LIT/PUB Modern Affairs -- Issue II, Spring 2022

LIT/PUB
Modern Affairs
Issue II - Spring 2022

Table of Contents
Editors' Note
Fiction
Melanie & Lucille - Autumn McIntyre
ninety-nine percent - Yasmine Guiga
The Ticking Clock - Olivia Kesselman
That Remains to Be Seen - Madison Walters
1
4
8
12
Script
The Wedding Scene - Kathryn Uliana
15
Poetry I
Meeting You - Jade Ramos
27
Non-Fiction
Collectables - Margaret Kovick
John Henry Totter - Meg Gephart
Panagiri Under the Stars - Alyssa Pasvantis
If I'm Being Honest - Autumn McIntyre
Letters to Julia - Julia Eisen
Balconies - Madison Walters
29
33
35
38
41
45
Humor
The Apartment’s Lament - Lauren Neely
47
Poetry II:
Oranges When Sick - Jade Ramos
50

Editors' Note
The striking cover by Jade Ramos – two girlfriends sitting at a café as they try to make sense of
things – evokes the spirit of this post-pandemic phase as we emerge, eyes blinking and tentative, to face
the insidious residuals of Coronavirus.
This same feeling of tentativeness pervades the short fiction of Autumn McIntyre, Yasmine
Guiga, Olivia Kesselman and Madison Walters – we read about the friendship between two young
women as it slips away; the confused anxiety around a possible pregnancy; couples breaking up and
coming together at the New Year; a daughter confronting her mother’s infidelity, and her own sexual
identity. In Kathryn Uliana’s quirky sketch, two strangers stuck in an elevator discover more about
themselves than they perhaps wish to.
In the Non-Fiction section, Margaret Kovick looks back soberly at a brief encounter with an
older man. Meg Gephart writes movingly about the loss of her grandfather. Alyssa Pasvantis tries to reconnect
with her Greek community in Florida after the pandemic. Autumn McIntyre battles bravely
with her eating disorder. Madison Walters wonders about the lives of her neighbors from her balcony.
Julia Eisen writes to her former selves in a touching exercise in self-reflection. And in Lauren Neely’s
humorous sketch, an apartment in Rome filled with American students complains about her untidy
tenants while lamenting their imminent departure like a typical Italian Mama.
In addition to her cover and drawings, Jade Ramos has contributed two fine poems – on the
strangeness of new love, and on oranges that sometimes cure illness and other times don’t.
When we first began putting together this issue of the magazine, we decided to work on the
idea of relationships. It seemed an appropriate theme as we emerged from the contact-less, remote-living,
zoom-zombie days of the pandemic. Over the past months “Relationships” morphed into the
nervier, more up-beat, more assertive “Modern Affairs” – all in all a promising sign.
Rome, May 2022
iii

Special thanks to Margaret Kovick, Yasmine Guiga, Olivia Kesselman, Marco Parolin, and Jade Ramos
for their excellent work on the design and layout of the issue. This magazine is a product of ENG305 -
Literary Editing and Publishing, taught by Professor Andrea di Robilant at
the American University of Rome.
***
iv

Melanie & Lucille
By Autumn McIntyre
“You know, I really hate this weather.”
Lucille scooted her chair closer to the small, wooden table and attempted to hide herself further
under the umbrella. Although it protected her and Melanie from the sun, the heat continued to
beat down mercilessly. But indoor seating was full, what other choice did they have?
“Yes, that is something you frequently make clear,” Melanie remarked, sipping from a glass of
water. “But I prefer this over the freezing cold.”
Lucille picked apart the bread in front of her. “I just need a nice breeze. That’s all I’m asking
for. It’s not much.”
“You’re asking for a nice breeze… and for me to wake up on time,” Melanie smiled.
“Hey, you weren’t that late today.”
“Only twenty minutes,” Melanie noted. “I didn’t mean to sleep through our plans last Saturday.”
“It’s okay. I saw some friends instead. Besides, I cancelled on you the week before.”
“True. Well, what did you end up doing last weekend?”
“My friends and I worked on a group project.”
“Cool.” Melanie tapped her fingers on the table. “How’s your mom doing? I forgot to wish
her a happy birthday last week.”
“Oh, don’t worry. She’s good. She asked about you and your brother. Does he know if he’s
gonna make varsity basketball?”
“He probably will.”
1

