I hope this message finds you well. How did you find out we got more bird seed in the mail? One of your friends tweet about it? Bad joke. Is that offensive? One of those things that you can say it and I shouldn’t? I’m so sorry. Won’t happen again. I hope you didn’t mind that I watched you eat your breakfast through the blinds of our living room. The sun had just come up, and I couldn’t look away. Seeing you perched on the feeder’s tray, casual chirps between bites of seed, reminded me of walking by a coffeeshop in the city and seeing family for brunch— things I sorely miss. See, you may have noticed, we humans are supposed to stay inside. I haven’t really been able to leave this apartment in over a month. You know, you should be grateful for the fact that you can fly anywhere you like— especially now, since you don’t have to deal with as many people bothering you at the park. You don’t need to be tethered to any specific place if you don’t want to. If you don’t mind me asking, why are your eyes so dark? Are you struggling to sleep too? Have you been feeling more panicky? I’m sorry if you are; I feel threatened by everything lately— I keep yearning to dart away, my head constantly scanning for exit strategies. I’m also sorry that your breakfast date got cut short by the arrival of Stellar’s Jay, who was so heavy that the feeder swayed in the morning sun for a solid minute after you left, spilling seeds everywhere. While they were able to stroll across the porch floor eating the scattered seeds, you had to fly out of sight. I hope you found a nice place to rest. You are welcome to return any time you like. We’ll make sure the feeder stays full for you. Or, if not, that some seeds remain strewn over the porch.
Tag: Writing
It rained on Wednesday.
It rained on Wednesday. I walked out to the backyard barefoot— late August— felt the developing mud between my toes, sat down. I felt the cold, fresh rain on my face, thought about the likely grass stains on my jeans soaking through the fibers. The sky was a matte grey that reached out, enveloped me. Where the sun would have been was the torso of a cedar along the southern fence, which happily clapped in the rain. I imagined, in the loosening earth, its roots dancing.
Cottonwood Seeds en Route: III. Suri Dihan
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from March, 2020.
This is the third entry in Cottonwood Seeds en Route. It is a continuation of Part II: Crystal Coleus.
I. Amour Fou, n. “Morning, Suri!” I finish the outline of the swoop of the prince’s hair (the kingdom’s kinda stuck in their 2000s-emo phase) before looking up. When I do, Crys and Violet are standing across the table, holding hands. “We have something we want to tell you,” Crys says, blushing. Violet is smiling more than I’ve ever seen. “Alright,” I say, placing my pencil in the crease of my sketchbook. Crys stutters. “Well, umm,” she looks at Violet, who nods. “We’re dating.” “Oh my god, you guys! That’s awesome! I’m so happy for the both of you!” I get out of my seat and hug them both. I act surprised, but it’s obvious— she watched The Good Place within a week of Violet telling her about it. I’ve bugged her about She-Ra forever. II. Plutography, n. Obsidian and ruby— Carefully I draw in the shine on the prince’s necklace. His silk robes, black as night, wave in his castle’s courtyard’s breeze. Is eyeliner too much? Nah. He’s totally in his feelings. He holds a goblet in his left hand as a servant nervously pours wine in it. A small band of lyre players perform by a line of pink tulips in the background. Kordra kneels in front of him, blushing, accepting their quest. III. Informator Choristarum, n. When I was in 7th grade, I was so excited to join the choir. My family sang all the time— I always stole the solo or lead. But there was a huge difference between the music the director chose and the Irani songs my family sang. It didn’t feel like I fit there; I was otherworldly. IV. Astroparticle, n. (and adj.) I don’t remember if I’ve seen a student who looks like me in Puyallup. We have to drive to Tacoma for the nearest mosque. It was hard for my parents, when they moved here, being othered everywhere they went, especially after 9/11, through 2003, when I was born. V. Booky, adj. Wednesday night, I drive to Target, clock in, walk to the break room, put my purse in my locker. “Hey Suri.” Nadine sits at one of the tables, doesn’t seem to look up from The Things They Carried. “Hey. Break or waiting for your shift?” Nadine has a habit of going straight to work after school to read uninterrupted until her shift started. She picks up an old notecard, one of its edges curled and brown from age (and probably spilt coffee). “Waiting. Tim O’Brien demands attention.” “Because… of how they carry things?” “Oof. Stop,” she laughs, gets up, puts the book in her locker. VI. Geodynamo, n. My parents have always pushed me to do my best. Their jobs are similar to mine, which is why I had to start working when I turned 16 to help support our family. My parents always talk about me becoming a doctor or an engineer for Microsoft, but I just want to draw. My parents talk about UW as much as Crys (somehow possible), but I keep looking at student work on Cornish’s website, Art Assignment videos on YouTube, Muslim comics on Instagram. VII. Historicist, n. and adj. It feels necessary to look into the past, bring it with you, showcase it somehow. The past made what you are, you know? That’s what occupies me as I set up the endcap for Hearth & Hand. VIII. Metamathematics, n. COVID-19 spreading into Washington unearthed what I thought was dying. Brown skin seems to be enough to label as infected, warrant wide berths in the hallway. Usually, it’s an occasional “joke,” like some white boy in a COD shirt says ”Allahu Akbar” before simulating an explosion when I enter a classroom. Or, there’s a hesitance when an adult tries to explain something President Trump said. It doesn’t really matter what— they take long pauses, staring at me while they talk. My mom lectures me about not wearing a hijab, while Crys lectures me about how they’re oppressive. As if anything is that clear-cut. XI. Trainspotting, n. Everyone else walks around like they belong, like they have a role to play, like they are pieces of the same puzzle. I feel like I’m sitting on a bench, watching each one pass by, losing count. X. Geometric Progression, n. