I look through the window of your car
a week after you went missing, no hope
of seeing you there.
The patience of the hardware store owner
dwindles with the police’s efforts to
organize search parties.
Flowers in the altar around your bumper
stretch into the adjacent spaces,
wilt in the autumn sun.
I come here every day after school
to tell you what you missed, no hope
of hearing your voice.
The saddest people to lay bouquets,
the same ones who bullied you
seven months ago.
They tell stories of how you joked around,
then repost some hotlines and hashtags on
their Instagram stories.
I only remember their faces
contorted in laughter after
calling you a slur.
The sun sets earlier each day.
I feel its growing shadow, no hope
of seeing you again.
Tag: Young Adult
Protect the Farm
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from May, 2023.
I. palabra, n.
What’s the word Dad told me for when the sky looks like spilled paint? Maybe the answer is behind that column of smoke billowing from the silo.
II. folder, v.
I launch myself, above the wheat. Stalks topple in my wake. Serena is at the base of the silo, a torrent of water erupting from the jewel on top of her staff. Right. A water spell. That’s what the word dad said was for. I wobble as I land, prepare the spell.
III. groundhog day, n.
“My God, Finch,” Serena yells over her shoulder. “Any time now would be nice.” Awkward syllables leave my throat, water shoots from my palm. The charred silo glistens in the moonlight once we've extinguished the final ember. “Every day,” Serena sighs, “you’re running behind, forgetting spells. “I love you, etc., but you need to get your shit together. It’s getting harder to rely on you.” I fidget with my wand, not meeting her eyes, because I know she’s right.
IV. bub, n.
When I was young, I dreamed of protecting the farm. I never had Serena’s patience for growing crops, reading books. Could never sit still. Had to move. Had to run. I needed the wind in my hair. I could perform spells, but not study them. I needed to see them done first. Dad understood. He taught by example. He helped me become the best flyer around.
V. misocapnist, n.
I take out a cigarette at the end of our watch as the sun rises over the ridge. I take a drag, lean against the door of stable. Horses stir, ready to run. Serena shakes her head, steps away to sit on the tailgate of an old pickup. She coughs. “I wish you’d wait until I left to do that. You know it bothers me. “I think we should eat something, then go back to investigate the silo. How does that sound?” My eyes are heavy, my fingers twitch. I nod.
VI. half groat, n.
Breakfast is small: coffee, black; toast, black. Serena tells me about the latest book she read as we walk back to the silo. I play with a coin, flipping it between my fingers, to stay focused.
VII. bonhomous, adj.
“Oh,” Serena says, “sorry, Finch. This must be so boring for you.” I pocket the coin. “No, it’s okay. I like hearing what you’re excited about.” She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re sure? It’s just a poet’s memoir about her divorce.” “I’d rather listen to your TED Talk than try to read a book, so yeah.” “Oh shut the fuck up,” she laughs, shoves my shoulder, then returns to her book commentary.
VIII. bloco, n.
Serena is talking about her girlfriend's drum practice when we return to the silo. Charred chunks sizzle in the morning sun with an intricate rhythm. Serena rotates her wrist; purple mist flows from her fingers to the pieces of silo shell. "This should help identify the fire's epicenter and whether a spell was used.”
IX. char kway teow, n.
Purple tendrils spread from chunks on the ground, reach toward the silo’s missing torso. Chunks and swirls indigo and navy highlight on the body. “There’s magic there,” Serena says. She looks at me, smiles. “Let me guess. “You want to see me do it again?” I look between her and the silo, move my wrist. “Please.”
X. kalian, n.
She said the words for the spell slowly— awkward, archaic syllables. I say them back to her, rotate my wrist the way she did, and violet strings unravel from the spaces between my fingers. They reach toward the silo, but fall short. “Hell yeah, Finch! That’s a good start! Let’s get closer to the source up there. “Since my spell gave us an epicenter, yours, up close, should be able to discern the type of spell.” I nod, float up the side of the burnt silo. “Discern? Really?” I perform the spell again. “Fuck you. Read a book.” Serena’s laugh stops abruptly as her spell’s effects turned grey. A vision appeared— a tube, water, so much smoke.
XI. anti-huff, n.
“A hose? And water?” I tilt my head. “Like a fireman?” “Jesus. It’s 2023.” She facepalms. “Firefighter. “Also no. It’s a device that controls the fire, prevents it from spreading.” “So, they targeted our silo specifically. Not even the whole farm. But, why?”
XII. feechie, adj.
Lightning crashes, dark clouds roll in as we approach the ground. “Could be real,” Serena points her chin at the clouds. “Could be a cover. “They attacked our grain, our main food source. They must want to get to Dad.”
XIII. sodom apple, n.
Fields look different on the way back— the hue’s not right, like an Instagram filter. Dad’s voice is ablaze once we arrive in the dining room; his open palm full of ash.
XIV. waygate, n.
Dad paces the hallway as mom reaches for an apple from the basket on the table. It turns to ash in her hand as Serena and I tell them about what we found at the silo. Their worry is palpable; it takes up all the oxygen in the house. Dad protests when I say I’m going to find the person who did this. Mom jolts to her feet, her chair groans against the floor, when Serena says she’s going too.
XV. washikong, n.
Mom lectures about the dangers of traveling as I tie my shoes. I repeat our contingency plans to Dad like a student cramming for an exam as I pack my backpack. Serena and I say goodbye, fly across the farm toward the city.
XVI. barber’s block, n.
At the edge of town is a strip mall and between a Great Clips and a Wild Birds Unlimited, there’s a cracked gutter, and when you peel it back, a doorway appears. That’s where the alchemist works.
XVII. buildering, n.
The alchemist’s shop is at the roof of a building hidden in the gutter alley. For protection (or just to be a dick), there are no stairs, no door from inside. His magic affects gravity, makes flying too difficult. We have to climb the exterior— fingertips on brick edges, toes on windowsills.
XVIII. toyo, n.
The alchemist sits behind his desk, a bowl of fried rice in one hand, a half-full bottle of soy sauce in the other. He nods at us in the doorway, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, waves us forward.
XIX. geeksville, n.
We tell the alchemist about the silo. He and Serena click instantly— fucking nerds. He has many clarifying questions; Serena answers with many big words. I run my fingertips over the labels of potion bottles he has on display. He snaps his fingers, flips through pages of a floating, translucent spellbook.
XX. ohana, n.
The alchemist rubs his chin. “Looks to be the work of a sorcerer much too dangerous for you kids.” I slam my hands on the counter. “It’s our family. They have no food. We have to fix it. “Do you know who did it? Or have something to stop the rot? Or do we need to find someone else?”
XXI. cabinet particulier, n.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. “Fine. It looks like the handiwork of Rauldor. “He’s a restaurateur whose latest pop-up seeks to redefine French cuisine. “My guess is your father refused his offer, and this is retribution. “I’ll arrange a reservation for you, so you can get some intel.” A pause. “Do you have… formal wear?”
XXII. adumbrant, adj.
Ties are so uncomfortable. Whoever decided men needed to be strangled to show formality has never had to work with their hands. Rauldor’s pop-up is in the shadow of the movie theatre’s spire. The entrance moves down the street throughout the evening, disappears at dusk.
XXIII. zelotypia, n.
Rauldor has a vibe which escapes words— but it’s in his eyes. There’s a constant sense of calculation, comparison in the twitch of his pupils. He walks between tables, eyes and rotates flower vases, adjusts the knot of his tie.
XXIV. noctilucent, adj.
Serena casts spells subtly under her menu as we wait for bread— bread, apparently, from grain we grew at home. She says there’s so much ambient magic in the air, she won’t be noticed. I twirl my fork, watch the waitstaff walk into and out of the kitchen. Rauldor’s hair, a storm cloud always visible across the dim dining area.
XXV. broad acres, n.
This fucking guy. As Rauldor makes his rounds, he talks to each table about his fresh ingredients, his gourmet cooking, his influences from his travels. Insufferable. Serena uses a spell to tip over a platter as a diversion. I turn to shadow, roll along the baseboard toward his office.
XXVI. milver, n.
I move around the kitchen— smoke from the grill, boiling water for pasta, so many tubes bringing water in, sucking up smoke. Serena said Rauldor would probably have something— a ring, gem, or scroll— to undo the curse once our father caved to his demands. Once through the gap between the floor and the office door, I see a banner above his computer which reads: “‘Your focus determines your reality.’ — Qui-Gon Jinn.” Dad has the same quote, the same banner, in his office at home.
XXVII. paanwallah, n.
I reach toward the banner slow as the summer sun, lift the pushpin in the corner. Focused, measured, cannot make a sound. There’s a picture behind the banner. Rauldor, youthful, a Culinary Institute hoodie, and my dad in his UC Davis shirt. Its corner bent, taped down hurriedly. I peel the tape gently, carefully, find a hole in the drywall with a raindrop-shaped gem on the end of a chain. It’s cold in the palm of my hand as I scoop it up, but then a ripple of heat emanates from the hole. An alarm. Duh. I quickly tape the picture down, replace the banner, slip back into the shadow.
XXVIII. wayfere, n.
Rauldor’s French (I assume) booms through the kitchen as I slink to the bathroom. I emerge in an empty stall, wash my hands, head back to our table. I ask about the commotion, pat my breast pocket, say I’m too full for dessert. Serena says a waiter tripped, the check’s taken care of, we’re good to go. I feel like an alien performing a human impression as we walk out of the restaurant. A man, outside, says we’re dressed awfully fancy to see the Super Mario movie. We laugh hard, whether to his joke or out of relief, I don’t know. Around the corner, we try to fly home. While Serena is successful, I remain planted to the ground. The gem, she says, must have some strange gravitational pull, so we begin walking home instead. Serena asked what really happened, once at a safe distance, then lists the shenanigans she pulled to buy me time. The city’s not so bad— streetlights, the moon light our way home.
XIX. ombrology, n.
The gem throbs against my chest as we approach the edge of our farm, the silo’s skeleton in the light of dawn. Something tells me— a wordless radiation— I have to crush the gem. Serena stops when I walk toward the silo. She yells when I take out the gem. She takes off when my fist consumes it and I pour its dust into the ashes. The sky becomes white, the air becomes cool, and Serena tackles me. She yells and cries, bangs her fist on my chest. Hopelessness consumes her eyes. Then rain begins to fall. Rain falls and the fields turn green.
