words as they came to me. That revelation didn’t happen though, because I got so caught up in the details of the cherry blossom branches and the wispy clouds in the sky that the words never came to me. So I just sketched and painted them for you.
XI. Yever, adj.
A booth at Chipotle. Homecoming night. You. A burrito in your left hand, your right covering your mouth as you tell me to put my phone away. To not take your picture. But I don’t think you understood how much I loved you in that exact moment. Sitting under the florescent lights of a fast food restaurant. In your fanciest clothes. Devouring a burrito. Sofritas dribbling into your basket. I don’t think you understood how many futures I saw in the refracted timelines in your eyes.
XII. Bearless, adj.
A summer afternoon. Vapor waves from the sidewalk in the distance where your neighborhood turns away from the woods behind the elementary school. You’re holding a small watering can, a brighter shade of red than your hair, shaped like an elephant, pouring a steady stream of water into a planter of pale dirt. You had bought tomato seeds at the Home Depot by the park on our walk after the last day of the school, and you watered them every day that summer, always talking about how bomb your BLTs were going to be. They never reached above the soil.
XIII. Palynology, n.
Late August. Muted clothes shuffle between tables with small paper plates with small sandwiches on them. Your eyes are tired from the long night you spent dying your hair black with a cheap, temporary dye, rather than the dyes you usually use. You said a memorial is too solemn a place— you didn’t want to draw focus. Your hesitant hand is on your mom’s shoulder, who is cradling an urn against her stomach, who asked me to take “one last picture of my daughter, my sister, and me.” A bee sting, you told me later, while watering pumpkin sprouts in her backyard.
XIV. Acid Drop, n.
A selfie. My couch’s old, floral print fabric. Both of us with Sour Patch Kids sticking out of our mouths. We were watching something, but I can’t remember what. I remember you heckling the movie the whole time, until you double-dog-dared me to dump the sour sugar from the bottom of the bag into my mouth all at once. I groaned as my cheeks tightened, and I coughed. You coughed too, but from laughing.
XV. Dulcarnon, n.
A copy of the acrostic you wrote to ask me to homecoming. You told me it took you weeks to figure out how to ask, what to write. You scribbled couplets in the margins of your science notebook, you showed me afterward, saying, “It’s so hard to rhyme every line. Why can’t people just write their thoughts.” When I showed you the Wikipedia page for free verse poetry, you slapped my phone onto the comforter of your bed. “Ugh! Shut up!” you groaned, falling back into your pillows.
XVI. Angustation, n.
A picture of you sneaking up on a gaggle of geese at the lake in the park near your neighborhood. Your hair blending in with the grassy field. The brisk spring wind a welcome escape. You were so busy with tests and clubs and sports, I barely got to see you. I was stuck in my house, sequestered to my room to avoid crossing paths with my dad, having to endure another lecture about some other failure I had committed. You, squatting near the geese, your arms tucked like wings, staring at me with your eyes wide as theirs, were a breath I didn’t realize my lungs needed.
XVII. Observanda, n.
A summer afternoon. In the backseat of your mom’s Forester swerving left and right to avoid potholes in the road. Our hands splayed open, our fingertips dyed purple from hours of huckleberry picking. You wanted proof that you were the better picker, because the fact that your old Costco soup container was more full than mine wasn’t enough.
XVIII. Soirée Musicale, n.
A cheesy homecoming picture that I insisted we get. You rolled your eyes at first, so cliche, but you agreed, because you knew I wanted it. What I appreciate is how invested you got, not just standing there like a hostage. Really, I just wanted to remember the time we got so fancy and dressed up and happy, because I never imagined that I would be able to do all of those things at the same time.
XIX. Delicatesse, n.
The before picture you took of my brown hair before you helped me dye it for the first time. You said we should match for homecoming, and I agreed, because I knew you wanted it. Stress palpable in my eyes— uncertainty. I knew you knew what you were doing; I never really doubted you or your ability, but I couldn’t stop the worst-case scenarios playing in my head. My left eyebrow is bent from me trying to lower the volume.
XX. Meep, v.
The after picture you took of my blonde hair when you were done. Your excitement escaped from your hands over your mouth. Relief palpable in my face— jaw unclenched. I knew I could trust you to make sure it all went well. You made me feel safe enough to do something I never would have otherwise. My eyes contain the horizon, the sun, the ever-expanding possibilities— or its just the edge of the counter and the light above the mirror. Either way.