Fiction
“That’s great!” Lucille hummed, sipping her drink. “That’s really impressive, especially since
he’s a sophomore.”
“Yep, he’s pumped,” Melanie nodded.
“That’s good.”
Lucille smoothed out her floral-printed skirt and shifted in her seat. Her legs were sticking to
the metal.
“I talked to Anna on the phone last night,” Melanie said, picking at the loose seams from her
ripped jeans. “She wants to know if we’re going to visit her this semester.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that yet.”
“We can visit during our long weekend next month.”
“I made plans with some friends to go away that weekend.”
“Oh. I mean, I think I could go back without you.”
“Go ahead. Anna and everyone would be thrilled to have you there.”
“Maybe we can visit again next semester.”
“Maybe.”
Silence filled the air as Lucille wiped beads of sweat off her forehead. She hoped she could go
home soon. She wanted to strip off her tight clothes and change into her looser, cleaner, more comfortable
pajamas. “I might go visit Anna and everyone earlier,” Melanie said, chuckling. “She told me
Riley is staying at her apartment because he got locked out of his.”
“Oh my God.” Lucille rolled her eyes and laughed. “Typical.”
“I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since we left.”
“Really?
“Yeah.”
Had it been almost a year since they had parted from their friends and moved to new schools?
Time had passed faster than Lucille expected. The memories used to burn her skin. They were like
mosquito bites–the more she itched, the worse they got. But now, it seemed that they had scarred
over.
2

Fiction
“I miss it,” Melanie finally said over the silence.
“Me too, sometimes. But I’m also happy here.”
“I’m glad that we’re here together.”
Lucille gave a small smile. “I am too.”
The sun was finally beginning to move away.
“I don’t think I’m gonna have time to meet up next week.”
“I won’t either.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, then whenever we’re both free next.”
“Whenever we’re both free next.” •
3

ninety-nine percent
By Yasmine Guiga
“Miss Brower? Dr. Richards is ready for you.”
Lily followed her doctor’s assistant down the hallway and into the office. “Good morning, Dr.
Richards.”
“Lily! Please, have a seat.” The middle-aged doctor stood up to greet her.
“The results of your laparoscopy came in last night,” Dr. Richards said, patting the papers on
her desk. She readjusted her seat and took off her reading glasses. Lily noticed that Dr. Richards was
fidgeting. Dr. Richards never fidgeted.
“And? It can’t be good news since I had to come down here for it, right? Your assistant usually
just calls me,” Lily said, fighting against a wave of nausea. Her hand instinctively came to rest on her
belly. She shouldn’t have had those pancakes before she left. But Lucas had made them. He made the
best pancakes. Lucas should have been here with her. If only she had told him she was going to the
doctor today. At least she would have someone to hold her trembling hand while she sat there, waiting
for Dr. Richards to finish her sentence. Why didn’t she tell him?
Dr. Richards’ face softened with pity. Lily hated it.
“No,” the doctor said. “I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”
Lily frowned. “I thought it was just a regular procedure, nothing to be worried about?”
“It was a regular check-up. And ninety-nine percent of the time, there is nothing to be worried
about, but …” the doctor trailed off.
“But,” Lily pressed. “Just tell me, please. Might as well get it over with,” she chuckled bitterly.
“When you came in for your check-up, you mentioned your menstrual pain was getting worse.”
“Yes, but it’s been like that my entire life, I just have painful periods.”
4

Fiction
Dr. Richards shook her head. “Painful periods aren’t that common. At least not to the degree
that yours are. That’s why I wanted to do a laparoscopy. For a while, we thought you had primary
dysmenorrhea, which is the pain caused by the contractions of –”
“I know what primary dysmenorrhea is,” Lily snapped. “I’ve had it since I was thirteen.”
Dr. Richards was taken aback by Lily’s sudden aggression, but tried not to show it. She was
used to dealing with annoyed patients.
“Yes, of course. What I meant to say is that you don’t have primary dysmenorrhea; you have
secondary dysmenorrhea, caused by endometriosis.”
“Secondary dysmenorrhea,” Lily repeated stupidly. “Endometriosis.”
She was completely still now.
Dr. Richards carefully looked down at the file on her desk. Lily suspected she was bracing
herself for the rest of the diagnosis.
“Endometriosis is when the normal lining of the uterus starts to grow outside the uterine wall,
which explains your abnormal menstrual cramps.”
Lily nodded. There wasn’t much else she could say.
“It isn’t uncommon for endometriosis to go undetected for years because people just assume
it’s normal period pain. Now, Lily, um … this is the part of the conversation that I hate the most.”
“Why? Why do you hate it?” Lily knew she sounded impatient, but any sense of social pleasantry
was overtaken by the dread settling in her stomach.
A part of her knew what was coming next, but try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself
that she was ready to hear it. Her thumb absentmindedly went to twist the ring on her left hand, but
it wasn’t there. She had forgotten to wear her engagement ring. She usually put it on in the morning as
soon as she woke up, but today, it sat on her nightstand, overlooked in her haste to make her doctor’s
appointment on time.
Dr. Richards’s calm voice cut through the chaos of Lily’s thoughts. “Lily, you have severe endometriosis.”
She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “It means you will most likely never
be able to have children.”
There it was. The reason she had been asked to come here.
“Oh,” was all Lily said.
The irony of her situation almost made her laugh. Lily didn’t want to have children. She had
5