XXX. gordon bennett, int.
Serena laughs, struggles to breathe, falls back into the grass arms wide. The rain’s cool on my face. From the ground, I see beams reposition themselves into a silo. When we get up, we realize our clothes— the alchemist’s formal wear— are covered in mud. The walk back to the house is slow. The rain feels right, new. Our house even looks brighter. Mom and Dad are double-fisting apples while two steaks cook on the grill. They stop when they see us, cheer, lift and spin us around in celebration, then eat their steaks off the grill with their hands. They hadn’t eaten all day, Mom says. Afraid to destroy what they had left. The rain told them something was fixed.
XXXI. blood and thunder, n.
Around the third knife fight, Dad starts to doubt my story. Worse, Serena doesn’t even back my up. She tells them the truth, even though our parents’s unfounded fear of the city is hilarious. When explaining how I got the gem, I hesitate mentioning the picture; it feels too private, something I shouldn’t know. But, Serena operates on a whole-truth principle, so I bring it up. Dad’s quiet, makes a face that looks like he has to chew his thoughts into words. “We were friends in college, yes,” he says, ‘but Rauldor’s changed a lot since then. You’ve done enough, Finch. “You’ve served your family well. Thank you. Let me take care of the rest."
Have I always been this way?
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2023.
I. wardour street, adj. and n.
Back in ninth grade, after our English class read Romeo & Juliet, Dom kept speaking in fake medieval diction. She’d spend lunch telling me about the latest episode of Riverdale with the occasional ‘ye’ and ’t’was,’ a smattering of ‘-eth’ suffixes.
II. Ideogenous, adj.
Dom used to write stories all the time. During class, her laptop would be open for ‘note-taking,’ but she would be deep into her latest Reylo fanfiction.
III. collabo, v.
The first time Dom spoke to me, she asked me to help with a piece she wanted to play for the solo and ensemble contest. She was taking a mute out of her trumpet; I was putting the marimba part of “So What” in my folder. The hollow sound of her emptying her spit valve filled the time it took me to understand. I never thought I was that good or noticeable. I accepted the opportunity.
IV. amigurumi, n.
I have a squid on my desk, small, purple, a tiny grin, that Dom knit me before she moved away. I think about messaging her every time I see it, but get too afraid to type anything.
V. groceteria, n.
The morning of the solo and ensemble contest, Dom said we needed to stop at the Haggen by my apartment complex to get AriZona Arnold Palmers for good luck. She walked across the store like her life depended on it. The cashier complimented our suits. We chugged them in the high school parking lot.
VI. misogamous, adj.
Dom texted me during winter break our sophomore year upset her mom got engaged to her boyfriend. She didn’t understand how her mom could happily participate in such patriarchal traditions.
VII. y’alls, pron.
When the judge announced our performance of “Take Five” won the small ensemble category, the audience erupted.
VIII. roscidating, adj.
I sit at my computer, doomscrolling, alone. Dom’s squid stares at me. I need to talk to someone, but what would I even say?
IX. red queen, n.
She always wanted to get better at whatever she was fixated on. She encouraged me to do the same. She even showed me her earlier fanfiction, which was so terrible she swore to never share it. But she trusted me.
X. cabinet able, adj.
I used to eat lunch in the library. Well, I’d sit in the library during lunch. But Dom invited me to sit with her and her friends after we started practicing for the contest. It was like starting a series halfway through the third season, piecing together names and plots everyone else already knows.
XI. ajangle, adj. and adv.
I remember the sound distinctly: the chime my phone made when Dom texted me to tell me her stepdad got relocated; they’d have to move during spring break. I remember the sound distinctly: the chime my phone made when I learned my best friend was leaving in the middle of our senior year. My phone has been on silent since.
XII. coachy, adj.
Junior year, when my grandpa got sick, Dom drove me from school to the hospital. She refused my offer for gas money, said it’s what friends do.
XIII. blankety, adj.
I don’t have another way to describe it. When I was around her, I felt safe. She understood me in a way most people don’t.
XIV. galdem, n.
For me, it was hard feeling part of the group. I always felt outside, apart. When Dom invited me to her lunch table, she made sure I was part of the conversation. It’s because of her I was able to make the friends I had, the memories I have. She made it so easy.
XV. satoshi, n.
Is this what distance does? Does the past live behind rose-tinted glass? Does she remember me this way: emphases on my positives, whatever they are? Or, does she remember how much she did for me, how little I could return? Does her mind filter me through the windows of an abandoned home?
XVI. cyberslacking, n.
I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. Sometimes, when a professor’s lecture is slow, I search Dom’s name on Instagram to see what she’s been up to. I don’t follow her, too afraid of her seeing the notification with my name, remembering how I disappeared, then blocking me.
XVII. mindstyle, n.
Have I always been this way? Has it always been the case that the walls around me were constructed by me? Am I to blame for my own isolation? How couldn’t I see it before? Why can’t I change it?
XVIII. barnstorm, v.
In the spring of freshman year, our jazz band did several performances at nearby memory care places. Dom was so excited to be a traveling bard, she memorized several sonnets and monologues by Shakespeare to recite between songs.
XIX. bumble broth, n.
The week after she moved, she texted me, asking how I’d been, apologizing for not reaching out earlier overwhelmed with travel and unpacking. Words flooded me. Where would I even start? I couldn’t even find the words for what I was feeling.
XX. cruyff turn, n.
For a while, I tried diversion: ask about her day, ask about her mom, ask about Euphoria. Much easier to read and listen to her than find words of my own.
XXI. booze can, n.
I remember the first time I felt the fractures grow. It was a month after she moved. My dads were at a school counselor conference. I raided the liquor cabinet in hopes it would loosen my lips, find my words. The words that came were hurt, full of confrontation, resentment.
XXII. dumbsizing, n.
She didn’t text me for several days. I didn’t blame her. It was never the same afterward. Time between messages grew like moss after a rainstorm.
XXIII. kitbash, v.
The way she’d play trumpet, write her stories— she’d draw connections between unlike things, create something I’d never seen before.
XXIV. durex, n.
We were inseparable once. Each afternoon at one of our homes, homework and horror movies, walks through the parks at our neighborhoods’ edges. We’d share AirPods and secrets before school, at lunch, at games our boyfriends made us attend.
XXV. ramfeezled, adj.
I’m standing at the end of the bread aisle staring at the everything bagels, her favorite breakfast. I miss her so much. What’s the worst that can happen? I already have nothing. I already am nothing.
XXVI. skyrgalliard, n.
There’s a beehive in my chest. Words fill the windshield on my way home. I activate the wipers to sift through them.
XXVII. shockle, n.
We did a morning hike at Franklin Falls the last day of winter break senior year. We packed two thermoses of hot chocolate, drank them at the base of the frozen waterfall. We talked about our families, the future, decisions we would have to make.
XXVIII. chup, int. and adj.
My natural state is silent. It’s easy to listen to other people talk. It’s much more difficult to say something, to be open and vulnerable to someone else.
XXIX. mopery, n.
On her last day, I couldn’t drive home from school. I sat in the parking lot on the hood of my car. She said she had to go, had to finish packing. I watched her drive away, then sat and cried until security came to shoo me away.
XXX. send-forth, n.
I helped organize a party to tell Dom goodbye. We marathoned Star Wars movies, ate bagels, drank Arnold Palmers. It was the last time we were in the same room, the last time we laughed together.
XXXI. navel-gazer, n.
Stare at the ceiling for an hour, dig my phone out of my bag, take a deep breath, open Instagram, find her profile, hit follow, open a message, type the first words that come to me, hit send, enable sound, throw my phone across the living room. It dings.
Starting Over
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from October, 2022.
I. light head, n. and adj.
Today is a new day. I’m going to turn it all around. Roll out of bed, complete a yoga routine with my phone propped against the lamp on my nightstand. A quick shower, a quick breakfast that I eat on my way to the bus stop. Nothing is going to stop me.
II. per fas et nefas, adv.
Headphones in as I approach the stop. No one is going to ruin my day. No one is going to bring me down. Lizzo will keep me afloat.
III. downpressor, n.
Bus pulls up, everyone files on, backpacks knock against each other, people, doorframes, seats. Bus driver’s voice mumbles through his expectations. It’s early enough that people quiet down for him, but I leave my headphones in, wait for his voice to stop, the bus din to return, the yellow dashes in the road to scroll by underfoot.
IV. alieniloquy, n.
The thing about the lines on the road is that they’re hypnotizing as they fly by. An intermittent, off-yellow flash carries your mind to some elsewhere without dimensions in time or space. And when they end at the parking lot’s edge, you suddenly remember you have to go to first period.
V. bobsled, v.
Hallways are full of bodies— a current pulls me right to Ms. Acevedo’s classroom. I don’t remember moving my feet.
VI. rhubarb, n. and adj.
Throat’s tight. Swallow the past, Tori; this is a new chapter. I put a smile on my face convincing enough to fool everyone at my cooking station.
VII. lightning bird, n.
I’m holding steady until he enters the room. His hair curling under the edge of his hat. A jolt in my chest— why do I want to cry and smile at the same time?
VIII. dump cake, n.
I look down at our counter, can’t look up, need to forget he’s here. Ms. Acevedo gives instructions; I don’t hear them. Shay does, assumes the role of our group’s leader. She tells me to measure and pour baking powder, salt, flour in a bowl and stir. I see his face in the powdery mountain range.
IX. dunnish, adj.
Eli asks if I’m done mixing. I nod and xe dumps my bowl into xyrs, mixes. I look up, the room’s colors seem to be on a dimmer switch— it looks like the sky an hour before thunder.
X. folx, n.
Ms. Acevedo address the class about over safety protocols. Shay and Eli discuss how to decorate our cake. I sneak a headphone through my sleeve to my palm, rest it against my ear. Hayley Williams yells about misery.
XI. ice blink, n.
The bell releases us to the sea, a long voyage to our next classes. Stare ahead at nothing; looks better than watching bow waves collide. Mr. Persson’s display for the Revolutionary War overwhelms his end of the hallway.
XII. birdscape, n.
Respite among war stories, since he’s in math class. I can stretch my wings, restart the new me.