XXI. Rozzle, v.
A selfie I took of us as we walked around the mall before seeing Pet Sematary. My hand in yours. Fire. My fingers twitched every so often, I’m sure you noticed, with excitement. Fake cowering to justify getting closer to you. Setting the chair arm up to get it out of the way. Feel your warmth in my arms, against my chest. Shushing each other when the movie gets quiet. Quickly readjusting when the usher comes in with their flashlight to check the exit doors and scan the crowd.
XXII. Querimonious, adj.
The art show our school put on at the end of the year to exhibit the best student work. Somehow, a collage I made from a torn up printout of one of my Instagram posts and its comments was chosen for the show. I guess those troll comments were worth something after all? The collage is hanging on the wall, and you and I are standing next to it. I look nervous, you look proud, my dad is taking the picture. After you went to congratulate one of your band friends, he asked me what the collage was about, why I hadn’t told him people were saying these things to me before, why I would ambush him with it like this in such a public place. He shook his head before walking away to talk to the soccer coach on the other side of the commons.
XXIII. Phlogiston, n.
A drawing I made for you. Not something required for Supang’s class. A lot of reds and oranges, yellows— warm colors. An abstraction of a portrait. No firm lines. More like waves of color lapping at the shore. Frantic energy along the edges, so shaky they blur and fade. It’s you. Well, I was trying to capture what makes you, you, at least.
XXIV. Totem, n.
A picture of a capybara that I got from Google. There’s an adult standing by a watering hole with a few younger ones. You always said you loved how calm and collected they look, how friendly they are to other animals. You frequently look up compilation videos of them when you feel stressed. I know you hate the term “spirit animal,” because we’re white and it’s racist to claim to have one when you’re not part of an indigenous group with those beliefs. I don’t mean to go in that direction at all. I just thought a cute capybara would be nice for you when you get anxious. You’re as calm and friendly as a capybara, even when you don’t feel like you are.
XXV. Past Master, n.
A crowded ballroom. Rows of round tables, each with four large bowls in the center. One bowl full of crab, the others filling with their empty exoskeletons. Every chair filled. You are sitting in front of a plate with a crab claw lying on it, a small clump of lettuce and tomato on the side, a seafood cracker and pick in your hands. I am sitting to your left, my plate full of dinner rolls, a similar attempt at salad pushed to the side. My dad stands behind us, smiling, posing with a hand on each of our shoulders for this picture to commemorate the end of his term as Worshipful Master in his Mason lodge. A large chain collar hanging over his shoulders, a thick blue fabric the same shade as your hair, which he would later pass to the person who would succeed him.
XXVI. Ex Abundante Cautela, adv.
A screenshot of the first texts we exchanged where I asked you if you wanted to hang out. A lot of non-committal language to give the impression that my heart wasn’t an earthquake. Phrases like: “or whatever” and “idk” and “sure.” I almost don’t recognize the person I was trying to be there. I remember distinctly the sigh of relief when you agreed though. I remember sitting on my bed, breath escaping as my head fell into my pillow, looking at the ceiling and its safe, congratulatory waves.
XXVII. Bamstick, n.
A selfie from the chaotic din of the Paramount, faint light from the stage rolls over the crowd, amplifying your blue hair as Sleater-Kinney goes into “Hurry On Home.” During the outro, someone behind us tried to start a mosh pit, leaning and thrashing around into whoever happened to be there, including you. You stood up straight, rubbing your shoulder, assuring me you were alright. The song ended right after that, and the thrashing whimpered into a stop, multiple people shaking their heads.
XXVIII. Coopetition, n.
State Solo and Ensemble Contest stage. Silhouetted heads eating into the edge of the stage. The lights making your green hair stand out even more than normal, which may have been why Dylan had told you to dye it “normal” beforehand. They’re on the piano beside you gently walking through the chords and arpeggios for “Hallelujah,” while you swing through the melody on your bari sax. Your eyes are closed. Not wanting to see the crowd or falling into the song, I can’t tell.
XXIX. Artotyrite, n.
The coffee table in your living room covered with a cheeseboard and a platter of your mom’s homemade sourdough. Barely in frame is your gas fireplace, slightly obfuscated by red and green stockings, a basket of children’s books. You have a slice of sourdough in your hand, covered with a slice of brie. Your mom is next to you, talking about how the sourdough recipe was passed down from her father. You’re nodding, knowing how this story goes, because you’ve heard it so many times before.