Fiction
known ever since she started college, and every single one of her exes had broken up with her the second
she uttered the infamous words.
“I don’t want kids,” Lily would say.
The boyfriend at the time would then lose his ability to form coherent sentences. “Um … you
… eh what?”
“I don’t want to have kids. I don’t want kids now, and I don’t think I will ever want kids,” Lily
would repeat slowly, deliberately.
“I’ve always wanted kids,” the boyfriend would say.
“I figured you would say that.”
That was how most of Lily’s relationships ended. Until she met Lucas. They had only been
dating for two months, but Lily didn’t want to waste her time. She was starting to fall in love with him
and wanted to make sure he knew about her choice. But Lucas didn’t react like her exes had.
“I don’t want kids either,” he had said.
Lily hadn’t believed him at first. Then two months had turned into six, and less than two years
later they got engaged.
“I don’t want kids,” Lily said after a while. “I’ve always been ninety-nine percent sure that I
didn’t want kids.”
Her use of the past tense wasn’t lost on the doctor. “Didn’t? Lily, I’ve had this conversation
with more people than should be bearable, and I know it’s never easy. But there are other options we
can look into, other –”
“I don’t need other options. I don’t want children. I’m fine.”
***
I’ve always been ninety-nine percent sure, Lily repeated to herself on her way out of the doctor’s
office. She replayed the words over and over in her head as she exited the building, got into her car, and
drove home.
She parked in her usual spot, leaving space for Lucas’s car, turned off the ignition, and sat
there in silence. Pressure started building behind her eyes and she let her head fall back against the seat.
She clutched her hands on the steering wheel. Her nail polish was beginning to chip. She should get
a manicure next week. The neighbors’ cat sauntered down the alleyway and stopped in front of her
car. Lily loved cats. They weren’t allowed to have cats growing up because their father was allergic. She
should adopt a cat. She and Lucas should get a kitten. Lucas. She should tell him about her doctor's
6

Fiction
appoinment. He will ask what she did today, and she won’t be able to lie to him. Lily was a horrible
liar. She should tell him. Maybe after they adopted the cat? She could tell him then.
Lily fished through her purse for her phone and started texting Lucas:
Lily: We should adopt a cat.
Lucas: Should I be worried that this is a disproportionate reaction to something?
Shit.
Lily: Nope. I just really want to adopt a cat. It might be tricky when my parents come visit
since my dad is allergic, but I think we can make it work.
Lucas: Yeah, of course we can. We’ll drive down to the shelter tomorrow. •
7

The Ticking Clock
By Olivia Kesselman
I
“We should break up.”
August could not have chosen a worse place to say those four dreadful words to Fiona – surrounded
by friends and just a few seconds before midnight. It’s not like she didn’t see the break-up
coming; they had both been thinking about it for a while, but why couldn’t he have kept it to himself
for a little longer. The music and din of the party made it hard to focus on the conversation.
Fiona let out a sigh full with the weight of their failed relationship, “I know, I was hoping you
wouldn’t say it though.”
August twiddled with the unraveling thread of the old couch they sat on. “One of us had to,
and we both know you have too much pride to say it first.”
“I thought we could make it work, with a little bit more effort—”
“Next year we won’t even live in the same time zone, so how did you expect to make it work?
We should just break it off now. We barely hang out as it is and when we do, we spend the whole time
arguing.”
“That’s not true! You just refuse to do anything if it doesn’t come easy to you,” Fiona said,
frustrated.
August let go of the thread he’d been fidgeting with and clenched his fists. “Well, I’m sorry I
don’t want to spend every waking hour striving for perfection and success!”
“I’m sorry for having ambition instead of expecting things to be automatically handed to me!”
August suddenly felt everyone’s eyes on them. He let out a shaky breath as he tried to calm himself
down. “See? We’re doing it again.”
Fiona looked around at the people staring at them and fell back against the couch.
8