XIII. bodgie, v.
New Tori writes her notes in cursive. New Tori nods her head while someone talks. New Tori asks questions during lectures. New Tori has her shit together.
XIV. chugalug, v.
I drink from my water bottle throughout third period, which helps me focus on geometric proofs— tonight’s homework. I get in the zone, my homework finished, ten minutes to spare, an empty water bottle. I ask Mx. Archer to go to the bathroom. They tell me to go fast.
XV. mediocritize, v.
You are never going to change. There is no “New Tori.” You are the same piece of shit you were yesterday. You are alone for a reason. It was obvious he’d leave. You are deluding yourself into thinking anyone would like you. I scramble for my headphones, play the loudest Sleater-Kinney song I find.
XVI. spreathed, adj.
I feel cracks spread across my arms as I enter the bathroom. They become deep, wide; demons rise from the dark crevasses. I feel the boiling spittle drip from their open maws, their claws pierce my skin as they push off to take flight. It burns and I scratch, hoping my nails bury them alive, but they keep sprouting like weeds in an unkempt garden.
XVII. ignorantism, n.
Shay enters the bathroom as I leave, gives a small wave, looks at my arms— radiant pink, thin scratch marks all over my forearms. She tilts her head, her brows concerned, starts to ask a question she doesn’t have words for. I tell her I’m okay.
XVIII. monkey bear, n.
I don’t know why I can’t calm. Why is it so hard to stand still, to quiet the thoughts that clash in my head like marbles against a mirror? I watch the branches on the tree outside Mx. Archer’s window sway in the wind as the bell rings. Everyone gets up and leaves robotically, but I just sit there, unable to look away.
XIX. dark thirty, n.
I see it clearly still— the madrone branches dripping into the sound as we sat in the bed of his truck, watched the sky above Vashon turn pink. My hand in his, a blanket between us and a cloudless sky. He poured coffee from a thermos, told me he loved me. He said he’d never hurt me.
XX. amoretto, n.
I was warm then; I thought it boundless. I wrote his name in different styles in the margins of my notebooks. I lost focus in every class. Doodles— abstract shapes, hearts— left on every scrap of paper in my backpack. I wrote poems, left them in his locker.
XXI. nightertime, n.
Mx. Archer asks if I want to eat lunch in their room, if that’s why I haven’t left. I shrug, nod, but really, I’m not there; I’m still lying in bed at three in the morning, looking at my phone, reading the last message he sent me to make sure I understood each word.
XXII. chuddies, n.
The chill of the metal chair on my thighs brings me back. I regret that New Tori decided her style is yoga shorts and large sweatshirts regardless of the weather outside or in. Bell rings and I’ve eaten nothing again. Frustration builds up behind my eyes; I’m supposed to be better than this now. Mx. Archer throws a granola bar at my desk, tells me to eat it on my way to class.
XXIII. gist, v.
Suffice it to say I inhaled the granola bar on the way to English. I listen to Big Freedia, need to explode to start anew.
XXIV. menehune, n.
How could I have ever thought I could start over overnight, as if it would ever be that simple? I need to confront him.
XXV. yo, int. and n.
Chemistry. That’s when I’ll see him next. That’s when I’ll tell him what’s on my mind. I spend English drafting the words I need to say to make him understand.
XXVI. drooking, n.
I stand outside the chemistry room, waiting for him to show up. I take a sip from my water bottle when I see him round the corner holding Melanie’s hand. There’s a white flash and I feel my fingers tighten into a fist, a scratch grow inside my throat. My water bottle points at his waterlogged hat and shirt.
XXVII. grrr, v.
In my chest, a beehive hit with a baseball bat, their wings bristle against my skin. I fly away before he says a word, before an adult makes me talk about it.
XXVIII. mosker, v.
What was once vibrant, warm, soured, cold and bitter as coffee dregs. My throat on fire, I heave by the mailboxes in the neighborhood behind the school. It’s over. There was never any chance. You don’t get a fresh start. You will always be the second choice, alone, a fucked up girl no one will remember.
XXIX. sabo, n.
He knew I’d be there. He knew I’d see them. He must have wanted me to see them together, to see how he’s moved on already. They’re probably laughing now at what a fool I am to believe there was any possibility of reconciliation, to believe I am worth anything to anyone.
XXX. ablepsy, n.
My vision gets blurry, goes black. I sit on the curb, dig my headphones out of my pockets. My phone trembles in my hands; I can’t see the screen, can’t make the sounds to activate Siri. Silence envelops me. I drop my phone, don’t hear it hit the asphalt. My breathing becomes muted; my chest heaves, but there’s no sound— no air. I don’t know what to do.
XXXI. jack-o’-lantern, n.
A light, an arm's length away, appears, slowly retreats. I reach for the light, a face amongst the dark, which welcomes me, accepts me. Why is it leaving? I reach, lose balance; my palms, knees slam the road. Pebbles make homes in my skin. The light fades like the sun over the horizon. I evaporate as mist in the void.
Daddy Warbucks; Or, Go in My Place
I get that my dad has to do all these stupid ceremonies; he’s the king, la-di-da. But, does that really mean I have to go to the things too? It’s not my kingdom— would it still be a kingdom if I ruled it? A queendom? Anyway, I’m not the ruler; I shouldn’t have to go to this drawn-out, fuddy-duddy event to celebrate the bicentennial of some old tavern with good hash browns. ‘It’s a landmark, blah blah blah, good for the economy, blah blah blah, boosts the morale of the citizenry, blah blah. The optics, Aerith, the OPTICS.’ Can’t you go in my place? You look just like me. You just need to get up on the stage or whatever, give some speech, point at that old dwarven guy, then leave. Ten minutes, tops. Ugh. His council probably expects some gaudy centerpiece for their table to project how important they are. Forgot about that. You can probably find something cheap at the market if you hurry.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
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.
Cottonwood Seeds en Route: V. Nadine Sauer
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from May, 2020.
This is the fifth and final entry in Cottonwood Seeds en Route. It is a continuation of Part IV: Isabella Dudosa.
I. Dulciloquent, adj. It’s not only because old books are cheaper— though that certainly helps. The language flows like rivers with centuries-old glacial water— crisp, refreshing. The pages age, change shape and tone like a person’s face and voice. They’re the only ancestors I have— roots for the rootless. II. Arte Povera, n. I know it doesn’t seem like much, Elinor, but our home has all we need. I realize you may find the stacks of books annoying, but I haven’t found a good bookshelf at Goodwill yet. So, instead our apartment has some free-range novels— no oppressive, corporate cages here. You, as a wildflower, can probably appreciate that. I know I could get something cheap at work, but it’s all soulless squares— an erasure of home and culture. We’ll MacGyver something, Elinor. III. Microfinance, n. After my shift, I usually drive home, cuddle with Falstaff as I eat dinner and watch Dragon Ball Super. Lately, every commercial break is an ad from Target thanking me for my service, lauding themselves for donating masks to hospitals. They say they care about me. Not enough to increase hazard pay. Not enough to ensure safer working conditions. Not enough to provide guaranteed COVID-19 leave. Not enough to cut a CEO’s salary to cover the loss of hours of their employees. IV. Padawan, n. You called my name from the backyard to show me the tomatoes you were growing. You held this bulb in your hand that was as black as your hair, and I didn’t believe you. You held it up to me, told me to bite it. “They’re delicious, honey. Try it.” I squirmed as I held it, imagined black ooze gushing from phantom bite marks. I closed my eyes. My trembling hand raised it to my mouth, and I bit it like a wolf on deer meat. I smiled as seeds and juice dripped down my chin. Delicious— just as you said. V. Sinistrorse, adj. feels like no matter what i do i always wind up back here. the same patterns recurring perpetually. i still water your tomatoes when I think of you, so they’ll be ripe if you come home. VI. Mural, adj. I wake up surrounded by four walls covered in specks of memories lingering in the paint. I drive to work enclosed in four walls made of glass so I can see the world, but not touch it. I work in a store with four walls full of food and clothes, enough to nourish multiple impoverished villages. I don’t know what to do when these four walls inch inward like a long exhale— air seeping through a seam on a spaceship. VII. Femina, n. When I learned my grade couldn’t go down over the closure, I stopped turning in anything. Most days, I have work— had to pick up extra shifts cleaning to keep my hours up. Today, I have off; the sun’s out. I watch the leaves on the birch across the complex wave in the breeze. Lying on the couch, draped over the edge, I can’t bring myself to move. VIII. Simony, n. I didn’t trust you when your will said you wanted to be cremated. It’s hard to separate your mom from the body she inhabited. We did it, though— well, you know that, since you’re sitting on the side table by the window overlooking your tomatoes. I hated that guy at the funeral home who kept trying to upsell us on gaudy urns covered in emerald crosses fully aware we couldn’t afford them. I also hated that pastor who did your service. I’m sorry; he did a fine job. He just kept going about praying and donating to save all of our souls. IX. Time-Ridden, adj. “Hey Nadine! How are you and Elinor?” “Oh, we’re great! Elinor’s started teething, so I gotta massage her dirt sometimes after I water her. How about you and Lupine?” “We’re good here too. Lupe started dancing to They Might Be Giants yesterday, and she’s so good, I’m thinking about enrolling her in Auburn Dance Academy.” “Yesss! She would out-dance all of them! I’d enroll Elinor too, but I don’t know if Cory would get us there.” She pauses. “What do you mean?” “Well, when I was leaving for work, they screamed like Goku going Super Saiyan when I turned the ignition—“ “They?” “Cars don’t have genders; keep up. Anyway, after achieving their new form, I was able to drive to work. They had to power up again to get me home, but it took less time that time, so I think they’re getting stronger.” “Hasn’t Cory been struggling for a while now?” “Yeah, sure, but they’re on the up-and-up. Got ‘em a new battery just before the closure.” “And it— they’re already struggling to start again?” “It only happens sometimes. Cory’s doing fine.” “Have you thought about maybe replacing Cory? It’s kinda unsafe to keep driving them.” I pause. “I can’t get rid of Cory, Isabella. I’m not going to lose them.” “Isn’t your safety important enough to warrant a consideration, at least?” “I’m perfectly safe.” “But someti—“ “It was hers! Okay?! I can’t.” X. Monody, n. They asked me to speak at your memorial, but I couldn’t find the words. There are no words for the gaping tear your death made, the shrapnel haphazardly embedded in my limbs. When someone dies suddenly, people say they wish they had known it was coming; they’re wrong. Knowing, watching you wither, hoping for another day made the period at the end of your