XXX. Nudum Pactum, n.
The sky. Sparse clouds float over the park. I took this with my phone while laying on the grass next to you on the first day of spring break. I had just gotten the question that was stuck in my throat out. A question that I lacked vocabulary for— labels, exclusivity— about wanting to be yours. You said yes. There was a breeze then, a new breath. I took a picture of the sky then, the sky where we started.
XXXI. Ambuscado, n.
I hid this scrapbook in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, the only place I could think of that you would never look. I spent several late nights going back through my phone history to find the best pictures, print, trim, and arrange them. Had to ask your mom for some that I knew she took, carefully placing them into my backpack between my binder and my calculus textbook, when you weren’t around. I wanted to surprise you. I’ve never put more effort into something than I did into this. For you. Because you deserve it.
who cooks for you? who cooks for you-all?
old north wind rattles leaves from their stems grey feathers line my jaw and ears who cooks for you? who cooks for you-all? full moon rises my talons itch i call out to the shadows only hear echos who cooks for you? who cooks for you-all? a splash near the riverbed a bob of an alder branch a twitch in the undergrowth a corpse by the highway who cooks for you? who cooks for you-all?
About the Future
Sometimes, when you think of the future, you see all the branches— all the if-thens— trunk to branch to stem. Sometimes, when you think of the future, all the branches look barren— no fruit or flower or leaf. Somewhere, in the temporal pathways, you breech the outer bark, prune branches. Somewhere, in the temporal pathways— if you squint— on the edge of the smallest lateral, a bud blooms.
Doing the Work
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2020.
I. Delectus, n.
With Will going to Basic Training this fall, his old Camry would just sit in the garage for who knows how long, especially if he gets stationed somewhere far away. So, naturally, I asked him if I could have the car. “You can’t even drive yet.” He shakes his head, looks back at his phone. “But I’ll be able to soon. You know my birthday is at the beginning of September. I can take the test then.” He scratches his head. “Why can’t you just use Mom’s car? That’s what you practice on.” “I won’t be able to drive that car to school, Will. I’d need it to get a job, too. Come on.” I feel my back tighten. He sighs, rolls his eye. “Fine, Nate. But—“ I freeze mid-fist pump. “You have to earn it.” “What?” “Being goal-oriented, showing determination, grit are values I wish I had learned when I was your age. What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t try to help you grow, y’know?” “You’re serious? I need to pay for it? How much?” He types and scrolls on his phone. “Kelley Blue Book says the car is worth $2000.” He raises his eyebrows, sees my eyes widen. “I’ll give you the family discount of $1000. You have two months of summer left. It’s possible.” I exhale through my nose. “Fine. If you say so.” “I do. Deal?” He sticks his hand out to shake on it. I grab his hand. “Deal.”
II. Coxcombery, n.
Of course he would get on some sort of high-horse nonsense in this whole thing. Always has to have the moral high ground. I lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, brainstorm. What can I do to get some cash? Yard work is obvious. People probably don’t want a stranger cleaning their house. I can walk dogs? Keep it vague. I get a piece of paper out of Mom’s printer, a sharpie and a roll of tape from a drawer in the kitchen, make an ad for help with “odd jobs” with my name and number on it, tape it to the side of the neighborhood mailbox.
III. Jibbons, n.
Mrs. Plover is a retired nurse who lives in the house at the end of the street. She’s the first person to call me, says her vegetable garden needs tending. “Be careful with those,” she calls from her lawn chair, maskless, as I turn some dirt. “I started those as seeds in an Aerogarden my daughter got me for Christmas.” “The stalky things?” I ask. “Yes. They’re spring onions,” she answers, looks at the clouds in the sky. “I transplanted them a few months ago, just after quarantine started. Hurt my knee somethin’ fierce that day. Haven’t been able to work that low to the ground since.” “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Would you like anything else done when I’m finished with your garden?” I spread compost between rows of stalks, holding my breath best I can. “Not today, Nathaniel. Maybe something will come up soon.” “Just let me know. I can help with whatever you need.” Whatever can get me paid. Mrs. Plover nods, smiles, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath of the summer air. “That’s nice of you,” she says in a tired voice as she relaxes in her chair and falls asleep.