Fiction
“I never thought we would end up like this,” she admitted, her voice calmer.
“I know.”
She inhaled sharply and met his eyes for the first time that night. “August, I love you, but maybe
we’re clinging to something that is no longer worth it.”
“Maybe.” August’s eyes glistened with tears that had yet to fall.
“Lower the music! The countdown is about to begin!” chimed a random voice in the crowd.
August looked down at his shoes and cleared his throat. “So, this is it, huh? Once the countdown
ends, we’ll be broken up,” he said with a strained smile.
“Yeah… this is it.”
He looked up at her as the music lowered and the chatty host on Dick Clark’s New Year's
Rockin’ Eve sounded clearer. Fiona pursed her lips as the first tear fell down her cheek. August quickly
glanced towards the big ticking clock on T.V.
He wiped off her runaway tear with his thumb. “We still have a few seconds left of this year, so
no need to cry just yet.”
“Right, no need for that yet.” She smiled up at him.
“Everyone gather around! It’s starting!”
II
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
The crowd around Ella chants and she realizes she doesn’t have much time left. Her grip on
her plastic cup tightens as she glances to her right. She can only see his side profile. Newt is smiling and
chanting along with the others. The neon lights shining off the cheap disco balls illuminate his face.
He is laughing and he closes his eyes when the light beams hit them.
Stupid, stupid idea. Who even came up with the concept of kissing at midnight anyway? Ella’s
cup starts slipping as her hands get clammy. Her ears are ringing even though the booming music has
been lowered to hear the countdown on T.V. She looks around at her other friends, and her friends’
friends, and everyone just keeps counting, and counting, and counting … she is not sure she can do it
when the time comes.
9

Fiction
“Six! Five! Four!”
The crowd cheers on. This is going too fast; she needs more time to make up her mind. Her
glances towards Newt are now frantic and rapid. She chugs the remaining liquid in her cup, hoping
for some extra courage and sets it down on the table beside her. She takes a step towards him. Then
two more. Her hands shake, should she just stuff them in her pockets? What if that makes it awkward
or uncomfortable?
“Three!”
Newt finally looks at her and his smile is the brightest thing in the room – he makes even the
fluorescent lights look dim.
“Two!”
The crowd roars as the two of them lock eyes. What if this ruins everything?
“One!”
Then nothing else matters. It’s just her and him and it’s midnight.
III
“Happy New Year!”
This is definitely not the way Lotus wanted to start off her year. Her previously white dress is
now sticky and clinging uncomfortably to her body as the huge red wine stain seeps through the fabric
to her skin. Not her brightest idea – she’s aware, but she has to start a conversation somehow. Lotus
spent the entire night eyeing him and never got the courage to make a move. She sets down her now
empty cup on the table next to her before turning towards him, and taps him strongly on the shoulder.
“Hey! You spilled your drink all over me!” Her voice is loud enough to be heard over the blaring
music, but she’s careful not to sound too angry or upset.
He turns around to look at her, an incredulous look on his face. “Did I really?”
“Yes, do you think I bought the dress like this?” She gestures dramatically to her ruined dress.
“You were obviously too busy partying with your friends to even notice that you bumped into me.”
10

Fiction
He lets out a light chuckle. “Well I’m really sorry about your dress, but my cup only has water
in it. I don’t know who did that, but it definitely wasn’t me.”
Lotus looks down and sees the transparent liquid in his cup. “Oh… right… never mind then.”
She turns to leave when he calls out to her.
“I’m Monty by the way.”
He smiles at her. The smile she had seen across the room so many times was finally directed
towards her. He extends his hand.
She takes it, a triumphant smile spreads across her lips. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lotus.” •
11

That Remains to Be Seen
By Madison Walters
The car radio died with an unceremonious beep, the accompanying light disappearing from
the screen. Laura thumped the steering wheel of her truck with her fist.
“Of all the days…” she muttered under her breath. She dug her manicured nails into the
steering wheel, scarring the rubber with gray crescents. Her job at the local grocery store didn’t pay
her enough to even begin thinking about fixing such a superfluous part of her car. Something needed
to be done. It wasn’t so much that Laura liked music – didn’t everyone? – it was the need for distraction.
Stuck in a moving vehicle, without diversion, even the strongest of minds wandered to intrusive
thoughts after a while. Laura’s mind immediately crashed back to her revelation from that morning.
It all started with that damned phone. Why did it have to have the same case as hers? She
didn’t mean to look, it just happened. How could she ever look at her mother the same way? She
didn’t see the message itself, only the lock screen preview, but it was more than enough to confirm her
longtime suspicion. It only took seven little words:
I want you so badly right now.
Laura had tried to ignore the mounting signs of her mother’s infidelity--the spin classes, the
new highlights in her hair, her “late nights” at work, and always texting someone on her phone. That
damned phone. But willful ignorance could only last so long. At some point, you had to face the facts.
The message she had seen earlier that morning confirmed it. There was no denying it.
It was a miracle Laura’s father hadn’t noticed the changes in his wife, but that probably explained why
she was having an affair. Losing 20 pounds and bleaching her hair was quite the change, but he never
said a word. Laura knew in the back of her mind that she was a “save the marriage baby.”
12