sentence much worse. Your medical bills were so much, we had to sell the house, leave the garden you spent years curating. Before we moved into this apartment, I repotted your black tomatoes, so they could live on our porch. I still water your tomatoes, drive your car, read your books, because it makes me feel like you’re still here or you’ll soon come back from wherever you’ve gone. XI. Adespota, n. Do you ever think about who makes the wind blow? Why they want to rattle the dogwood’s branches so much? Or, maybe: who spends the hours setting up endcaps to show off brand-name labels at just the right angle when you walk through a store? What about the people— long shadows now— who cleared the forest, flattened the hills, paved and painted the roads you drive on as you lament the hours you’ll spend sanitizing the pharmacy? XII. Begrudgery, n. I know it’s bad, but on Sunday, when Instagram was full of people with their living moms, captions saying they looked forward to seeing them again after quarantine, I wanted to scream. XIII. Awfulize, v. it’s been two years, nadine. you keep dragging her around with you in that old car. you know the risks. don’t you remember that time it stalled in the middle of the intersection on meridian in front of fred meyer? you don’t want to end up in a bodybag. you’ve stalled— life on pause. each day like the one before. drag yourself out of bed. drag your feet at work. are you even alive? is there a will that lingers in your heart? is there a pulse there? steps echoing down a long hallway? or, have you stopped walking? standing in place staring at one picture in the gallery though hundreds await you. you can see the edges of their frames in your periphery. move your foot. move your foot. why can’t you take step? XIV. Peck’s Bad Boy, n. (and adj.) “Ms. Sauer, can I see you for a minute before the end of your break?” Charles insists on referring to minor employees in such formality for reasons lost on me. He butchers Suri’s last name every time. I leave the disinfectant and rag on the table where I took my break reading For Whom the Bell Tolls. I place the book in my locker on the way to Charles’s office. His office is small, loose papers scattered across his desk. “Thank you for coming to see me, Ms. Sauer. I greatly appreciate your work here.” Sounds like one of those commercials. “It’s really great that you volunteered to help us keep up with sanitizing the store. Are you sure you’re not overworking yourself?” “Yeah. I’m sure.” Not where I thought this was going. “Why?” “We’ve just gotten some recent survey results saying some employees have had negative interactions with customers and morale seemed down—“ “So you’re asking this to everyone?” “Not exactly, no. The results correspond with times you were here, departments you were assigned to. We just need to make sure customers are having a positive experience from the moment they enter our store to the moment they leave.” “But I’m just wiping down the floors, shelves, and counters. I’m not really interacting with anyone.” “It’s a— vibe thing. “Maybe you could try smiling more.” Ugh. “I’m wearing a mask. They can’t see whether I’m smiling or not.” “It’s about the vibe you give the customer— your aura. Does that make sense, Ms. Sauer?” I sigh. “Yes, sir. I’ll smize all day.” XV. Quint, n. There’s no way I could have gotten this far without my friends. I know I’m not great to be around when I get lost in the fog. So, I bought five books after my shift to thank them (and show them I know modern books). First, I grab Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan for Crys, because I thought she’d appreciate the splintered narrative structure and the narration of gay ghosts. Second, I buy The Fire Never Goes Out by Noelle Stevenson for Suri, because it’s a graphic novel (which they love) by the showrunner of She-Ra (which she loves) about figuring out who she is. Third, I put The Martian by Andy Weir in my basket for Isabella, because it’s a story on her favorite planet which tackles its science and psychology thoroughly. Fourth, I get I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou for Violet, because she finds metaphors everywhere and she helped me appreciate poetry, especially poems by Angelou. Last, after hesitating at the end of the aisle, The Divine Comedy by Dante ends up in my basket for me. My mom had always said she meant to read it, the way everyone says they mean to watch The Sopranos, but Goodwill never had a legible version. I bag them individually (I hope Isabelle, Crys, and the planet forgive me), leave them on their porches on my way home. XVI. Simkin, n. In the back of the pantry is a bottle, half full, older than me. A faded label, faint swirly writing. Its cork sneaking a glimpse of the kitchen when the door opens. My dad takes it out sometimes to look at it— never drink nor open— late at night, when he gets home from Applebee’s covered in dishwasher stains. Lately, after my late sanitation shifts, I’ve seen the white of Seth Meyer’s attic reflect off the curve of the bottle and the streams on his cheeks. XVII. Bukateria, n. Near the end, days before the doctors shrugged and we lost the house, the realization came that things were worse than I thought. I had walked out of the hospital after spending the night in your room. We spent that night splitting the penne you liked from Applebee’s. Dad brought it for you after his shift, as he did every night he worked. As you fell asleep, I read a chapter from Sense & Sensibility to you, because it was your favorite. But, when I left the hospital that morning, I walked up to the coffee stand on the edge of the parking lot before getting a ride to school from Crys’s mom. The realization came when Kelsey, the barista, said, “Morning, Nads!” I had been to this coffee stand outside the hospital so much, not only was I on a first-name basis with the barista, I had earned a nickname. You had been in the hospital so long, it felt normal, routine— no end in sight. XVIII. Pickthank, n. and adj. Calling it “hero pay” is not enough to justify poor working conditions. XIX. Simplex Munditiis, adj. and n. On my way to work, I drove by TJ Maxx, its planter covered with cottonwood seeds, scattered like melting snow. Some cottonwoods, when felled, don’t make good nurse logs, lacking the width and girth to last long— fell too early, too soon, too young. They try their best— stretched like shadows at dusk, spread thin to help whoever is still sitting there longing for shade. XX. Antelucan, adj. it happens a lot— i get home late, my clothes covered in patches of lemony disinfectant. i eat some leftovers of what dad brought home from work that night or the one before while watching an anime i don’t need to think hard about. i shower then read before falling asleep at some witching hour or other. then terror; never the same, but never that different. sometimes, you’re swallowed by a void pulsing from shadows in your hospital room’s corners, slowly capturing finer details until everything becomes two-dimensional, matte like a cartoon— outlines bolden until all is black, all is void. sometimes, you and i are in cory driving to the discount movie theater in the mall when we get t-boned in the parking lot, shards of glass falling like hard rain in a thunderstorm— sounds like one too— sticking out of your skin like darts in the dartboards movies use when they want to establish conflict or character. sometimes, you’re in a pit of quicksand, waist deep, and I’m standing on the edge reaching on my tiptoes toward you, and you keep saying “no, don’t. it’s okay,” and I argue with you as you slip deeper and deeper, the thixotropic sand climbing over your blouse, your shoulders, devouring your hair, your neck. your eyes wide, cracks in the dam evident, before becoming dark, empty. i startle awake at the end as the night sky’s blue-black begins its transition to orange peel. i watch the line march across the sky out my window until my alarm tells me it’s time to get up. XXI. Angrez, n. and adj. This morning, Falstaff digs his claws into my thigh when I ignore my alarm. This afternoon, rain pounds on Cory’s windshield when I drive to work. When KZOK plays “Blackbird,” I see my mom swaying and humming in her garden. When I pull into a parking spot, I count between inhales and exhales in my hands. XXII. Muscose, adj. I latch onto you to get as much as I can before you’re completely gone. Always have. I worry in hindsight that maybe I drained you of energy you needed. I’ve been told that’s not true, none of it is my fault. You can never know how immense the impact of both your presence and your absence can be. I carry you now like you carried me then. XXIII. Oblique, adj., n., and adv. “Hey, are you alright?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say as I get in Crys’s car. She squints. “Then why did you call me at midnight to ask for a ride home?” “Well, Cory was tired from flirting with all the mall cars— you know how they are— so they kinda fell asleep, and they’re so cute when they’re sleeping, I just let them be.” Crys rolls her fingers along the rim of her steering wheel. “Cory didn’t start again?” “Yeah. I tried a couple times to get ‘em up, because sleeping at home is def safer than sleeping in a parking lot— true for both cars and humans— but they shut me out after the third time.” “Shut you out?” “The anti-theft system kicked in. It happens sometimes. It’s not a big deal.” “Nadine, I think it is a big deal. Cory’s been falling apart for a while, and—“ “I just put in—“ “— a new battery in March that’s not solving the whole not-starting thing. Are you sure you shouldn’t look at getting a newer car?” “I have to hear this from you too? Isabella already lectured me about this.” “Is that why you called me? Because she would lecture you again?” I open my mouth; no words come out. “It’s alright,” she sighs, places her hand on top of mine. “I know Cory is important to you.” I look at Cory sleeping in the spot beyond Crys’s left headlight. I shake my head. “It was her car, Crys.” “I know,” she nods. “And it must be hard with her anniversary coming up, right?” “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “It’s not like we can afford another car anyway.” “You could always trade Cory in to pay for it.” My cheeks burn. “Would you have traded your sister in when she was sick?” The engine’s hum fills the silence. “I know you’re hurting, but that was a truly awful thing to say.” She shifts the car into drive. XXIV. Plutodemocracy, n. Puyallup changes when you get a few blocks off Meridian, especially at night when strip malls become neighborhoods, street lights become sparse. I stare at trees consumed by shadows as Crys drives, silent, chewing the inside of her lip, angry tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Crys. There’s so much going on, and it just kinda… I took it out on you. I’m sorry.” Her eyes don’t leave the road. “I know I upset you. You came to help me and I was a dick… I’m scared, Crys. I— The anniversary of her death is coming up, so I’m seeing her everywhere. Cory is dying, and I need them. They connect me to her and allow me to get to school and work, which we need to pay off all those stupid bills... “And work is a constant reminder of how close death is. My job is literally going aisle to aisle disinfecting everything to eliminate the threat of a deadly virus, and my only protection is this old shirt I fashioned into a mask.” My throat feels like my knuckles after washing my hands a tenth time in one day. “I know you’re going through a lot. I don’t hate you. I’m still mad though. You can’t just walk away from the thing you said.” “I know.” There’s a long silence as she turns into my apartment complex. She parks in the middle of the lot outside my building. “Your mom is not her stuff. Her soul is not in them, and she still lives in your memories.” “I think that’s easier to believe when you have a lot of stuff and the money to get more stuff when you need it.” She sighs, nods. “I know she’s in my memories. Sometimes, it even feels like she’s my shadow. And I worry about losing even a millimeter of her.” “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry. I appreciate you and your friendship so much.” “I appreciate you too, you dick.” She chuckles as she shoves my shoulder. “Now go to bed. It’s past your bedtime.” “Thanks for the ride,” I say as I close the car door. I wave as I walk up the stairs to our door. XXV. Hendecad, n. We never ate at restaurants much, but on the last day of the school year, my mom would take a half day at her office, pick me up from school to take me to the Original Pancake House for lunch. She died on a Saturday— the 26th of May— Memorial Day weekend. 