IV. Ambigue, n.
Just gonna be honest: I think Mrs. Plover gives me work so she has someone to talk to. The day after I work in her garden, she asks me to take out the weeds in her front yard. She sits in a camping chair by her front door as I work, talking about her favorite books. she gets quiet as the Danielson’s park their Explorer in their driveway. They wave as they walk inside. She waves back, watches them enter their house down the street on the other side of the mailboxes. “Never felt very sure about those Danielsons,” she says. “I’ve dealt with people like them before.” I put a handful of dandelions in the bag, wipe my forehead with the hem of my shirt. “What do you mean?” I ask. “At the hospital,” she says. “People like them would always exaggerate their pain for prescription drugs.” Don’t know how to respond to that. “That certainly sounds frustrating,” I say, bending down to pull up more weeds.
V. Brigue, n.
My relationship with Jessica has been rough during quarantine. She wants to FaceTime every day, which I’ve been happy to do, but now we can’t do that as often since I started doing work around the neighborhood. Last night was bad. I was exhausted after weeding Mrs. Plover’s yard, and I started falling asleep on the call while Jessica told me about her day. She was upset, said it’s apparent she’s not important to me. I told her I need the money, but that wasn’t a good reason to her.
VI. Alembic, n.
The summer sun, alone in a cloudless sky, relentless as I mow yards of several houses. On my break, I look at my phone to check for more jobs, check how much I’ve made, calculate how much I need to make per day to stay on track. I drink some water, wipe sweat from my brow, wring sweat from my mask, then push my lawnmower to the next house.
VII. Ambarvalia, n.
Sacrifice. How does she not get it? I know it’s hard now, but the benefits of having access to a car infinitely outweigh the current burden.
VIII. Thingism, n.
After a week of working around the neighborhood, Mrs. Plover asks me to mow her yard. She offers me a glass of water when I’m done, cold and damp with condensation. She takes a sip of her glass, shakes her head. “So materialistic,” she sneers. “Vain.” I follow her gaze to the Danielson’s driveway, see Mrs. Danielson behind their Explorer load her arms with canvas bags full of groceries out of the trunk to avoid a second trip. I take a long drink of water. “Mrs. Danielson?” I ask. “The whole family,” she says. “Spending their money on such frivolous extravagance.” I can see the Kroger-brand chip bag peaking out of one of her bags. “Are you sure?” I pause. “Seems like normal groceries to me.” “It’s not just the groceries, Nathaniel. It’s everything. They always flaunt their wealth.” I look at their house and yard— identical to every other one on the street. “Huh,” I shrug, finish my water, thank her, get my money, leave.
IX. Ayuh, adv.
I was a bit surprised when Mr. Danielson called me to mow their backyard. I don’t know why. I guess I assumed that they wouldn’t need the help based on how much money they have. That’s what Mrs. Plover said. Even if it’s just a pity thing, it’s still money. I accept the job.
X. Nomina Sacra, n.
When you go to a rich person’s backyard, you expect to see fancy stuff— a pool or a tennis court or whatever. But, the Danielson’s yard looks just like ours. A clothesline stretched to the back fence, lawn chairs on their small patio by an upturned cornhole board. Above it, next to the sliding glass door a placard that says “OKE” with a line over it. Mr. Danielson catches me staring as he winds up the garden hose. “You alright?” He asks, setting the hose behind their barbecue. He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Uh, yes, sir,” I stammer. “Sorry.” I shake my head. “Just admiring your yard. It’s nice.” “Thank you, Nathan.” He tilts his head at the placard. “You have no idea what that says, right?” I blink, shake my head. “No sir. I was curious.” He chuckles. “No one ever does. It’s an abbreviation for ‘Mother of God’ in Greek. Reminds us to be thankful.” “Oh cool.” I nod, look at it again, then around the yard. “I didn’t realize how similar all of our yards are.” “Really?” He laughs. “They don’t make special houses for Black people.”
XI. Dreich, adj.
When I was young, my mom scolded me when I asked about race at all. “That’s rude,” she’d say, then apologize to whoever I asked about, whoever was around. “You judge a person by the content of their character, not the color of their skin,” she’d say; something that was echoed by every teacher I had in elementary school in the month of January.