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Like background noise. Made worse seeing people fit into boxes with ease. Like they come with instruction manuals. I feel like I can never find my box. Maybe that’s why my hijab never felt right. XI. German Tinder, n. When Crys asked me why I never wear a hijab, I told her it’s because I wanted to be liberated. When my mom asked me why I never wear a hijab, I told her it’s because of racism at school. Last year, one night when my parents were getting groceries, I put my dad’s taqiyah on my head to see what it felt like. It felt the same way my hijab felt— not right. XII. Timelily, adv. It was during lunch this morning, at the end of a half-day for conferences that were canceled due to COVID-19, when Isabella looked up from her magnetism notes to say to Nadine, “Did Suri show you her drawing Kordra slicing off an ettin’s heads?” It chafed. It felt wrong. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know how. After I got home, I got an email saying tomorrow is the last school day for at least six weeks. It feels like something I should tell them in person, the way Crys and Violet did. Nadine and Isabella supported them— Violet used Kordra’s pronouns right after I told her. Tomorrow has to be the day. XIII. Train-Scent, n. Friday morning, snow falls on the bus window, blankets the grass and tree branches. Static from the tires turns into static from confused teachers turns into static from the lunchroom. Nadine is the last one to our table, placing The Handmaid’s Tale next to her sandwich. They’re all here. I wait for a lull. “Hey, uh. There’s something I wanna tell you guys.” They all turn to me; my throat is dry. “Um, I’ve been feeling, uh, off lately, like something isn’t fitting, and I think that thing might be me. “I mean— this is hard. You know how Kordra is non-binary? Well, I think I might be too.” There’s a silence. I can’t tell how long. “So,” Isabella starts, “do you want us to start using they/them pronouns for you?” “Um. Yeah. I think so.” “No problem,” Crys smiles. “Thank you for letting us know. That was a brave thing you did.” She starts to go for a fist bump, stops, offers her elbow for a more-hygienic elbow bump. XIV. Uranography, n. The night Kordra returns to the capital to return the king’s scepter— which cultists stole for a ritual to summon a harpy army— they walk to a hill on the edge of town that overlooks the city and its harbor. They lie against a madrone, start connecting constellations. Legends still play out in the blue-black fabric. Small figures move across a map dodging dragon wings and poison fog. XV. Black Friar, n. “Now, just because schools are canceled doesn’t mean that you aren’t going to continue your studies.” “I know, mom.” “You will spend seven hours a day studying. An hour with the Quran, an hour with math, an hour with history, an hour reading. Each of your classes, you will find a way to study. No exceptions.” “I understand. I will do my best. But, what if my hours at work change due to the closures, though?” “Your studies come first! You are a student. Your school must be your first priority.” “Alright. I’ll make it work.” XVI. House-Lew, n. Monday, the first would-be-school day at home, I wake up early, start studying before my parents wake up. When they do, they prepare quick breakfasts, head to their jobs, which, thankfully, haven’t been suspended yet. After the sun rises, I prepare eggs and toast for my brother and sister. After they eat, I send them to their rooms to read while I clean the living room— disinfect, sweep, vacuum— then sit down to study trig. XVII. Fleadh Cheoil, n. Day two. After lunch, I clear the living room, tell Yusef and Amina to not go back to their rooms. For about an hour, I show them dances our grandmother taught me when I was their age. I sing the songs myself. Yusef giggles as he trips over his own legs. Amina murmurs the lyrics under her breath, gradually raising her volume. XVIII. - Securiform, adj. Day three. I scoop same blackberry jam on one of our small, rubber spatulas, spread it on a slice of wheat bread for Yusef’s sandwich. “Suri, I really liked the dance you showed us yesterday.” “I’m glad, but you’re not getting extra jam on your sandwich,” I say, pointing the spatula at him accusingly. “No, no. It was just fun. I’ve never really danced like that before.” He looks at the counter, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. “I could teach you more today. The same dance? A different one?” “That’s— well, is it normal for boys to dance?” “Of course, Yusef. Everyone dances.” “But none of my friends dance. And you taught us a girl dance.” “Dances are dances, Yusef. You can dance whatever dance you want to.” XIX. Talavera, n. Day four. I get the urge to make something with my hands. My sketchbook: buried in my backpack, untouched since Friday. Yesterday, I shelved these bowls at work that were an obvious, mass-produced appropriation. Maybe I can try to draw in the style like those bowls’s patterns, fuse their culture to mine. All art borrows, blends; we are all one. XX. Baselard, n. When Kordra was young, they walked everywhere, a dagger holstered on their hip. Not welcome by a family who praised an unforgiving god, lamented a blight on their names, hid their faces in public. When Kordra left home, they walked across the kingdom, a dagger pang in their chest. Not welcome by civilians who glared at their dark skin, winced at their accent, scoffed at their pronouns. XXI. Colour-de-Roy, n. and adj. The morning sun slips in the throne room when Kordra returns the king’s scepter. The king rises out of his seat, walks to them. His hand appears from under his purple robe, a victorious eagle embroidered on his chest. He accepts the scepter in his left hand, His right on Kordra’s shoulder. “Thank you, Kordra. You have done a great service for our kingdom. I am so sorry for how our order has treated you. You have brought great honor to yourself and the Order of the Cottonwood. Our kingdom owes you dearly.” Applause echoes off the aged stone walls. Loud, overwhelming, Kordra starts to tear up. In the last moment of clarity, before their vision blurs completely, they see the prince rise from his throne, his smirk, his smooth hands clapping. XXII. - Frammis, n. “What does that even mean? I don’t understand what you’re saying.” It turns out a pandemic isn’t the best time to come out to your orthodox parents. “That makes no sense. There are men and women. That’s it. You think you’re a man?” “No. I don’t feel like a man or a woman.” “Nonsense. You are a woman. You’ve been a woman your whole life.” “Sex assigned at birth has nothing to do with gender, Dad.” “Of course it does! It always has and always will!” “It doesn’t have to!” I pause to breathe, to flatten the wrinkles in my mind’s bedsheet. “Look, cottonwood trees have either male or female reproductive organs—“ “Trees have organs?” “The seeds, Dad. That biological fact doesn’t change how you see or treat the tree; you’d still walk up to it, look at the fractured sky through its branches. Gender is something people made up— it has nothing to do with the body a person lives in.” XXIII. Bridge Coat, n. For Kordra, after the ceremony, the prince fastens up his coat, invites them to join him on a walk with a head