Fiction
So much for that. It wasn’t that her father was absent, he just wasn’t present.
But what about Laura? Everyone always thinks about the spouse first, but what about the
child? Sure, Laura was twenty, but in some ways, she still felt fifteen. Frozen in time.
At fifteen, Laura’s mother intentionally snooped on her phone. She too had her longtime suspicions
confirmed, yet had chosen to deny them. Her daughter was queer. It was something Laura’s
staunchly religious mother had always suspected, but had prayed wasn’t true. Threats of homelessness
and disownment had followed, leaving Laura a shell of the person she could have been.
“It’s a sin,” her mother would spit at her. Church became mandatory. Somehow, Laura’s
mother became more fervently religious than before. Which was what made her mother’s adultery all
the more shocking.
“It’s a sin,” Laura said under her breath, stopping at the stoplight two streets away from her
college campus. Her stomach clenched in what felt like a neverending cramp. She cursed her mother,
her father, and the church. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she let out a muffled scream, then settled
back into silence.
Laura wasn’t religious, yet had all the knowledge of the most devout believer. Weren’t all sins
treated equally? Why should it have been a different story when her mother broke one of the deadly
commandments? Why was it a sin to love – one of the purest emotions in this bleak, bleak world.
Did her mother love the man, or was it just physical? Laura decided that if it were love, she’d be more
forgiving, considering the twenty-five years her mother had spent in a passionless marriage.
But what about Laura?
“Are all forms of blackmail bad?” she asked herself, instantly knowing the answer. “But
maybe…” her voice faded. Would it really be such a bad thing to do given everything Laura had been
put through? Or would it make her just as bad as her mother? She could promise her mother that her
secret was safe, so long as Laura could have the life back that was stolen from her.
“Mum’s the word,” she said with a dark chuckle.
“No, I can’t,” she said with a resounding sigh. Should she tell her father? Did he even deserve
to know? Laura had always wanted to believe the best in people, whether they deserved it or not. She’d
wanted to believe that her relationship with her mother could have been different if her mother
13

Fiction
and father’s relationship had been more fruitful. Secretly, she had always favored her mother, even
after everything she had put Laura through.
Her car pulled into the student parking lot. The spaces weren’t designed for the size of her
truck, so it always took some creative maneuvering. After a few moments, Laura finally succeeded. She
sat back and closed her eyes. The prospect of going to class was unbearable, but she needed an escape.
“Now what?” she asked no one in particular. How did people move on from something like
this?
Absolutely exhausted, Laura slumped over her steering wheel, accidentally blaring her horn
in the process. Simultaneously, her radio came back to life with a loud drum solo from a song on the
classic rock station. Laura sat up quickly with a small smile on her face.
She could really use a distraction. •
14

The Wedding Scene
By Kathryn Uliana
(A young woman is fixing her makeup
using her phone camera in an elevator.
The doors open and a slightly disheveled
young man in an untied bowtie enters.)
MARTIN
Going down?
JILL
Yep. Which floor?
MARTIN
Second.
JILL
Me too.
(Elevator doors close)
JILL
Are you here for the wedding?
MARTIN
Yeah, I’m the best man.
JILL
That’s cool. (Nods) It’s such a beautiful day.
MARTIN
Yeah, sure is.
(Martin starts to pace, up and down. Jill
notices. At first doesn’t say anything, then
she finally speaks.)
JILL
Are you ok dude?
MARTIN
Yes! I am… I am fine… I am perfect.
JILL
Cool. Cool.
(Jill returns to fixing her makeup)
MARTIN
(Unaware of how loud he is)
No, I am not, I am absolutely not.
(He leans his arm on the elevator wall and
fidgets with his untied bowtie)
JILL
Oh…Alright
MARTIN
If I were to take a Prozac now, how long
would it be until it kicks in?
JILL
Uh, I don’t know.
MARTIN
It's just… (Martin pulls out a small bottle
of liquor from his coat pocket)
15