9th grade, my last year at Ferucci. Neither my dad or I were capable to being around other people for months. I don’t remember the last month of that year, but I do remember the bus ride on the last day to an empty apartment— walls of unpacked cardboard boxes. Last year, it still didn’t feel right. I drove myself home in silence. They may not be open this year— doesn’t look like the closure will open up by then— but I should get something from there to commemorate surviving my junior year while working full-time amid a pandemic. She would want me to. XXVI. Simili-, comb. form Me crouching on the patio, humming a Phoebe Bridgers song as I water two pots of struggling tomatoes is not the same as you walking by planters in the backyard humming the Beatles as you hose lush beds of vegetables I wasn’t able to save. XXVII. Alkahest, n. I wake up Tuesday morning, the 26th, to a bright sun outside my window— no dreams nor dew drops— and a text from Isabella about Skyping. I sit up in my bed, start my laptop while taking a drink of water from an old pickle jar on my nightstand. “Nadine! Lupe said her first word! Look!” She holds up Lupe’s pot, tiny purple highlights on her tips. “Did you hear her? She said, ‘shhh!’ I think she’s going to be a librarian!” “Oh my god! Yesss!” I reach over, pick up Elinor. “Look at your sister! Aren’t you so proud?” Elinor nods. “That’s not all,” Isabella adds. “Hold on.” She looks down, starts typing. I set Elinor down, look outside, see white fluff float between the trees. I hear several bloops from my computer, turn to see four faces smiling, three hands waving. All of their voices meld together as they say hello. “We didn’t want you to be alone today,” Crys says. “And—“ “And,” Violet cuts in, “I actually have internet now! Did you know there’s a deadly virus spreading all over the world? Google told me. You’re welcome.” “Dude,” Suri chuckles, “don’t even get me started. I’ve had to explain it to Yusef and Amina like every day.” “Ugh Same!” Isabella yells. “It’s like Alejandro has amnesia, I swear!” It’s the first time I’ve seen all of them at the same time since lunch on the last day before the closure. XXVIII. Vehemence, n. “Anyway,” Crys emphasizes each syllable to get our attention, “we wanted to show you we’re here for you. We know how important the anniversary of your mom dying is, and we want to support you.” They all nod. So many half-sentences stuck in my throat. “Your mom was the best,” Isabella says. “Remember my quinces? She volunteered to bring salsa for the snack table using tomatoes from her garden, and she placed both bowls in the center of the table with labels she made herself. “And she made a point to fake-revise the mild salsa label to make it say ‘White Salsa!’ I was dying!” My computer erupts with laughter. Crys wipes a tear from her eye, a hand on her heart. “Oh my gosh, my mom’s face when she saw it!” She inhales, exhales through her nose, goes wide-eyed, juts her chin out. “That was the face!” Isabella yells, laughing into her hands. “She purposely sat us at our table so she could see people’s reactions to it,” I reminisce, see her snickering into her napkin. “She was so proud.” “I wish I could have met her,” Violet says. “She sounds like a great mom.” “Me too,” Suri agrees. “If only I could have gone to Ferucci too.” I often forget they went to Glacier View. It feels like they’ve always been in my life. “Yeah,” I say. “She would have loved you nerds.” XXIX. Sidereal, adj. It’s a small action, but it reverberates. Before the call, I felt cold, like I was laying in a puddle during a storm. After the call, though, which bounced from stories about my mom to stories about quarantine, I felt less alone. Warmth spread from my chest to my limbs then out. That afternoon, the clouds opened up to blue sky, birds started singing. The sun came out, stayed out the rest of the week. XXX. Dataveillance, n. One of the line cooks from Applebee’s follows my dad to Target in his pickup several nights after I left Cory there. I meet them by Cory’s spot, my dad having to drive me to work the last couple days. Charles had commented on a car being in the lot too long. He plans on calling a tow company tomorrow morning. Luis opens his tailgate, climbs into the cargo bed. The truck’s creaking and staining fills the empty lot. He uncoils a long rope, hops off the truck, lays under it to get a better vantage of the frame as he ties one end of the rope around it. “I really appreciate your help,” my dad says, getting under Cory with the other end of rope. “No problem,” Luis groans as he gets back up to his feet. He bends over, stretching his back. “How old is the car?” “Uh,” I stammer, “about 20 years old.” I wring the strap of my messenger bag. My dad tugs on the rope a couple times, gets to his feet, brushes off his jeans. “It gets the job done for the most part, though.” They walk me through how we get Cory home safely— how I will put them in neutral, get pulled by Luis’s truck, only braking and turning when he does until we’re in our complex. Luis’s eyes bounce between my dad and Cory. “You need a car?” “What?” My dad asks. “We have a pickup we don’t use much since Isaac went to college. You could use it.” “It’s alright,” my dad shakes his head. "We don’t need your charity.” Luis focuses on Cory. “You can pay for it, then.” My dad looks at me. I shrug. “How much?” “How much you got?” Luis insists on finding a compromise, while my dad reluctantly drags his feet. They work out an agreement that doesn’t hurt my dad’s pride and figure out a day for me to pick up the truck. XXXI. Gas Giant, n. A thunderclap. Rain patter. Wind howl. Saturday morning, I drink coffee sitting in the living room floor next to my mom’s ashes and Elinor. We watch the sky flash, gutters spill over with rainwater, young sprouts struggle in the wind. I focus on a cottonwood seed snagged on the rim of one of the tomato pots. They shiver, inch like they’re afraid to fly on their own. I put down my mug, place a hand on my mom’s urn, boop Elinor’s nose. The sliding glass door opens; cool air roars in as I step onto the porch. My face is wet with rain as I clip the seed’s fluff between two fingers, whisper in their ear. I let go, and a gust of wind sweeps them up. I watch them sail across the parking lot. I lose them in the clouds, but I’m not worried— I know they’ll be okay.
Cottonwood Seeds en Route: IV. Isabella Dudosa
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from April, 2020.
This is the fourth entry in Cottonwood Seeds en Route. It is a continuation of Part III: Suri Dihan.
I. Ombrogenous, n.
It is often stated as a fact that a person needs to feel some sort of pain in order to grow— we can see this literally when someone’s joints ache as their arms or legs grow longer. I am not sure how plausible this claim is though— too much stress can crush a sapling or snap a flower’s stem, for instance.
Humans are naturally social creatures— there are mountains of research and meta-research supporting this— so time during this Stay-at-Home order from Gov. Inslee is sure to cause a lot of stress on a lot of people.
That is why I decided to start skyping my friends. To help alleviate that stress from them. Their schedules are all conflicting though— Violet barely has internet, Crystal’s always watching her sister, just like Suri and their siblings, and Nadine’s always nose-deep in some Austen novel or at work— so there’s never really a time for us all to talk face-to-face.
So, I just talk to whoever I can, a different person each day on a cycle— I need time to work on my own studies, you know. And my homework too.
II. Chicken Scratch, n. and adj.
Yes, I am aware that Zoom lessons are recorded, and I can go back to them whenever, but who has the time for that? I want to get as much information written down as possible, so I can get whatever random assignment the teacher’s added to their Schoology page done.
I scribble notes down as quickly as I can, as much precise wording as I can. I become a stenographer— no, a machine recording every syllable that travels through our ethernet cable.
The feeling of accomplishment washes over me at the end of Ms. Hendrix’s lecture. That is, until I look back at my notes during the quiz she posted for review, and my notes look like a pile of pine needles on the sidewalk.
III. Daddock, n.
After wrangling Alejandro to sit at a table and practice subtraction for 30 minutes, I realize I need air. I put on my jacket, a scarf around my mouth— per CDC guidelines— and go on a walk.
The first step outside is like the first time you sip cold water after not drinking any for a long time— I don’t realize it until I feel the cold spread through my ribs.
I walk to the end of the culdesac and sit on the curb— acing social distancing the whole time, by the way. There’s a nurse log behind the fence that abruptly ends the road. I sit there. Just sit there watching the moss inch in the wind, sparkles of light from fresh rain blink in the sun, mushrooms stretch their necks like giraffes through the moss canopy.
Everything’s quiet now. I feel my ribs expand as I take a deep breath. Can’t remember the last time I did that.
IV. Ruly, adj.
“Morning, Violet!” I say, holding my phone to my ear. It feels so weird using a phone… as a phone.
“Good morning,” she responds. I can hear the exhaustion in her voice.
“You doing okay? Still no internet?”
“Not yet, no. My mom applied for that free internet offer from Comcast, but they’re booked out for over a month. It’s alright though. Nadine dropped off a couple books on our door for me to read—“ Rusting of plastic fills the pause.”Do you think she reads anything from this century?”
“I think it depends on how you define ‘century.’”
She chuckles, “Within the lifespan of a currently-living person?”
“Results are inconclusive; further research needed.”
We laugh. Hers sounds strained. “It’s just stressful, you know? At first it was like being a tree in a rainstorm, but as soon as school got closed, it’s like the sun went out. I don’t really know what’s happening. The calls from the principal help, I guess?”
“I heard pretty much every phone company is giving their customers unlimited data. Can’t you use that to get the news?”
“Maybe, but Crys is constantly texting me the latest panic-news. She’s like my personal Associated Press. Her takes seem pretty extreme though. I mean, I went on a walk yesterday, and everyone was wearing masks. Like that would help anything.”
“The CDC said everyone should wear masks, Violet. Were you not wearing a mask?”