nod. For me, after I come out to my parents, my father zips up his jacket, rubs his eyes with his hands as he shakes his head, leaves. XXIV. Macaronic, adj. and n. Not going outside except for work— limited for me by my mother’s request— has disrupted my laundry cycle. Nothing seems dirty enough to justify the necessary water consumption of the washer. My clothes piled on my dresser like a messy beanie. My hamper empty as a classroom. XXV. Leggiadrous, adj. day nine, i think. tuesday, i’m pretty sure. feels like i’m watching my family live out a bad multicam sitcom— unfunny and boring, an unlikable protagonist, a formulaic rhythm. that suri wakes up, makes breakfast, studies like everything is fine. she smiles and laughs and plays with her siblings like it’s a normal day. how does she do that? she never misses a beat. how does she keep up? i’m exhausted. XXVI. Proclivity, n. Today, I take a break from babysitting and acting like I’m reading to draw. I never realized how normal being around people all day is in my life. The absence is palpable like a baking aisle without flour. My hand sketches outlines of people, a crowd gathered for a concert, maybe— shoulder to shoulder. I miss Isabella’s facts about Mars, school-Nadine’s book recommendations, Cris’s arbitrary soapboxes, Violet’s questions about everything. Their faces appear on the figures in the front row. XXVII. Wallydraigle, n. It’s hard. Competence. Feeling any of it. My laptop has endless notifications from teachers posting assignments. The counters have endless dust from so many meals made each day. Did I use this glass yesterday? Did I shower this morning? What day is it? XXVIII. Anaerobe, n. This morning, Isabella Skypes me— still in the oversized sweater she slept in, unkempt hair lazily scrunchied, drinking from her SciShow mug. Her way of coping with everything is focusing on data, making charts— I’ve never seen anyone tear through a spreadsheet fast as her. After she shows me some graphs she made (so proud, that nerd), she asks, “So, how have you been holding up?” “Getting by, you know. I gotta take care of Amina and Yusef during the day, but it’s all manageable.” “That’s good. What about you though? You been drawing? Kordra go on any adventures?” “Here and there, when I can. It’s hard to find time.” “I know what you mean— Alejandro keeps me busy too.” A Doppler effect of giggles and stomping; she turns her gaze off frame. “Can I ask you something about Kordra?” “Uhh… sure.” “Could they, like, travel to another planet and fight aliens?” A pause. Laughter explodes from me, the hardest I’ve laughed in what feels like years. “What!?” “What!? I wanted to help you think of adventures!” “I don’t think space travel works in D&D! They wouldn’t be able to breathe!” “Sure. Dragons and magic are totally logical, but you draw the line at the vacuum of space and aliens? Preposterous. There has to be a spell or something for that!” “Why is everything always about space with you!?” “Why is everything about hunky, non-binary paladins with you!?” I laugh so hard, I cry. We should so this more. XXIX. Cockshut, n. From the desk in my bedroom, I can see the edge of ER’s roof, which turns goldenrod as the sun sets. It makes me think about endings. How this closure will end, my time in school will end, lives end— how the day dies in long, drawn-out breaths. When my grandmother was dying, she showed me an old painting by Massoud Arabshahi she snuck a picture of at a museum back in Iran. She said it stopped her in her tracks— the cool colors, warm circles scattered like a map of watchtowers or “Allah’s ever-presence” as she put it— so full of comfort and anxiety at the same time. She gave me that picture that day. I keep it above my desk, next to the window where I can see the sun’s shadow engulf the world. XXX. Baby Blues, n. Can’t stay mad at my mom being so overbearing. The last time she was this intense was after Amina was born. New checklists everyday, every moment scheduled— desperately seeking structure. If she can get through all that, maybe she’ll see me for me one day. XXXI. Sumpitan, n. And so, Kordra lays their sword across their palms, kneels before the prince. He grazes the blade with his fingertips. “Are you really done protecting our kingdom?” They chuckle, shake their head. “No, the journey is never over, Your Grace. It just changes shape.” They lower the sword onto a cloth— fine silk, black (duh)— swaddle it, hand it to the prince. They rise to their feet, lift their pack onto their shoulders, a spear knotted to its side. They walk away, stop in the threshold. “When you need me, you’ll know where to find me,” they say. They wink at the prince, and leave.
Continued in Part IV: Isabella Dudosa.
Listen to the World
Walk through the park.
Sunday afternoon.
Lie on the grass.
Close your eyes.
Feel the sun on your face—
soft, warm.
Listen to the world breathe.
Walk to your car.
Almost midnight.
Shove your name tag in your pocket.
Close your eyes.
Feel the blood pulse through your head.
Lie on sidewalk—
soft, cool.
Listen to the world cry.
Walk down the street.
Rainy afternoon.
Keep your hands in your pockets.
Keep your head down.
Sit on the curb.
Look at your shoes.
Close your eyes.
Feel the rain—
soft, comforting.
Listen to the world dream.
Walk down a trail.
By a river.
Step up to it.
Look at yourself.
Step into the river.
Sit in its bed.
Close your eyes.
Feel the water—
soft, passing.
Listen to the world die.
A Story, Sure.
I’m not good at beginnings and endings. I have trouble choosing the most impactful points in time for them.
By the time you read this, I’ve figured out how the story ends. If I care about the efficiency of communicating information to you, I’d get to the point and tell you that George gets a promotion at work, loses his wife, and leaves a cult with his existential issues still intact. The specific points in time don’t matter, since George fails to change after the Thursday on which all of these temporal slices occur.
But, without context, you probably don’t care about George, his job, or his wife. Most readers, not you, of course, would demand for some sort of event to help you bond with George. They want to derive meaning out of whatever happens to him, even if there is nothing to read into.
So, I have to give you a beginning. I just don’t know what the right beginning for George’s story is.
I could be a pretentious art film, start with the Big Bang.
We start with a boom, a matte white screen that fades to black, then two nebulas form. Purple clouds that spiral, pull together, form two stars. We watch them play a game with gravity until they make a binary star system.
They orbit each other. Sometimes farther apart, sometimes closer, until they collide. There’s a large spark; the orchestra crescendos. Bright chunks of matter fly in all directions, and the screen goes dark.