XII. Bricole, n.
I stammer through an apology as an automatic response. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply— I was just— I’m sorry, sir.” Mr. Danielson laughs so hard, he bend over, hands on knees. After a deep breath, he says, “Don’t sweat it , Nathan. You’re not the first white boy to assume racist stereotypes about us.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “I just like messing with you guys.” “No, sir, please.” I shake my head, wave my hands like windshield wipers. “It wasn’t about race at all, I swear.” “Oh, it wasn’t?” He asks skeptically. “Not at all, sir. I just thought—“ It turns out, this is even more awkward to say out loud. “I thought your family was wealthy, sir.” Shames washes over me. First, talking about race. Then, talking about money. My parents would disown me. Mr. Danielson furrows his brow, leans back. “What would have made you think that?”
XIII. Pacation, n.
I did my best to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “I’m not sure, sir,” I told him, seeing Mrs. Plover’s scowl in my head. “Well, it’s alright, I guess,” Mr. Danielson said, confused. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, his hand on my shoulder. “You’re young and have plenty still to learn. Just be conscious. You’re a good person; I can tell.” I swallowed guilt as he pointed around the yard to warn me about molehills, soft patches that might need an extra push as if nothing had happened.
XIV. Bastille, n.
I finish mowing the yard, hurry home. Once in my room, I put Mr. Danielson’s ten dollars in an old Folgers tin, update the running total on a sticky note under the lid— only a third of the way there. I take my phone out of my pocket, see multiple messages from Jessica, lay it face down on across my bed. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. How had I never realized the Danielsons were the only Black family in our neighborhood? Why did Mrs. Plover say those things about them? How much do I not know?
XV. Travertine, n.
I do only thing I can think to do: Talk to my mom to figure things out. “Nathan, it’s inappropriate to talk about such matters,” she responds immediately. As I expected. So, I try my brother. He shrugs. “I don’t know, Nate. Mrs. Plover was a nurse for forever. I think she’d know what she’s talking about.” Something still feels wrong. I talk to Jessica. “I don’t see why you have to make it all about race.” She shakes her head. “It could be anything, like their jobs or whatever. Or maybe they’re from Tacoma.”
XVI. Staycation, n.
My turn to do the dishes after dinner. My phone face-up by mom’s coffeemaker next to the sink. A notification for a voicemail from Mrs. Plover stares at me— an angry cat’s eye, blood red. I wet the sponge, squirt soap onto the baking sheet. I scrub the sheet in small circles slowly growing bigger. When she called, I dropped my phone on my comforter, let the ringtone echo until it ended on its own. I’ll say I was busy. I’ll say I needed a break. I’ll say my mom needed my help. I’ll say—
XVII. Simplicitatrian, n.
I turn off the faucet, drain the sponge in my hand. I place it in the holder, and a gleam travels across the room from my dad’s dog tags hanging on the key rack by the front door. I stand frozen at the sink. He would be so ashamed. He was direct, cut through pleasantries when he needed to address something or someone. I need to be more like that.
XVIII. Bombogenesis, n.
Mrs. Plover asks me to sweep out her garage, clear her driveway, admitting to looking for chores to “help such an industrious boy like yourself.” Before going to her house, I rehearse a bunch of “call ins” that I found online to be more polite, just in case. I collect dead leaves and broken twigs in a dustpan behind her Volvo when she finally makes a comment about the Danielsons. “Those Danielsons always play their music so loud.” She shakes her head, places a palm over one of her ears. I empty the dustpan into her garbage bin, look down the road. The Danielson kids were drawing with chalk in their driveway. A rumbling bass vibrated the frame of a car further down the road. Familiar— a Camry. Will’s Camry. “That’s not the Danielsons, ma’am. It’s my brother Will’s car; he must be vacuuming it out and turned it up.” “Hmm.” She squinted to see the source of noise. “You might be right, but that family does have a habit of being way too loud. So inconsiderate.” I gulp. “Mrs. Plover, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve never noticed the Danielsons making any sort of noise.” “You haven’t??” She asks, aghast. “No, ma’am. It usually my brother Will, I notice, playing his music so loud. Just because it’s hip hop doesn’t mean it’s the Black family playing it.” She leans back in her chair, clasps her hands in her lap. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she says slowly. “Thank you for that insight, Nathaniel.”