Script
I am in the middle of a bit of a breakdown.
(He drinks from the bottle wiping his
hand with his sleeve)
JILL
Oh, ok.
(Jill nods anxiously, feeling a bit trapped
in the elevator)
MARTIN
I mean, these are my college friends… and it's
their wedding, and I should be happy for
them. But I’m not. And I’m getting evicted,
the love of my life just ended things with me
and… Who are you?
JILL
I’m just in the band, man. I’m Jill.
(She smiles slightly as if trying to defuse
the situation and holds out her hand,
Martin shakes it)
MARTIN
Martin. Hi.
(Jill discreetly wipes sweat from his hand
on her dress)
JILL
Hi.
(Jill, unsure whether to speak, looks at the
elevator buttons. There is a brief silence as
the two stand facing front. Martin nervously
fumbles with his bowtie)
This is a really tall building.
MARTIN
Yeah.
JILL
I know it starts in like an hour--I just had to
run up and get a pick.
MARTIN
I’m glad they went with a band, it's so much
more authentic. DJs just suck the life out of
events.
JILL
I’m also a DJ.
MARTIN
Oh (Three second pause) …So do you
mainly do weddings?
JI LL
Some bar mitzvahs and company parties.
MARTIN
That’s interesting.
JILL
Yeah, it is.
(Stressfully long pause)
(Elevator jumbles, the two fall to the
ground)
MARTIN
Is it stuck?
VOICE
Hang tight, We’ll get you out as soon as possible,
you might be in there for a while.
JILL
No…no no no!
(Begins to pound on door)
MARTIN
Well, we might be here for a bit.
JILL
(Yelling) If I climb up the shaft what’s my
chance of survival?
VOICE
Zero if we get the elevator running again
while you’re up there.
JILL
Shit.
16

Script
MARTIN
You know- this is kind of poetic. Two strangers
who never would’ve met if not for this
situation.
JILL
We’re going to the same wedding.
MARTIN
Would you ever have talked to me?
JILL
Good point.
MARTIN
All I’m saying is that this is the perfect opportunity
to trade war stories, if you know
what I mean.
JILL
I don’t. Martin, you seem very kind but I can
already tell we are two very different people.
For my own sanity and your own feelings I
think we should spend our time together in
silence.
MARTIN
Ok-
(Painfully long silence)
-Counter point.
What are the chances of you ever wanting to
see me again when the wedding is over?
JILL
No chance.
MARTIN
Right… So let's take advantage of this situation
to air everything out.
JILL
I feel as though you need to air everything
out, and I should just stay quiet.
MARTIN
You’re stuck here too, it's only fair for both
of us to lay everything out on the table.
JILL
Are you a cop?
MARTIN
No. What?
JILL
Nothing.
MARTIN
Well, anyway, I think this could be therapeutic.
JILL
Ok…fine…why are you…
(Delicately)
…the way that you are?
(Awkwardly long pause, Martin takes an
uncomfortably loud deep breath)
MARTIN
Have you ever been in love?
JILL
(Whispers) Jesus Christ (Full volume)
Uh…I’m not sure.
MARTIN
(Martin walks to the front of the elevator
not facing Jill)
I was. Still am. She was my everything. I
always thought we’d have a beautiful life
together. Three kids, a Pomeranian.
JILL
(Jill makes a disgusted face)
That sounds…Domestic. Why are you freaking
out? Is she here?
MARTIN
She is actually.
JILL
(Trying to feign sympathy)
Oh that sucks seeing your ex and--
17

Script
MARTIN
She’s the bride.
JILL
(Snorts) You’re kidding? (Martin looks at
her with no trace of joking) Oh, you’re
serious. When did it happen?
MARTIN
Just before the wedding. She used to come to
me for everything. Comfort, reassurance, a
shoulder to cry on.
JILL
(Suddenly interested)
Really?! So did anything happen?
MARTIN
What do you mean?
JILL
Well like, you know…
MARTIN
No, no nothing like that.
JILL
( Jill looks even more intrigued almost
reveling in Martin’s sadness)
So are you going to…
MARTIN
Object? No, it doesn’t matter anyway, she
chose Anderson.
JILL
Anderson? That’s his name?
MARTIN
Yeah, she and I--
JILL
Wait, his first name is Anderson?
MARTIN
Yes.
JILL
That’s weird.
MARTIN
It's just his name.
JILL
Yeah, but it’s a last name.
MARTIN
It’s a normal name.
JILL
Ok, what’s his last name?
MARTIN
Todd.
JILL
So his name is Anderson Todd.
MARTIN
Yes.
JILL
What’s his middle name?
MARTIN
Comma.
JILL
Stop it! So his name is Anderson Comma
Todd. So, the reverse of an actual name.
Were his parents playing a lifelong joke?
MARTIN
Shouldn’t you already know the name of the
groom? You’re playing at his wedding.
JILL
I just show up and play, man.
MARTIN
Look, none of this matters.
JILL
Right. Did she ever tell you she loved you?
MARTIN
She didn’t have to.
JILL
So she never did.
18