You’d probably read this as an allegory (or, if the academics protest, at least a solid metaphor) to foreshadow what happens to George. You can do that, if you wish.
Or, I could choose to start the story before George was born; I could tell you about his parents.
They were typical products of the 60s. Long hair, flowers punctuating their hairlines. They misdirected their frustration with a war they disagreed with on the veterans of said war. It was embarrassing for everyone.
His parents never really settled down. They fought on a regular basis about things that ultimately didn’t amount to much more than which nightly news show they should watch during dinner.
But, none of that is really necessary to George’s story; as none of that involves George directly. Yes, this could be another example of reading into foreshadow for how George’s life shapes. But, of course, it doesn’t, because he never met them. They gave him up for adoption immediately after he was born.
I should have said that earlier. All apologies.
I don’t really know how to tell you what happened to George.
I really just wanted to tell you that on Thursday, May 14th, 2015, George woke up later than usual, after spending Wednesday night at the temple of a religious organization (i.e. a cult) he joined a few weeks prior.
He followed a breeze from the folded-open sheets across the bed to the open bedroom door.
He walked by some copies of The Secret his sister got him piled on his dresser on his way to the closet.
He decided that Thursday, May 14th, and all Thursdays that dare to be May 14ths are doomed days.
Until he got to work, oddly enough, where his manager had interpreted his past few brooding months as introspection on the process the business uses to boost sales, and, consequently, gave him a promotion to sales director.
But, is that where his story ends? Should that be where I leave it?
I mean, George persists after that Thursday.
In the research we did on Thursdays that happened to be May 14ths after that day, the results were inconclusive; they were just as chaotic and random as any other Thursday or May 14th.
George didn’t keep his job forever. He came back from his divorce in better spirits. He did not, however, overcome his ennui.
Usually, the author wouldn’t tell you this. They’d leave you with the end of that Thursday, and you’d go on your way thinking that George had a good life afterward.
I can’t do that, though.
George’s life wasn’t tragic by any means.
He didn’t suffer terribly much, aside from the lung cancer that eventually killed him.
He lasted long enough to retire from his job. The office had a retirement party, where he saw all the people he didn’t know celebrate the fact that they got cake during work.
He grew old enough to start forgetting things. He forgot the foster homes he stayed in, his first wife. He remembered his 3rd grade teacher being awfully strict, though.
His children discussed this peculiarity with his doctors, and they all scratched their heads and shrugged their shoulders.
They don’t know what caused it. Or what it meant. But it happened nonetheless.
First, you smell the sulfur.
First, you smell the sulfur. You feel warm concrete on your fingertips. It creeps to your elbow. For a moment, you think about proximodistal development, whether this would be a good counter-example. Then, you remember what happened.
You get fleeting images only. Clocking-out at work. Orange clouds over grey buildings. Horns. Concrete— you remember thinking it looked comfortable, as if you could sleep there. Flying cars. Fire. Shockwaves. Black. You open your eyes.
Your eyes focus on the gravel first. Inches from your face, you see more detail than you ever thought possible. Intricacies fade as your gaze sprints forward. You see smoke sweeping through the parking lot. The sky is black, leering over burning storefronts. No stars. No streetlights. Horns sprout from the ground.
You process colors first. The head: black, seemingly caked in soot, ash. The body: red, blood stains. You try to focus on details, but they keep shifting like a taillight behind a rainy windshield. It looks at you, moves forward. You get to your feet.
You realize you aren’t hurt. You reflect briefly, but cannot figure it out. The creature smiles at you. You feel your arms rise, your mouth open. You hear a thunderous scream— sounds from other worlds. Your story is over. You’re a passenger in a gondola.
She Thought It Was a Good Day
Emma woke up around noon. She opened her eyes, saw her bedpost. Must have fallen off the bed while she slept. A cluster of dust bunnies huddled on the right side of the post.
She imagined them planning their next attack on her throw rug. Standing around a little map of her bedroom, the general seated in a little throne made from a gum wrapper. They would attack from the north and east, cornering her beloved rug between the dresser and the bed. It would have no chance against their fire arrows and cannons. The epic battle would last four days, the throw rug about to surrender and begin composing a treaty to the dust bunny general—
Emma realized she had fallen back asleep and forced herself up. It was now a quarter to one. She untangled herself from her comforter, a butterfly about to emerge.
She blinked four times. Quick. Quick. Slow. Quick.
The room was well lit by the sun. She avoided tripping over her piles of Hemingway and Faulkner, but kicked Melville all over the floor. She chuckled at her own symbolism.
Emma dragged her feet to the kitchen and poured water into her old teapot. It reflected the sun’s light into her eyes.
“Damn it!”
The teapot’s impact echoed from the sink. She picked it up and slammed it onto the stove. She grabbed a mug, debated which tea to drink. English Breakfast seemed the most logical. It also made her feel regal.
After drinking her tea, Emma got ready for the day. It was almost four.
Her phone’s blue light shined through her living room. It was a message from her friend, Erica, who wanted to go on a walk. Emma looked at the pile of reading she had to do that weekend and decided to go on the walk.
They met at the park at the edge of their neighborhood. When they were kids, they would play there after school— tag around the slide, backflips off the swing set, castles in the sandbox. The slide was taken away when they got into middle school, the swings in high school. Oddly, they left the swing set’s frame, only removing the swings. So, a rusty lower-case N stood in a mixture of gravel and bark, victorious in its war with time.
Emma stood by the frame, ran her fingers over the rust. The blue paint that mirrored the summer sky was still clinging to parts of it. Some was eaten by rust. Her pinky finger moved from the rust onto the paint, but it flaked and fell to the ground. She stared at the lonely flake as it lied on the cold gravel.
By the time Erica arrived, Emma had lied down by the flake and began staring at the sky through the gaps in the trees.
Erica approached hesitantly. “Emma?”
“Yes?”
“You doin’ ok?”
Emma shook her head, “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. Yes.” She picked herself up and brushed off her arms and legs. “How are you?”
“I’m good, not laying in gravel, the usual.”
“Hah hah. So clever.” Clouds of dirt and bark glowed in the evening sun. “Do you have anywhere in mind?”