“No. A random patch of cloth isn’t going to prevent a virus. Plus, if you’re walking far away from people, it’s unnecessary!”
“But it wouldn’t hurt! Shouldn’t people do everything possible to prevent the disease?”
“Yeah, I guess. I just don’t want stuff on my face. It feels weird. It’s weird that stuff feels normal on my arms and stuff but not my face.”
“I know. It was too warm for scarves, but I wore one yesterday anyway. Sometimes you need to make sacrifices for the greater good.”
V. Broigus, adj. and n.
Sunday morning, I wake up hearing frustrated groans from the dining room, sporadic clacking. It all builds up to my mom yelling “Isabella! Get out here!”
I sigh, roll out of bed. Everything feels half speed, like there’s rust in my joints. I drag my feet out of my bedroom, the light of hallway too bright.
“Isabella! I need your help!”
I enter the dining room, see her sitting in front of her old laptop, her glasses down to the tip of her nose. “Yes, Mom. Good morning.”
“Isabella. I can’t get this to work.”
I walk around to see her screen. “Get what to work?”
“Church. It’s online, and I can’t find it.”
“The livestream? Is that what you mean? Did you get a link for it?”
“I don’t know! They said on Facebook they were holding mass online, and I can’t find it.”
“Alright.” I lean over, scroll on the trackpad. “Most Catholics don’t go to mass every Sunday, you know. It’s okay to miss it this one time if you can’t figure it out.”
Her eyes go wide. “Isabella! What are you saying?! It’s Palm Sunday! The Dudosas do not miss mass! Especially during such a holy time!”
“Okay. Okay.” Her prideful fury— while technically a sin, but I’m not going to bring that up to her— is terrifying. “The link is right here, under the status.” I click on it, wait for the stream to load.
The priest’s voice bursts out of the laptop. Mom gasps in delight. “Thank you so much, Isabella! You’re a blessing.”
“No problem, Mom,” I say, turning back toward my room. Behind me, I hear her sip her coffee and the priest read from Matthew.
VI. Geodesy, n.
Every day, around lunch, I go to Johns Hopkins’s COVID-19 map and update a spreadsheet I’ve been maintaining for a couple weeks. Call it biased, but I track each county in Washington. I also check on the major cities in each state though, as well as some other countries.
I track the number of confirmed cases, deaths. I also check any news on what governors or national governments implement— always find an additional source to corroborate. I then go back and update graphs I’ve made. They’re not as good as the professional ones, obviously, but I’m getting better. Maybe I’ll spend spring break trying to get better with pivot tables.
It takes a while, I know, but it’s become meditative. There’s a block of time in the afternoon where I get some quiet, find patterns and logic in the waves of chaos. When things break down into numbers, and I can connect those numbers to actions of people, it gives the haze shape.
VII. Wordsworthiana, n.
On the last day before the closure, in the frantic dash through 30-minute classes, most teachers dumped packets, talked about future units or plans that could be. They talked about due dates, projects being delayed. I remember the strain in their eyes, their sclerae bold around their irises, their hair disheveled.
That is, except for Ms. Hendrix. She sat on her stool in the front of the classroom, her eyes calm, her braids neatly draped over her shoulder. She talked about uncertainty, coping with the feeling of not knowing what the next day or week would bring. I could hear old sadness in her voice.
She read us a poem before class ended. I can’t remember the name or the poet. But, I remember the feeling of comfort, of being an element in Earth’s circuit inside an intricate galaxy. There was a warmth when her voiced lilted as she said the word ‘daffodils.’
VIII. Simon Pure, n. and adj.
Every morning, my mom walks into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker. As she waits for it to brew, she says good morning to Jesus on the crucifix above the sink, hanging between the two window panes. She grabs a copy of the Bible from the shelf with the cookbooks, and thumbs through a few pages until her carafe is full.
Every afternoon, my mom reads the Bible to Alejandro, just like she did to me when I was his age. She reads in both English and Spanish to help him gain fluency in both languages, but to also really drive home Job’s hardship.
Every night, right before bed, she gathers all of us up to pray the Rosary. Alejandro doesn’t quite have each prayer memorized yet, so she says them out loud. Each prayer is punctuated by the quiet clicks of beads moving through fingers, dangling exhausted from our hands.
IX. Arbitrium, n.
Things are difficult for everyone now that, a couple days ago, Governor Inslee announced schools would be online for the rest of the school year. Likewise, everyone deals with their grief and trauma differently. It’s hard to reserve judgement, however, when I see so many people go to the park by my neighborhood.
I keep seeing the numbers of deaths rise every day. Maybe this meditation tactic is starting to wear thin. I feel a shout grow in my chest, but I swallow it, keep it down.
Don’t want to be like my mom, who never hides her judgement. She’s upfront with every person she sees, wether it’s my cousin’s quinces or the produce section of Fred Meyer. It’s mortifying.
X. Armisonous, adj.
There are several signs when my mom is overwhelmed. First, she whispers a Hail Mary under her breath after she steps away from everyone else, the crucifix on her necklace gripped in her fist.
If it gets worse, I hear her Bible’s spine forcefully land on the dining room table, followed by its covers flapping open and the frantic turning of pages as she looks for the right passage. She reads for a couple minutes. Sometimes, she reads it out loud (that’s when we know things are REALLY bad).
She then closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, then gets back to the tasks she thinks need to get done.
Religion is a common coping mechanism when someone feels chaos and tragedy gnawing on their ankles. It’s possible God is the generator that kicks in during a power outage. It’s also possible that the act of stopping to breathe is sufficient on its own. But, if God helps get her there, what’s the difference?
XI. Sumi-E, n.
While waiting for my bread to toast this morning, the last Saturday of spring break (according to the Star Wars calendar in the kitchen my dad marks to keep track of time), I look into the hallway, see the section of wall filled with family portraits. My mom insists on subjecting every child to a photoshoot at JC Penny on their fifth birthday.
My eyes stop on Alejandro’s portrait, taken back in September, a few weeks after he started kindergarten. My brother’s hair is neat, the crease straight above his right ear. There’s a teal button-up under a white sweater vest, a red bowtie in front of the top button, fastened tight. He’s smiling.
That picture isn’t really Alejandro though. He can’t sit still for longer than ten seconds. His hair is always tossed, his face covered with candy and souvenirs from that day’s adventure. The picture is an imitation that simply doesn’t capture him— it tells a story that’s easier to understand.
XII. Locuplete, adj.
On Sunday, my mom wakes all of us up early. Despite sleepy protests, she insists we dress up for Easter Mass. Dresses, ties, all of it, to gather around her laptop.
“Don’t you think this is a bit much?” I ask as she watches me brush my hair.
She folder her arms, leans on the doorframe. “It’s Easter, Isabella. We must be our best.”
“I don’t think Jesus would mind if we wore our pajamas to sit in our living room.”
“You can’t go to Mass in your pajamas. Especially on Easter! It’s the most holy day of the year!” She puts her hands on her hips.
I sigh, put in my toothbrush to hopefully end the conversation. She shakes her head, walks away.
When I get out to the living room, her laptop is on the coffee table, the stream ready (proud of her), tall candles lit on either side. There’s even a wine glass filled with juice and a bowl full of Triscuits. She’s so extra.
XIII. Sumpter, n.
Crys answers my call, waves, holds up a finger, walks offscreen. No sound. On her wall is a Harry Styles poster surrounded with pinned ticket stubs and playbills.
She returns with a small plate. “Hi, good morning, sorry, I had to get my bagel and close the door.” She takes a bite, covers her mouth with her wrist. “How are you?”
“I’m alright. My mom went all out for Easter. She even got Triscuits for communion. It was absurd. You guys do anything?”
Crys covers her laugh with a cloth napkin, nods. “My dad thought we should do something, right, but neither he or my mom really know how to conduct service, you know? So, my mom read some passages to tell the story of the Resurrection. My dad then decided to illustrate it afterward with The Passion of the Christ.”
“That gory mess of a movie?!”
“Yes! Lexi was horrified.”
“Wow! What a dad move!”
“It really is!” She continues eating.
“How are you though?”
She nods. “I’m okay. Been really tired for not going anywhere, but we have food and aren’t sick, so I can’t really complain.”
“You’re allowed to complain, Crys. It’s a pandemic.”
“See, you get it. Violet doesn’t get it AT ALL. She still doesn’t have internet— probably won’t get it until after stimulus checks get here, and who knows when that will even happen— so I try to keep her up on the news. Not all of it, obviously, not every press conference is important, but the ones that would affect us somehow, right?”
“Yeah. I talked to her last week about having unlimited data. She hasn’t taken advantage of that?”
“No. She doesn’t like reading on her phone that much. Or being on it in general, I guess?” She shakes her head. “I think it’s a hang-up from never having a big data plan ever.”
“Probably some screen-time paranoia from her mom, too.”
“Oh, absolutely. It’s not like I mind. I’m looking at it anyway, and I talk to her about whatever I’m doing and feeling and whatever. It just feels like an added responsibility. She thinks everyone’s overreacting, and I want to show her they’re not.”
“Right. That sounds stressful.”
“Yeah.” She pauses, looks into the light from her window. “I just miss her. I miss being in the same room as her, you know?”
I nod.
XIV. Summulist, n.
There is no denying that corruption exists within most organized religions. There’s a preponderance of evidence within the Catholic Church alone, but you can find it everywhere. I’m just more familiar with Catholicism, because it’s what I’ve been raised in.
My rift has been growing for a long time. It started with small fissures— inconsistencies between what I was told in school and what I was told in church. I rationalized, tried to find middle ground that could bridge the gaps. But the rhetoric. The narrow-mindedness. The lack of willingness to listen or admit they might be wrong.
It wasn’t any of those things that made me break away. It was when my mom argued with Alejandro’s doctor. They said he should be evaluated for ADHD. She flatly denied. She said her experience was just as good as the established research the doctor gave her. She didn’t even read the pamphlet they gave her. She threw it away.
When she said God would never allow such a thing. When she went on about the overreaction to COVID-19. When we knew people were dying. When we knew children were dying. The idea that a benevolent God would kill children— would give children cancer. I couldn’t take it; it didn’t make any sense. Benevolence would never allow children to suffer— to exist just to snuff them out like candles.