XIX. Abrodietical, n. and adj.
For the next week, Mrs. Plover doesn’t call. For the next week, fewer people called in general. Maybe people are vacationing or on road trips. Hopefully.
XX. Don’t-carishness, n.
Most people stopped calling. I see them around the neighborhood when they said they’d be out of town. So what? It’s nothing. I can still do it. There’s definitely something I can do.
XXI. Ryotei, n.
Jessica tells me about the restaurant she and her parents went to. Some place with a French name I don’t know the letters for, finally accepting reservations after reopening from the coronavirus closure. My eyes dart between her FaceTime window and my half-empty Folger’s tin. She talks about eating on their patio under a forest green umbrella, the sun setting over the sound as her parents clink crystal glasses. I chew the inside of my lip.
XXII. Taffetine, n.
The only people who call anymore are the Danielsons. Mrs. Danielson asks for help putting laundry on the line in their backyard. “The factory is hell on my shoulders some times,” she says, placing a bin on the grass. “With all the orders Amazon gets lately, it’s been real bad.” She rubs her left shoulder with her right hand, her elbow like a bird’s beak. “Of course, ma’am,” I say, picking up a shirt. “Do you want them spaced a certain way? Or, like, hung some way?” She flicks her wrist at me. “Psh! As long as they’re all up, doesn’t matter.” She winces, holds her shoulder. “After a few hours, you can come back and pick ‘em up. I’ll have the girls fold ‘em; they need to earn their keep.” She smirks. “No problem.” Stiff clothespins over the taught line, high over the yard. I have to stand on the tips of my toes to hang a pair of jeans. I pick up a scarf, a deep blue, no end, a complete circle, so soft in my hands. Felt like holding a target and a halo and the ocean and a band that holds us all together all at once.
XXIII. Coulrophobia, n.
Since I started working for the Danielsons, it’s felt like a floodlight flipped on— I can see so much more than before. Comments from my mom, from my brother, from Jessica and her parents, from my friends on Instagram echo Mrs. Plover. I always hesitate, aware that my lack of work is directly related to how I responded to her, aware that people who do respond are insulted, ridiculed, drowned in torrents of trite clown emojis and memes. So, my thumbs hover over an open keyboard as I look out my window, down the street, to see Erica, the youngest Danielson, riding her trike around the mailboxes across the street from her house, up and down the sloped curb in constant circles.
XXIV. Fakement, n.
Maybe I need to just act like a garbage white person to get the work. Michael Jordan once said, “Republicans buy sneakers too,” so it shouldn’t be a stretch to say racists need mowed lawns too. Can I really throw the Danielsons under the bus for my own gain? Maybe I fake it to get the work, get the cash, then call them out after they say something awful.
XXV. Sprigger, n.
“... Thank you for the opportunity. Have a good day. Also, Black lives matter.” “... It’s no problem; I enjoy the work. Oh and, Black people have every right to protest without retaliation from the government. America was founded through protest.” “... Of course. I’m happy to help. But, you must realize what you said earlier about, uh, ‘they bring gangs’ is a racist stereotype, right?” “... No, thank you. But, your privilege as a white person gives you opportunities that people of color do not have. It’s not as simple as ‘pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.’”
XXVI. Myriad, n. and adj.
“What the hell are you doing?” My mom’s question punctuated by her dropping a bag from Taco Bell on the kitchen table. “I’ve been getting weird stares while driving through the neighborhood lately, and they keep whispering— as if I can’t tell what they’re doing when they put their hands over their mouths. “Then, then, as I get out my car tonight, Mrs. Meredith has to call me over to tell me that my son— my well-mannered, kind son— has been terrorizing the neighborhood, calling everyone racist. “What the hell were you thinking? I raised you better than that. You know not to talk to people about that stuff. I’ve told you so, so many times.” She pauses, looks over at the key rack. “... your father... “I am so disappointed in you.”
XXVII. Bricktop, n.
I stammer, “I was just trying to do the right thing.” I am small, a child hiding in their bedroom closet. “I was doing what Dad would have wanted—“ “You don’t know what he would have wanted!” She closes here eyes, deep breath in. She wipes her black curls from her face as she exhales. “I know he was bullied for his hair color most of his childhood. I know he spoke his mind, stood up when he saw others getting hurt. I know he joined the army to defend our freedom. I know he died fighting for our country and our rights. “Don’t tell me I don’t know what my father would have done.”