“I was thinking about going through the woods to the pond.”
Emma agreed, and they headed off, talking about what they had done over the summer, the people from high school they hated, and their confusion over Pierce College’s registration process.
The conversation was fairly one-sided. Erica dominated, choosing which tangents the conversation should go on, like a park ranger leading a hike on a trail with many forks.
Emma didn’t mind. She understood that Erica exaggerated her views a lot. It seemed like Erica found some comfort in portraying a caricature instead of her real self around other people, like how a sunny winter day looks warm, feels cold.
They arrived at the pond around five-thirty. A mallard couple swam by the dock they stood on. The sun danced on their ripples. Emma assumed they were on a date.
Erica stared at the mallards. “Remember when we came here after Josh broke his arm in 7th grade?”
“Of course.”
“I remember seeing him in gym. We were playing dodgeball, and he was the last one left on his team and he took a huge drive to avoid one of those red, smelly balls, and he hit the floor, and there was this empty thud, followed by him yelling, ‘Fuck!’ and the teachers debated over scolding him before they realized he needed help, and…”
Emma had heard this story a hundred times. It happened every time they came to the pond or Erica thought about something bigger than herself.
“… We all came here after school, and we started trying to figure out what had really happened…”
“Yeah, and Dina wouldn’t shut up about all the blood.”
“I know! There wasn’t even that much of it either!” Erica laughed at the memory. Emma smirked.
The two sat on the edge of the dock with their feet in the pond, kicking cool water into the warm air.
Emma focused on trying to create a momentary rainbow while Erica recalled other stories about Josh, Dina, and other people from their childhood. She considered it a good use of her time.
Cottonwood Seeds en Route: II. Crystal Coleus
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from February, 2020.
This is the second entry in Cottonwood Seeds en Route. It is a continuation of Part I. Violet Caligos.
I. O, n. When Violet says she got accepted into the program, I squee. Not new-One-Direction-music-video level— we’re in class— but I squee, and hug her until she sputters, “Crys. Please. My ribs.” II. Mauvais Quart d’Heure, n. I hated my red hair for years. In third grade, the boys whose parents let them watch South Park started calling me soulless, a monster. They said it was a joke, but after 50 times, it started to sound like a fact. If another white guy tells me media doesn’t shape culture, I’ll scream. So, a week before 7th grade, I dyed my hair black. Dyed it every time it started to show again. Kept it buried. It took me until last year, when I started going to ER, to dig myself out of the shame I felt. III. Zeuxis, n. At lunch, Suri shows us a piece she’s working on for an art contest through the Pierce County Library System. “Well? What do you think?” Her eyes bounce from face to face hectic as reporters after a press conference. I’m not good at art. I can type 800 words on the implementation of meatless Mondays at lunch, but I can’t even draw trees. What Suri’s done— the shading, the soft details, familiar, intimate, “Stunning.” “You really think so? I mean I know I spent a lot of time on it, but, like, it’s just us, you know, but as like a hydra, and instead of elemental powers or whatever it’s writing and art and science and stuff. It— it’s dumb. I don’t know.” “I love it,” Violet says, bringing the cuff of her hoodie to her eye. IV. Religieuse, n. As a Mormon, I don’t consume caffeine. I drink La Croix for the kick, but I recognize my body shouldn’t be exposed to addictive substances— I should be able to stand and breathe on my own. It doesn’t make sense to me to block gay people from Heaven, from God. I don’t think I am less of a Mormon for that belief— our church was founded on the principle of standing up for what you believe. V. French Cut, n. and adj. “Looks like Jaime Smith is running again,” Mom says at the dinner table, spinning spaghetti noodles in her fork. “Oh? That’s good. She got close in the midterms, right?” Dad asks, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Mhmm. Only lost by 600 votes.” “Your office gonna doorbell?” “Probably. Depends on how much Jennifer wants to organize.” She shakes her head. “We should do it, though. We can’t have another term of Chambers.” Dad nods, tightens his hair tie. “I’ll probably not have this by then. Better curb appeal, I guess.” “Dad, no one is going to care if a grown man has long hair anymore,” I interject. “It’s 2020.” “It’s Puyallup, Crys,” he responds. “Plus, someone’s gonna need it more than me by then.” He smiles, drapes his ponytail over his shoulder. “A couple more inches, I think, and it’ll be long enough to donate.” VI. Letterato, n. Violet came over to study for the SAT. Digging a notebook out of her backpack, she asks, “Are you sure you need to take it in March? Can’t it wait until June or something?” “You need to make sure you get a great score to have a great application so you can get into a good college with the best professors and good programs so you can get a good job and have a fulfilling career to be able to afford a good house and provide for your family and your parents when they need you and you need to prepare for a good retirement yourself—“ “Crys. Crys. Pause.” She interrupts. Her hand on my knee. Her steadiness makes me realize how much it was bouncing. “You have to live in today, not 50 years from now.” I close my eyes, try to still the tremors in my fingers. “But you can’t just live in today,” I say slowly, “You need to think about 50 years from now today to be prepared.” “You shouldn’t let tomorrow consume today though. You need balance. You need to breathe.” VII. Kirkify, v. I love history. So, when I find out we’re going to do presentations in civics about how religion has shaped politics, I go all in. Our group gets assigned Presbyterianism. Violet and I agree to do research, Suri says she’ll draw some pictures to make our slides unique. I love history, because the closer you look, the more complicated everything gets. There are nuances on nuances; no one’s great, no one’s evil. Mark. A Matthews, First Seattle’s longest-serving minster, backed progressive ideals— fought against governmental corruption, helped create Harborview Medical Center. He even went to Congress to argue on behalf of Japanese immigrants during World War I— before the whole putting-them-in-concentraition-camps period. But Mark A. Matthews argued against women’s suffrage, argued against unionizing workers, argued that Jewish people were the real menace to the United States. VIII. Literose, adj. Revision is the hardest part of the writing process. For me, anyway. Mostly because I tend to go a bit overboard. I’ve been practicing college