I haven’t told her. I don’t know how to. It’s easy enough to say nothing. Easy enough to go along with the rituals and traditions quietly.
XV. Vel Sim., phr.
I don’t think you can really know whether or not there’s a God. I mean, if you follow the scientific method to its logical conclusion, you can’t really know anything— you just have strong correlations.
Correlations aren’t causations, of course. There could always be some sort of variable that you missed, which is why experiments need to be in controlled settings and must be replicated forever.
But, being “pretty sure” about something feels like “knowing” something, for all intents and purposes, so it’s tedious to split hairs about the difference in most everyday things— like whether the floor will collapse as you walk down the hallway, or whether gravity will suddenly switch directions.
God is a different conversation though. There’s no concrete evidence or experiment to ground either side— it’s all abstract propositions and reasoning. So, it just makes sense to doubt, not devote yourself to a possible void that does not and cannot care about you.
XVI. Henriad, n.
I think it was a year or two ago when Nadine and Crys went through their Shakespeare phase— wait. Ninth grade, after we read Romeo & Juliet. Right. They started reading as many plays as they could and started shoving ‘art’ and ‘thou’ into their sentences.
Crys would not shut up about the historical plays, the ones based on kings. Feudalism this, Renaissance that. Nadine was always more about the characters— she even named her cat Falstaff. There were days at lunch where they’d talk about the themes— on their own, not assigned by a teacher, mind you— of the change, social and political movements shifting through recurring waves of violence.
I think about that a lot now. I’m afraid of the violence that may be coming. It happened back then with kings, now with civil rights. Each social movement met with pain. Change is inevitable, but the violence from climate change may be perpetual. It’s not a change in who wears a crown; it’s a change in how much food and water we have, whose homes get washed away, where those refugees can build new futures.
XVII. Brightshine, n.
It’s easy to get sucked into a dour spiral now. I had to step away from tracking COVID-19 data this week, because it no longer ironed the wrinkles out of my mental bedsheet— it started making caverns. It took me away from the work my teachers started posting, which came like a river after a dam breaks. So, I need to find something else to balance myself.
“Have you tried gardening?” Nadine asked yesterday. I had her on speaker as I made Alejandro’s lunch.
“Gardening? Really?”
“Yeah,” her voice was accompanied by Target’s speakers playing an upbeat pop song that was familiar in the vague cultural-osmosis way. “Taking care of a plant is calming to a bunch of people. My mom used to do it all the time… There’s science that backs it up.”
She gets me.
“Am I just supposed to dig in the yard and throw seeds in?”
“Good. Lord. You know better than that. You have a pot somewhere? You know what, I’ll take care of it after my shift.”
When I woke up this morning, my mom told me there was a bag left by the front door with my name on it, a Target bag. Inside, there was a small pot, some dirt in a Ziplock bag, a small sprout of something (so cute), and an “It’s a Girl!” greeting card. Inside the card, she wrote a list of steps to “take care of your newborn.”
After breakfast, I carefully place the sprout and its dirt clump in the pot with the other dirt, set it on the windowsill by my desk, water it with an old measuring cup I found in the back of a kitchen cabinet. I wonder what she’ll be when she grows up, what her major will be. She probably needs a name.
XVIII. Ben-Feaker, n.
“Isabella, will you say Grace? It’s your turn.”
“Really, Mom? It’s just Five Guys.”
She puts both hands on the table. “Yes. It is food, and we must be thankful. Not everyone has food to eat or money to spend on food! You are lucky to not know the toll of poverty.”
“I know. I’m aware. You don’t have to tell me about what it was like in Colombia before you came here again. I’m sorry.”
She tilts her head, smiling. “Good, so now you say Grace.”
I put my hands together, fidgeting with my fingers, watch everyone else close their eyes and bow their heads. I clear my throat, “Heavenly Father…”
I’m not really conscious of what I’m saying. My mouth goes on cruise control, saying whatever comes to it. I snap back in after I say, “So say we all.” I cringe before concluding, “Amen,” then quickly unwrapping my burger to make as much interfering noise as possible.
“Thank you, Isabella. That was beautiful,” Mom says, gently unfolding the foil from her lettuce-bunned burger.
My dad chews on some fries, furrowing his brow. “Was that from Battlestar Galactica?”
I freeze.
“Excuse me?” My mom asks.
“I think Izzy added a line from a that sci-fi show she always watches into Grace.”
“Isabella. Did you taint Grace with this… science show?”
I gulp. “Well, yes. I didn’t realize it was happening, but I did, and I think it works well with the whole thankfulness thing, becau—“
“Grace should from your heart! Not some awful television show.”
“BATTLESTAR GALACTICA IS A MASTERPIECE! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”
I place my hand over my mouth, exhale through my nose. “Sorry, Mama.”
She nods at me. “Well, is John Leguizamo in it?”
I squint. “Uh… no?”
“Then I stand by what I said.”
My dad laughs so hard, he has to cough into his napkin. “That’s your barometer?”
“HE IS A TRIPLE THREAT! WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?!”
XIX. Ember Months, n.
“So, they’re trekking across a glacier that has ancient runes etched into its face like giant crop circles, right—“
“Wouldn’t the etching make the glacier more vulnerable to melting or breaking apart? Like, icebergs and st—“
“It’s. Magic. It’s always magic. Ma. Gic.”
“True. True. Alright, so there are runes that are huge, but Kordra totally knows what they are, sure. Go ahead.”
“Ye of little faith. They were told by mages who flew by the icescape and read it. Nice try.” Suri sips her tea. “But then, get this, as they approach the ruins of a temple abandoned millennia ago— preserved by the frozen tundra, don’t even try me— they see a dim glow deep within one of the caverns.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They carefully step toward it, right, only to brush against some loose shards along the wall. The icicles clang on cavern floor and echo into the dark. They freeze. Then a loud PACHOO and a bolt of light shoots over their shoulder.”
“Whoa. Wait—”
“Yes! The ruins were being excavated… by Martians!”
I erupt into excited cheering. Suri laughs at me. Listening to them tell Korda’s adventures is always fun, but this is the first time one of my ideas happened.
They used to tell me about what happened every week in their campaign at Glacier View’s D&D club, where some teacher there is their dungeon master. Since the closure, they haven’t been able to meet. It turns out, this week, their group met over Zoom.
“That was AMAZING!” I yell.
“I know! I didn’t think he’d actually go with the idea at all after I messaged him, but he did!”
It almost feels like before. The gradual return to what used to be. It’s different, but there’s a semblance of normalcy returning, new schemas and routines taking hold.
It’s like the transformation of a cottonwood between seasons— blooming in spring and summer only to wither to bare branches in the fall and winter. They have to strip away all the excess, find what’s necessary, then build on that to grow into their new selves.
XX. Yark, n.
Whenever things start to feel normal, a pang comes to remind me it isn’t. There’s a pain that brings me back to the reality that this is a burden hanging over our shoulders.
It comes when I hear Alejandro in his room at a Zoom meeting talking to his classmates. When he tells his friend Jaxson he should come over to play. When I have to tell him that it isn’t possible. When I have to explain social distancing to him again, knowing it’s incredibly hard for him to understand and remember.
It comes when I see the playground at the park by our house wrapped up in caution tape like a crime scene. Its fields empty and silent. Like the park itself died.
XXI. Bagel, v.
Alejandro’s teacher included a time slot for creativity in this week’s plans. One of the options she listed was “putting together a jigsaw puzzle.” Since Alejandro had depleted all of his crayons drawing pictures of Minecraft characters in his notebook yesterday, I thought a puzzle would be a nice change of pace.
“So what’s this supposed to be?” he asks while turning over pieces we dumped on the coffee table.
“It’s the mask of Tutankhamun,” I say, moving remotes and coasters to a side table.
He stops flipping pieces and stares at me. “Mask of what-are-you-talking-about?”
“King Tut! He was a pharaoh in ancient Egypt.”
“The pyramids!”
“Yes. That’s where the pyramids are. He took the throne when he was only eight years old.”
“What?!” He dramatically flopped his arms over his head.
“I know! Can you imagine ruling over a society at your age?”
“Yes! I would give everyone ice cream all the time.”
“Even the people who are lactose intolerant?”
“You use a lot of big words that don’t make sense.”
“You’re right.”
As soon as all the pieces are face up, Alejandro says, “I’m going to win the puzzle.”
“What? I don’t think that’s how—“
“These two are together! I get two points!” He holds up his proof.
“You found them like that!”
“Doesn’t matter! I’m winning!”
XXII. Stupor Mundi, n.
There’s something therapeutic about assembling a picture piece by piece, having to look at how each shape interacts with the others, how they all fit together. I’m lost in the process until my phone buzzes, and I see that it’s been an hour.
In that hour, Alejandro and I talked about a lot of things: how he was frustrated with his schoolwork, what he wanted to build in Minecraft, the new Pokémon cards Jaxson had showed in their last Zoom meeting (their teacher tried to have a virtual playdate where each student showed off a toy or game).
He managed to stay focused for the entire hour. He usually loses interest or changes gears in maybe ten minutes on any given activity— Easter mass required “wiggle breaks.”
He even asked me questions about ancient Egypt when he’d put together parts of the mask (after announcing how many points he was up to, of course). I told him as much as I could remember from when we learned about Egypt in 6th grade. I’m telling him about pharaohs when my phone buzzes.
“So they were like kings?” he asks, jamming two pieces together that don’t fit.
“Yeah, kinda,” I nod, seeing the time. I put my phone face down on the arm of our couch. “But they were also seen as gods. That’s what the pryram—”
“False gods,” my mom says as she walks through the living room into the kitchen. She does not pause or slow her gait. The clack of her Bible on counter punctuates the lesson.
XXIII. Philobiblist, n.
“So, have you given her a name yet?” Nadine asks, sitting on the floor of her room, leaning against the blue comforter of her bed. Over her shoulder, I can see a stack of paperbacks with Goodwill pricetags on her nightstand.
“Who?”
“Wow.” She shakes her head. “You are such a terrible mother. You forgot about your child?! Wow.”
“Oh! you mean the plant! I didn’t forget about her! She’s right here!” I reach behind my laptop, pick up the small pot from its place on the windowsill above my desk. “I’ve been feeding her every day. Don’t worry. She’s even growing! Look!” I hold the plant up to the camera.