Script
MARTIN
I felt it. Like the energy between us.
JILL
But she never said it.
MARTIN
Well, no.
JILL
Well, did she lead you on? Like flirting with
you?
MARTIN
No, she would just look at me and I would
know. Since college, but she was always with
Anderson, and I was always with someone
else.
JILL
So she never affirmed that she liked you.
MARTIN
Well no.
JILL
And you never dated either?
MARTIN
No. But I mean… When you’re up there
playing, you must see couples all the time
who don’t look perfect or who don’t fit.
JILL
I never pay attention.
MARTIN
But you must really love weddings.
JILL
I love paychecks.
MARTIN
But you get to play some of the most beautiful
love songs ever written.
JILL
Over and over again. It gets exhausting.
MARTIN
Then do something else.
JILL
Why should I?
MARTIN
You hate your job.
JILL
I never said that.
MARTIN
So, you love it?
JILL
Nobody loves their job. What do you do?
MARTIN
I’m a barista at a vegan coffee shop/used
bookstore.
JILL
Makes sense. Ok, do you love that?
MARTIN
Yes.
JILL
Oh…(Pause) Well, I tried to do something
else. I promised my parents I would go to
law school, but I ended up dropping out
and becoming the rhythm guitarist in a wedding
band and a DJ every other weekend of
the month.
MARTIN
Not the worst thing a person can do.
JILL
(Jill puts a finger up to interrupt)
I used to love Taylor Swift…The Beatles… Elvis…
John Mayer, but if “Lover,” or “Can't
Help Falling In Love” or “All You Need Is
Love” or--God forbid-- “Daughters” comes
on in the supermarket, I just leave. I will
leave my cart full of groceries in the aisle
19

Script
and walk out of the store, into my car and
drive away. And for whatever cruel reason
those songs are very popular at my local
Ready Mart.
MARTIN
Your parents wanted you to be a lawyer?
JILL
They never said it but I’m sure they
wouldn’t have wanted me to end up in their
situation. They were musicians too.
MARTIN
What kind?
JILL
Bluegrass, moderately popular in my town. I
was born with perfect pitch, so I kind of fell
into music.
MARTIN
It seems like a job you need passion for.
JILL
I mean, I have passion for it. I guess. I’m
pretty good at it, it’s what I’m best at.
MARTIN
You don’t seem too enthusiastic about it.
JILL
(Defensive)
Well, I’m just not like you, I don’t need to
make a performance out of my emotions.
MARTIN
Why did you even join a wedding band if
you hate love?
JILL
Whoa, I don’t hate love. What makes you
think I hate love?
MARTIN
You just shit on some of the greatest love
songs of all time.
JILL
You would hate them too if you played them
over and over every other week.
MARTIN
You’re being very condescending about my
romantic plight when you can’t even recognize
love in your own life.
JILL
I’m not condescending. Maybe I’m just
better at recognizing love when I see it and
you aren’t?
MARTIN
Well, what were your parents like?
JILL
Oh no, you do not get to play the stable one
and psychoanalyze me now.
MARTIN
I mean, hearing your side of the story might
show me where I’ve gone wrong in my life
and show me how you’ve become such an
expert in matters of the heart. Also, it will
help pass the time.
JILL
Fine. But then we’re done talking, deal?
MARTIN
Deal.
JILL
I grew up in nowhere Oregon. My parents
were creative types that never made enough
money, so they divorced because of that. My
sister, by some fucking miracle, got out with
a fancy business degree. I tried to be pre-law,
but my first month of university I dropped
out and ended up working at a gas station
outside Cincinnati. Are you keeping up? I
will not repeat myself.
20

Script
MARTIN
Yes.
JILL
In that gas station, for some cosmic reason,
a guy and his boyfriend were playing “Free
Bird” on an out-of-tune guitar. One of my
favorite songs. I go up to them and tell them
that it's out of tune, neither of them play.
They are, however, in a wedding band on
vocals and drums. Next thing I know, I’m
sleeping on their couch playing in the band,
Love is patient, Love is Rock.
MARTIN
That’s a really great name.
JILL
It’s a horrible name.
MARTIN
And DJing?
JILL
I dated one.
MARTIN
Oh, I’m sorry.
JILL
Yeah.
(Silence)
MARTIN
If your goal was to escape, you failed.
JILL
Excuse me?
MARTIN
Well, your resentment towards your parents-
-it didn’t work.
JILL
I don’t resent my parents. And you promised
silence.
(Pause until Jill speaks again)
What makes you think I resent my parents?
MARTIN
You ’re making them into the villains of your
story.
JILL
They aren’t villains, they’re a cautionary tale.
MARTIN
Did they even want you to be a lawyer?
JILL
They never came out and said it, but every
parent wants the best for their child. (Silence)
I wanted a good job, I wanted security,
and I didn’t get it. I failed, it’s fine.
MARTIN
You didn’t fail. Do you write music?
JILL
No. Well, I compose if you count that.
MARTIN
I do. Elton John composes.
JILL
I love Elton John.
MARTIN
Really, “Your Song” hasn’t been tainted for
you?
JILL
No…Not yet . Point is, I tried to get out. I
tried to have a good job. I just-- Couldn’t. It
was just illicit for me.
MARTIN
I mean if--Wait what was that word? Illicit?
JILL
Like I had no other choice.
MARTIN
That’s not what illicit means.
21