application essays whenever I can, and I keep doubling the maximum word count. And, when I go back to see what to cut, every word, every detail, seems important. IX. Mug, v. Over the last few weeks, we’ve had rain pretty much every day. Slick roads, large puddles, perpetually obfuscated sun. Over the last few days, we got hit with a rainstorm. Torrential downpour, power outages, floods. It made me think of when you have four projects due the same week, because teachers don’t coordinate with each other, and you have to stretch your time management/organizational skills on top of what they already expect of you; how overwhelming all that is; how those weeks make you appreciate times when there’s only an occasional worksheet due. X. Crimp, v. A part of our presentation grade is everyone speaking in front of the class. Suri thought if she put extra effort into her drawings, it might be excused. It won’t be. The day before our presentation, we practice after school in Ms. Hendrix’s room. Suri mindlessly riffles through her notecards while we plan and organize. First few run-throughs, she riffles between every slide, reads word-for-word from each card, never looks up. She asks us (Ms. Hendrix included) if we can sit in the audience while she reads. After seven times, she looks up at the end of her sentences, thwaps her cards with her thumb when she finishes her slides without looking down a second time. Ms. Hendrix changes seats each time, says when she can’t hear us, applauds at the end every time. In the last run-through before the activity bus, She glances only at the beginning of each slide, adds hand gestures, ad libs details about what she drew. XI. Ice Bolt, n. When it’s our turn, we get up to the front of the room, stand just like we did when we practiced. It all flows, smooth as the extra milkshake from the cool tin cup. Violet and Suri kill it. I say Matthew A. Matthews instead of Mark. A Matthews, and I try to go back, correct it, but my mouth hangs there. No sounds— my notes become doodles. XII. Missment, n. I look at Violet, try to talk with my eyes. She shuffles her notecards, continues, “Mark. A Matthews was a minister…” Suri carries the last slide until the lunch bell rings to end the period. I walk to the bathroom, sit in a stall, my face in my hands. Violet knocks on the stall door, says, “Crys? Hey. We’re here.” Suri scoots her sketchbook, opened to a page which says, “It’s ok. It happens. We still love you.” XIII. Bastle House, n. “You know, a bad presentation isn’t the end of the world.” “It’s the grade that UW is going to see, Violet. That is the end of the world.” “... You ever think about those houses they’re building over by Glacier View?” “… What? No? What does that have to do with anything?” “It’s just— like, there are all those people building those houses, right? They’re all responsible for something, the job has to get done, and done right or the people living there won’t have power or flushing toilets and stuff.” “… Yeah?” “Well, so— it can’t be possible for all of those people to be perfect all the time, you know? There has to be a misplaced nail somewhere, a loose cabinet door. “But the house is still there, Crys. The house still has lights. The house still flushes poops. Even if one of them messes up a little bit. “I don’t think one bad presentation would make UW hate you. And, if it does, we can egg their admissions building.” XIV. Bae, n. There’s something in how she rustles her notecards, how she says “poops” to make me laugh, how she comes up with metaphors for everything. I don’t know what this feeling is— my stomach hurts. She’d say that I’m just like Chidi, and I think she might be my Eleanor. XV. Home-Along, adv. You know how when cottonwood pollinates, its seeds fall everywhere like a switch is flipped— one day there’s almost nothing, the next it looks like a blizzard? That’s kinda how I’m feeling now— everything flying in all directions, no navigation. I usually talk things out with my parents, but I’m afraid. They’ve always said they love me, they’ll support me in whatever, but there’s no guarantee their actions will match their words. We are Mormon, and we’ve all sat in the same sermons with the same old rhetoric. We go on a trip to the San Juan Islands for mid-winter break— a four-day weekend around Presidents’ Day. Dinner is awkward— for me; they all seem normal. I don’t know if now is the right time, but what would a right time be? There’s no universal tell-your-parents-you-might-be-gay scenario. We’re in a public place, a brewery with a local guitarist playing “Homeward Bound.” I think now is as good a time as I can get. XVI. Deek, n. They say the right things like they’re reading from a script. But, it’s the way they avoid eye contact for the rest of dinner that shows their discomfort. XVII. Gribiche, n. The next night, we eat at a French restaurant overlooking the sound. My mom lifts a spear of asparagus, scoops the spread from the dish on the platter. “It’s not that we don’t love and support you; it’s that the you we thought we knew is gone.” She dabs her lips with a maroon cloth napkin. “I’m not gone. I’m still here.” “But the you that was in our heads, the future-you that we imagined, is gone.” “I don’t think my future-me has changed. She can’t be gone. I’m not even sure what I am or what I may be.” “So it’s possible it’s just a phase?” Silence. “It’s just a lot to process, Crys. Nothing like this has happened in the Coleus family before. It’s going to take some time for us to get used to it. I’m going to pray on it, I promise.” “You shouldn’t need to pray on it,” I wish I could say out loud. “I’m your daughter.” XVIII. Gype, n. Violet and I go out to watch Birds of Prey Monday night, the end of Mid-Winter Break. Her second time— she couldn’t shut up about it. Absentmindedly I put my arm on the armrest where hers is. She nudges her arm to share. Our elbows touch— my skin’s on fire. XIX. Hailsome, adj. She rests her head on my shoulder. I hook my pinky around hers. I feel so warm, so whole— like I’m home. XX. Hake, n. Back at Edgerton, when they taught us how to watercolor— second grade, I’m pretty sure— I always used the thinnest brush. I focused on each detail— small, smooth strokes. Yes, even the sky; I rarely completed a painting. I’m a bit embarrassed to say I continued that pattern— focusing so much on school, college, the future, I never stopped to breathe. So, it feels big that in this breath, the warmth in my chest when Violet swooped her hand under mine, interlaced her fingers in mine, is still there the next morning when it’s so cold even the clouds stay home. XXI. Overton Window, n. A few days later, when we get to my house after school, Violet kisses the back of my hand, which she’s been holding since I shifted into drive (not the best driving practice; sorry, Mr. Williams). Violet sees my mom’s Outback parked in the driveway. “So, have you told them?” she asks, leaning her head against the headrest. I sigh, close my eyes. “No. I haven’t.” I look at my Tetris keychain dangling from the ignition, afraid to see her disappointment. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft, starts as a half-whisper. “It’s alright, but why not? I thought you said they were cool with you being gay?” “That’s what they said, yeah, but the way my mom tiptoes around me now… She hasn’t told the rest of the family yet, and she told me to not say anything to them either, because THEY wouldn’t be ready for it yet… I’m not sure she’s really ready for me to be dating someone. Like, I’m afraid she’ll antagonize you, and that would kill me.” “Okay.” Another half-whisper. She nods, thinks for a bit, tapping her fingertips on my knuckles in a rhythm I can’t follow. “So, how many points do you think you lose if you antagonize a queer teenager? Like, a thousand, right? Because of the increased risk of depression and stuff?” Her smile is sad, but still warm. “Yeah. Easily,” I chuckle. “A real dick move.” I kiss the back of her hand. XXII. Bloody Caesar, n. Saturday morning, I wake up more tired than when I went to sleep. I sit on the top of the staircase, my body not wanting to move anymore. Mom sits at the dining room table, Warren and Sanders pamphlets litter its surface. The smell of the cocktail she drinks on weekend mornings wafts up the stairs. “You think we should drive or take the light rail to the rally?” Dad asks. He places his mug on the table, takes a seat, grabs one of the Warren pamphlets. “Traffic in Seattle is going to be awful. Especially if the protests at Kennedy Catholic keep up— I can’t believe they would force teachers to resign because they’re gay. So, I think the light rail might be better; her campaign’s said they expect a large crowd.” No hesitation in her voice, no doubt. I exhale, head against the railing, elbows on my knees, face in my hands. Her pastime seems to be comfort at a distance, like a church dance where you need to leave room for Jesus. XXIII. Swellegant, adj. My parents leave early to get to the rally, wanting to be first in line for volunteers. I thought about going, but decided to stay home to work on an essay for civics on caucuses. Plus, if Lexi can’t even manage to focus for algebra, she definitely wouldn’t survive political speeches. When I think about Seattle, I see people free to express who they are, open and accepting and weird. No closets there, no skeletons hidden in old Ikea bags. I know it’s not true; it’s a fantasy. But, I see myself walking across UW’s quad some spring morning as the sun meets their cherry blossoms— quiet, peaceful. XXIV. Yes But, n. and adj. family is important and you shouldn’t upset them. yes but i deserve to be true to myself. yes but that is selfish, crystal. you have to consider what other people need. yes but hiding myself for the sake of everyone else means that i’m not even worth my own respect. yes but you need a place to live until you graduate high school and you shouldn’t risk that kind of stability. yes but being with Violet makes me happy. XXV. Dicker, v. I hate hiding from them, feeling ashamed. I hate hiding my relationship with Violet, making her feel like I’m ashamed of her. Dad’s family comes over after church every Sunday. Maybe I should tell them then. I can figure out a way to ease them into it— I’ll write a hasty Facebook post in case I chicken out. Violet will hold me to it. XXVI. Swinehood, n. After church, aunt Clara and uncle Wyatt arrive. Five children flood out of their Expedition into the driveway. Clara balances a bowl of orzo salad in the crook of her left arm as she waves at my dad. Their kids run around the yard as we eat brunch. After covering pleasantries, the work week, Wyatt steers the conversation. “Did you hear about the new Supreme Court case?” “Oh yeah!” Clara answers, “The one about whether gay couples can adopt! Can you believe it?!” “Right,” My dad nods, coughs. He and Clara were raised to never discuss politics, so they rarely ever talked about the news. “That’s a big deal.” “It IS a big deal!” Clara agrees. “They’re trying to restrict that agency’s religious freedom! They can’t do that!” She waves her arms, gesturing at the obvious oppression. “It’s a terrible thing,” Wyatt adds. “I mean, there’s plenty of research that suggests that kids need a mother AND a father.” Both of my parents politely nod. I burst. “So what, I shouldn’t be able to adopt a kid if I want? You wouldn’t trust ME with a kid?! Are your kids messed up from all the times I babysat them?! “A person’s orientation has nothing to do with their parenting ability— are you kidding me?! I cannot believe how intolerant you are, how willfully ignorant you are! It’s obscene!” My fork clangs as it hits my bowl. I feel tears boil on my cheeks. I gasp for air, stand up. “Excuse me.” There’s silence as I walk into the house. The tap of my shoes on the hardwood floor bounce off stunned walls. XXVII. Twite, n. I lay on my bed, stare at the ceiling— gray as wintry clouds. I imagine a small bird, brown like Violet’s eyes, flying south to escape the frigid breeze. Cold and alone, lost in the current, until she finds a flock of birds, different colors and shades and hues like the intricate, harmonious patchwork of a quilt, that welcomes her with ease. XXVIII. Yevery, adj. What is a family that doesn’t see you? I won’t let them dig a hole in my heart. I won’t let them make me feel empty. I want more than that. I want to come out to everyone, to get a bold haircut, to be with Violet with no shame, to demand more diverse books in ER’s library, to demand representation in history and English classes. They will not hide me. I will not be erased. XXIX. Resiliating, adj. Monday morning, I text Violet that I want to tell our friends about us if she’s okay and ready for it. My phone clacks as I put it on the bathroom counter to brush my hair. In the mirror, there’s a fire burning on my scalp, tendrils try to reach the ceiling. My brush was like a helicopter with a water tank containing a forest fire. Last night, I told her about what happened with Clara and Wyatt. I ugly-cried on FaceTime and everything. My parents didn’t came to my room— still haven’t talked to them. A post-it note I find on my door when I leave my room in Lexi’s handwriting reassures me everything’s going to be alright. She wrote: “Crys— ur the best big sister ever ur the bravest person I know love u forever! - L”
Continued in Part III. Suri Dihan.
I Wanted to Write Something You’d Like
You always told me how much you liked the way I describe things, so I’m going to try to do that now.
I had just got home from work. I parked my Focus in the driveway. The early-December frost was still lazily slumped in the corners of the curb. The clouds had layers, many wispy strands floating together attempting to make a uniform grey sheet. The air was cold and thin, much as it always was on the top of the hill we lived on.