“Yes she has! How are you sleeping? Is she a crier? Colicky?”
“Uh… No?”
“Phew. That’s good. I mean, you’d love her no matter what, I get it, but you must be thankful to have such a low-maintenance baby. Mine on the other hand—” she reaches over her shoulder to the nightstand. She lowers her arm to reveal a small pot just like mine, with a similar sprout. “She’s hit that adventurous age where you have to childproof the house.”
“Aww! She’s so cute!”
“I know! Elinor is going to be a senator one day. She’s gonna give all the other wildflowers free healthcare.” She boops Elinor, then puts her back on the nightstand.
“How did you get the name Elinor?”
“Sense & Sensibility, Isabella. Read a book— a not-science book. So, have you given your daughter a name or not?”
“I haven’t. It’s hard naming things!”
“First of all, people aren’t things; don’t be rude. Second of all, you just need to give her whatever name comes to you when you look at her.”
I look down at the little sprout in my hands. “You said her sister is a wildflower?”
“Yeah.”
Tilting the pot back and forth, the sprout waves her head back and forth like she’s dancing. “Lupine. I think her name is Lupine.”
“Lupine?”
“It’s a wildflower indigenous to the Mt. Rainier—“
“Oh. Gotcha. That makes way more sense. I thought you were talking about wolves for a second.”
XXIV. Mauvais Ton, adj.
Friday afternoon, Alejandro and I continue on the Tutankhamun puzzle after he finishes math work. The puzzle’s been a good motivator for him completing his schoolwork.
“I finished the edge! That’s another 50 points! Let’s goooo!” He jumps up, runs in a circle, cycles through several Fortnite dances he’s seen.
He asks about pharaohs being gods, so I tell him about their beliefs and the pyramids. I’m talking about how the tombs had things they liked while they lived when Mom tells him it’s his bath time.
He sighs, looks at me. “Don’t put any in until I’m back!” He gets up, Naruto runs down the hallway.
As soon as the bathroom door closes, Mom turns to me, arms crossed. “I wish you wouldn’t talk to him about that Egyptian gods stuff. He’s too young for that.”
“It’s history, Mom. Learning about culture is instrumental in a growing child.”
“He’s too young. He needs to learn math and spelling. Leave religion,” she places her hand on her crucifix, “to me.”
“I’m not trying to convert him. I’m just telling him about another culture.”
Her hands move to her hips. “You spend an awful lot of time talking about gods and the afterlife for talking about ‘culture,’” she air quotes.
“It’s a big part of their culture. You can’t talk about Colombian culture without talking about Catholicism. It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not! That’s OUR culture, OUR religion. It’s different.”
“He can learn about the stuff he is, but not the stuff he isn’t? The only god he can hear about is the one in this house? He can’t learn about anything else?”
“I feel like you’re trying to trap me, and I won’t allow it. I am your mother. I say you can’t talk to him about this, so you will not. That is final.”
A swarm caught in my chest— I feel them push against my ribs.
“You shouldn’t put such sinful ideas in his head.”
My arms go limp. “It’s not a sin to learn about other people.” I stand up, grip my elbows in my cold hands. “Ignorance perpetuates hatred, bigotry, racism. He needs to learn that there are different people with different beliefs, and that it’s okay.”
Before she says anything, I walk by her, down the hallway, into my room.
XXV. Puntabout, n.
I resist the urge to slam the door. Lupine peaks over the edge of her pot to check on me.
“I don’t know what to do, Lupe.” I sit in my desk chair, close my laptop.
She tilts her head empathetically.
“She just—“ my hands cover my face. Deep breath in and out.
“She’s just so… narrow-minded. The world is too big, there’s too much to learn, to put age-restrictions on so much information.”
I flop my hands down, palms up. “It’s not like he’s going to start worshipping Ra just because he hears about him. It’s just so weird for someone so devout to be so insecure about those beliefs.
“Yes, I know I don’t believe in the whole Catholic thing anymore, but I wasn’t trying to push Alejandro away from it! It’s his journey to have. He enjoys the time Mom spends reading the Bible to him. It’s not my place to disrupt any of that.”
I rub my right temple. The fading sunlight casts an orange glow on Lupine’s face.
“She’s just trying her best, Lupe. It’s all she knows.” I gently caress her head with my index finger. “I can’t let her hold his education hostage though.”
I grab the measuring cup I keep on my desk for Lupine and water her.
XXVI. Saturnine, adj. and n.
Saturday morning, a rainstorm rolls over Puyallup. Grey light comes through the window in my room. i rub my eyes, then scold myself for touching my eyes, as the rain pours silent. No thunder, not even the subtle tapping of rain hitting the driveway.
i stay in my room for as long as i can. my room is mine. It’s my space. i don’t feel welcome outside of it right now, like i’ve become the antagonist in some religious crusade. Maybe i am. Maybe i am corrupting Alejandro.
But, should asking questions be frowned upon? It shouldn’t make me feel isolated. i don’t think i should have to accept everything blindly— skepticism is healthy. Why can’t she see that?
XXVII. Mimesis, n.
Monday morning, I get Alejandro set up at the dining room table for his weekly Zoom meeting with his class. I sit on the couch in the living room, my feet on the edge of the coffee table now decorated with Tutankhamun’s complete mask, to work on calculus. The couch faces away form the dining room, but I can still hear him— seems like a good-enough illusion of privacy for him while still keeping him supervised.
“Okay, Alejandro. It’s your turn. What did you do this weekend?” Ms. Davis asks.
“It was GREAT! Me and my sister finished a puzzle of King Tutankhamun. He was a pharaoh in ancient Egypt and ruled when he was a teenager. I won the puzzle one billion points to 245!”
“That’s a lot!” Ms. Davis says, her voice uncertain. “When did you start wearing glasses?”
I stop writing, look over the back of the couch.
“Um,” Alejandro looks over his shoulder at me, then quickly turns back to the laptop and takes them off. “They’re not mine.” He places them on the table. “They’re my sister’s. She’s super smart. She knows everything about Egypt like she told me—“
I turn back to my calculus work, nudge the rim my glasses with the knuckle of my thumb as I wipe the corner of my eye (stop touching your eyes, Isabella).
“I would be buried with my Mega-Charizard-EX!” Jaxson yells.
I stifle a laugh. I especially have to as Alejandro tries to explain how cards would deteriorate over the millennia.
XXVIII. Sub Voce, adv.
For dinner, Mom made tamales— a recipe she got from her mom who got it from her mom, and so on. She tells Alejandro to set the table as they finish steaming on the stove.
He gives the silverware and napkins sound effects as he places them. Many crashes and explosions litter the table surface. He then turns on his heels to the living room to announce, “Dinner tiiiiiime!”
We all sit at the table as my mom puts a serving dish in the middle. She sits, places her napkin in her lap, says, without looking up, “Isabella, please say Grace.”
I tense up, bite the inside of my cheek. “I, um, would rather not.”
Mom freezes like a video that needs to buffer. She looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“I, uh, mean,” I stammer, adjusting my glasses, “that I don’t wanna say Grace.”
“Why not? Are you not well?”
I speak slow, trying to analyze every word I say. “No— no, that’s not it. I’m alright. I’m just not… sure.”
“What?”
“About the whole… prayer thing. It just doesn’t feel… right… right now.”
She freezes again, blinks a couple times slowly. My dad and Alejandro are silent, still.
“Are you saying you’re… you don’t believe… in God?” I can hear the heartbreak in her voice.
I look down. “I’m not sure that’s the right wording for it, Mama. I just don’t know what… is.”
A tense silence. I can’t look up from my plate.
“Mama, I’ll say it,” Alejandro says quickly. “I’ll say it so great.”
She nods.
He stumbles through a prayer that feels like ten prayers mashed together. I don’t hear a lot of it over my own mortification. I can’t believe I would be so foolish as to bring all of that up now of all times in such a stupid, clumsy way.
He clears his throat, then concludes, “So say we all. Amen.”
XXIX. Awesomesauce, adj.
I sit at my desk, forehead on the ball of my right hand.
“It’s going to be okay,” Suri says. “She’ll calm down at some point, and you’ll be able to talk to her. You spoke your truth, dude. That’s a hard thing to do sometimes, but it’s better to get it out there rather than bottle it up forever.”
I quickly breathe in and out through my nose, look up at my laptop screen and see their face, pale and tired in the morning light from their window. “Thanks. Does Ramadan make you more wise?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m always this wise. I’m just more hungry and tired now.”
“That’s all you get? That doesn’t seem like a good deal.”
“It’s a spiritual thing, Isabella. There’s sacrifice, yeah, but you get clarity and become closer to Allah and your community.”
“Huh. That’s pretty neat.”
“It’s nice for you to say so— as a nonbeliever, I mean.”
“Oh, no problem. Fasting isn’t that strange of a tradition, really. Some Catholics believe the eucharist LITERALLY turns into the flesh of Jesus as it goes down their esophagus.”
“Dude. What.”
“I. Know. So, not that strange. All cultures have those kinds of things. I like learning about ‘em, you know? People are weird; the human condition is weird. We’re all just trying out best, right?”
“Yeah,” they nod pensively. “The wafer turns into actual skin and stuff though? Wild. That’s a Death Spells song if I’ve ever heard one.”
XXX. Puppify, v.
She’s my mom. It’s her house. I can live with her practicing her religion and raising her family in the way she wants. I’m not going to actively argue or ridicule her beliefs. I’ll even go along with the prayers. There’s nothing wrong with being thankful or reflective. I can participate in her rituals until I go to college.
Soon, I’ll be able to be outside of this bedroom without feeling her coldness. Maybe it’s more of a shock thing. Maybe it’s like grieving. She just needs time.
Lying on my bed, I look over at Lupe sitting in her little pot on the windowsill. I know my mom still loves me. I’d love Lupe no matter what. She’s my daughter. Even if she told me she wanted to major in business or start going to church. I mean, I’d certainly worry if sh—
“Don’t become a Scientologist, Lupe! Promise me!”
She nods.
Thank goodness. I’m not worried about her. She has a good bulb on her shoulders. She’s going to be alright.
Continued in Part V: Nadine Sauer.
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.
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.
M. Espinosa 