XXVIII. Metempsychosis, n.
She places her hands on her hips, shakes her head. “You’re just like your dad.” She nods slowly, walks over to me, rubs my cheek with her thumb. “You remind me of him so much.” She inhaled shakily, walks back toward the front door. “Now eat your quesadilla.”
XXIX. Social Climber, n.
“What are you even doing?” Jessica’s face was serious, eyes intense. “Madison said you were making everyone in your neighborhood uncomfortable.” She said it with hesitance, like she was afraid to talk to me at all. “I only made racists uncomfortable by pointing out their own biases against Black people. They should be uncomfortable.” “You can’t just go around making people uncomfortable! You’re just going to drive people away from you!” She shakes her head, face in the palm of her hand. “That whole Black Lives Matter thing was trending months ago. It’s over, Nate; you’re too late.” “Who am I driving away? People who don’t want to see how they’re mistreating others? People who want to allow people of color to stay oppressed? Good riddance.” I take a breath to stop myself from yelling. “Human rights are not a trend. They’re not something that goes away after Kanye says something outrageous. People need help, and I want to help them. Don’t you?” She sighs. “There isn’t anything I can do, Nate. I posted the black square, which did bring a lot of awareness to the cause. I did my part.” I stare. “Have you done anything to confront your own privilege as a white woman since then? Especially as a wealthy person?” She back away from the screen slightly. “What are you even talking about?” “You have a huge platform, vast amounts of money— don’t deny it. Your family just went to an expensive restaurant a few weeks ago. You have thousands of followers on Instagram. Your life is easier because of your race. That’s just how it has been.” “My life hasn’t been easy!” “Comparatively, it has been!” I yelled. I tried not to, but I did. “Is this really how you’re going to be now?” “Are you really going to act ignorant of your power, influence, and privilege?” She ends the call.
XXX. Nuée Ardente, n.
“Dude, what’s going on?” Will enters my room, disheveled, after I put my phone down. “I just got home, and Mom is out there yelling at Mrs. Meredith. You know why?” I sigh, exhausted by the two previous conversations, lamenting another negative response. “Me.” I sit up on my bed. “What? Why you?” I close my eyes, attempt to center. “I was doing some jobs around the neighborhood to raise money for the car, right?” “Right.” “Well, I became aware of the racism in our neighborhood after doing some jobs for Mrs. Plover.” “The old lady on the corner?” “Yeah. She said a bunch of rude stuff about the Danielsons down the road. I confronted her about it, then she told everyone else I was a problem.” “Oh. That’s why Mom’s yelling at Mrs. Meredith? She believed Mrs. Plover?” “... Not exactly. After a while, I called around for work at the places I had heard racist things, so that I could call them out on their racism after they paid me.” “What.” “I know. I stand by it— it had to be done. Mrs. Meredith yelled at Mom when she got home tonight, because I told her it’s racist to believe the Danielsons will ‘prowl the neighborhood’ to ‘loot all of our cars.’” “Oh what? No way. She said that?” “To my face, Will. I had to call her out on it. Those beliefs are dangerous.” I paused, a deep breath. “Are you angry at me too? Mom and Jessica were.” I look down at my feet.
XXXI. Similitude, n.
I can’t tell if it takes him five seconds or five minutes to say, “Naw, man.” He sits next to me on my bed, punches my shoulder. “You stood up for what you believe, fought against injustice— it’s what Dad would have done.” “That’s what I told Mom!” We laugh. I didn’t think I would be capable of that tonight. When he calms down, Will asks, “So you tanked you’re business then?” “Completely.” “How close were you?” “Several hundred short.” He whistles, nodding his head slowly. “You can have it for whatever you got. Antiracist discount.” I can’t breathe, excitement bursts from my chest. But. “No.” “What?” “It wouldn’t be right. I have to earn it, like you said. Just being handed a thing doesn’t happen. You have to do the work. Working for something is important. I want to earn the car.” Will lies on his back, looks at the ceiling. He thinks for a while. “Okay. You’re right. So, I leave in two days. Maybe you can give the money to Mom when you get what you need, and she can deposit it for me; I’ll leave her the keys. That way you can get it when you earn it.” He holds his hand up toward me. I grab his hand for the most awkwardly angled handshake of my life. “Deal.”
M. Espinosa 