We called it a hill, anyway. Ryan and Laura had called it a mountain when they first moved here, remember? They were really confused when we laughed, and then we got into a senseless argument about the differences between the definitions of “hill” and “mountain.” Far too academic for such a stupid thing.
Right, so, I had left the car, situating my your-beanie on my head. Thank you, again, for finding it in a shoebox in the back of the closet when I had lost mine, and subsequently not wanting it back. The car’s warmth that had soaked into me and my clothing dissipated far too quickly; I hate thermodynamics.
I went to get the mail, the chore I always do before going inside the house. The sidewalk, somehow, still had a layer of frozen dew. The border of the frost followed the shadows of the Diaz’s house and Tyrell Jackson’s pick-up. There was a soft, faint crunch when I stepped. Not a full-on-snow crunch, but there was an attempt, like Simba trying to impress Mufasa with his roar.
The mailboxes recently got changed from the individual sub-sandwich-shaped boxes nailed to several two-by-fours to the factory-farm-chicken-cage letter prisons on metal poles. Our box was number 7, even though our house number was 23561. I don’t understand why they couldn’t consolidate the numbers to be the same— I’ve talked your ear off about this thing before. Too much, in fact. I’ll move on.
There was nothing there. Well, there were ads for Safeway and Albertson’s, but those don’t really constitute mail; anything that lands in the recycle bin instead of on the dining room table doesn’t count as mail.
The apple tree in the corner of the Tanaka’s yard by the mailboxes was bare. Its branches were thin and weak in the breeze. A plump robin perched on one of the lower branches, making it and its relatives bob up and down under its weight. It must frequent their bird feeder. The robin’s head twitched left and right, seemingly unperturbed by the cold. Perhaps by instinct, perhaps realizing how alone it was, the robin took off and flew down the block.
Our mailbox, if you remember, was around the corner on 22nd Street. The view on the way back, where 22nd meets 162nd, faced west. When the sky was clear, we could see the Olympic mountains. Today, the wispy clouds bunched up high enough that the silhouette of the mountains from the setting sun was crisp. A deep-orange fire burning behind the glaciers and rock reached up to meet the blue-black of the evening sky.
The colors blended, or met, or touched— I don’t know, but there was a line in the sky between them. It felt like there should be a word for it. Or, maybe I thought I was supposed to see some undiscovered color that would give me some transcendental realization. But there wasn’t a word that could placate me, no epiphanies.
I didn’t turn on 162nd back to the house that day. I kept walking west down 22nd, taking deep breaths of icy air, seeing how long I could exhale steam. The steam coned out from the pinpoint precision of my mouth to the broad shotgun array a few feet away, before losing all sense of rhythm and deforming into clusters of chaotic clouds.
At the end of 22nd, where the housing development started to turn back on itself, there was a clearing on the northern corner— something about how if the number of houses exceeds x, then the developer needs to build and maintain a small park, so the lot was left empty. The wild grass still had white tips, completely untouched until my footsteps broke their peace.
I could see the abandoned golf course from the lot. Well, the edge of it, around the tree line— you know. We drove by it whenever we went to the highway, and we had walked around the lonely concrete trails that lead from hole to hole. There were three parked cars on the shoulder of the spur that lead to its parking lot. The company that bought the land barricaded it years ago, but never did anything else with their purchase.
I had always meant to draw up a map of the golf course and blow out the proportions to become the world for a story I had thought of. When we had gone on our first walk around it, I had started piecing together the cities. There was a railroad track along the eastern side that would transport goods throughout the towns along the foothills of the impassable mountain range. There were rolling hills and vast lakes and small, dry patches of desert; ocean would hug the western coast.
The story was supposed to revolve around a woman making a dessert for some special occasion, how stressed she felt while making it. Maybe stress isn’t the right word; she would be excited to make the thing and for people to eat it, but she wanted it to be perfect. She’d walk around the floating flour specs of her kitchen and pour precise measurements of sugar into different measuring cups, some complicated fractions would stick out from the recipe that would need to be broken down and converted.
With every ingredient she’d add, there would be a cut away to another person who would be moving through their daily routine to gather, package, distribute, or sell the ingredient the woman just used. Their lives would be rough and stressful and tiresome. Then, it would jump back to the woman and her dessert.
I never wrote that story. I had thought about it, as I said, but I never wrote it. I knew that if I did write it, I’d show you, and you’d probably tell me it was weird. So, I’d save it on an external drive somewhere and always mean to come back to it and fix it, but be too afraid to read it again. Its 0s and 1s would sit on that disk undisturbed until the end of time.
Maybe I should have written it. Maybe you would have liked it. I don’t know.
The orange was dimming around the peaks of the Brothers and Mount Constance. The bones in my fingers were starting to ache. It’s weird how the cold pierces so deeply so suddenly. Small icy flakes shifted horizontally in the air carried by the soft northerly wind. I started to walk back to our house.
Your hatchback was in the driveway. I had forgotten. It had sat there for several months, and I had seen it there every day, but I had momentarily forgotten that you were gone.
This realization happens too often, I admit, but your death just hasn’t dug its roots deep enough. I’m afraid they never will, that I will keep forgetting and having to remember all over, and the gale of grief will consume me again.
I cried that day. I curled up in the front yard and hugged my knees into my trembling chest. The grass was cold and wet, slowly changing colors in the faint glow of the Morozov’s Christmas lights.
On Age and Perspective
You are enclosed. All is black, cramped. You see, you know nothing. You are born. New light, shapes, colors blind you. You reject them— screaming, crying. You are swaddled. Differentiated colors spiral into fuzz a foot away. You care not for anything save food and sleep. You are young. You recognize cities and names, their stains and hues homogenous: paved roads, smiling people. You are adolescent. Countries take shape; shores erode to swerving waves, become individual. Somewhere, someone cries by a broken-down car on a dirt road. You are grown. You see the forest for the trees, landmasses for the countries, ocean for the seas— the world. You see the earth circle the sun, harmonious and even— comforting predictability in its neighborhood. You are old. You see the solar system fade into a galaxy into black tapestry. You breathe nebulas, bathe in chaos. You live on the edge of the universe.
M. Espinosa 