Script
JILL
Fine, invaluable.
MARTIN
That’s not--What are you trying to say?
JILL
Like, unavoidable.
MARTIN
Oh, inevitable. Or you could’ve just said
unavoidable.
JILL
Fine whatever, I didn’t go to college. I didn’t
drink, I didn’t smoke, and I have a failed
degree to show for it.
MARTIN
So this is how you rebel?
JILL
What?
MARTIN
You didn’t rebel in your teen years, you tried
to have a boring non-music related life to
reject your parents.
JILL
Ok, sure. Somehow, Jac, my sister did.
MARTIN
Wait, your sister's name is Jac?
JILL
With a C and no K.
MARTIN
Sorry, wait, hold on, if your name is Jill, and
your sister is Jac, then…
JILL
What?
MARTIN
You’re Jack and Jill?
JILL
Well, our full names aren’t Jac and Jill.
MARTIN
Jillian and Jaqueline?
JILL
No, Jilliard and Juaquina. What about it?
MARTIN
You have no right to criticize anyone’s name.
Anyway.
JILL
I thought we were talking about you…
Something tells me you don’t want to date a
woman.
MARTIN
What?
JILL
Like a real woman. You created this entire
affair with the bride in your head.
MARTIN
No, there was something.
JILL
She needed a friend and she found one, you.
A friend, a person she could talk to, and
you were there, that’s it, that’s your entire
connection.
MARTIN
You weren’t there.
JILL
I didn’t have to be, you’re such a prolific
storyteller. You didn’t even love her.
MARTIN
Stop.
JILL
You loved her achievements, her aesthetic--the
idea of her.
MARTIN
You weren’t there, you didn’t see us together.
22

Script
JILL
Fine, then tell me something about her.
What’s her favorite song, better yet, what’s
one from a band she loves but always skips
because it's “not as good as the rest of the
album”? When was the first time she got
drunk? Who’s her favorite co-worker?
What’s one thing that is unique to her and
only her?
MARTIN
She used to do ballet; she was good enough
to go pro. She was the salutatorian of her
high school. She--
JILL
Don’t give me her resume, give me a reason,
anything! I think I’ve figured you out. You
chase these dream girls that don’t exist, and
when they can’t save you or be the perfect
mold of a woman you thought they were
going to be, you chase the next one. You
build beautiful pedestals for these girls and
worship at the base until one day they deign
to talk to you or fuck you, or whatever you
want from them.
MARTIN
You have no idea what you’re talking about.
You don’t know me! Maybe you just didn’t
have a good example of love growing up. My
parents were perfect.
JILL
(Scoffs)
Right.
MARTIN
They were. My dad would always open
doors for my mom. We always had dinner together.
They would never fight around me.
JILL
What, so… Just ‘cause my parents fought and
divorced means I’m incapable of love?
MARTIN
No, maybe it means that you're just skewed.
JILL
I’m skewed? Well, I’m sorry, my parents
weren’t some Leave It to Beaver wet dream
but actual human beings who screamed in
the street at 2 a.m. over who got the Mazda.
At least I got two Christmases.
MARTIN
No, that’s not what I mean. I just mean, you
need to find the things you want. Take my
dad, he would always buy two perfumes for
my mom. I mean the fact that he would buy
her perfume in the first place--
JILL
Wait--Two perfumes?
MARTIN
Yeah, in case she ran out.
JILL
He was buying a second perfume…for his
mistress.
MARTIN
Now you’re being delusional.
JILL
It's true. Men do that so they won't come
home smelling like another woman. No one
goes through perfume that quickly. Would
he ever buy two bottles in front of her?
MARTIN
No, no it doesn’t. I--
(Realizes)
JILL
Did he have two credit cards?
23

Script
MARTIN
How would I--
JILL
Did your parents suddenly stop acknowledging
each other?
MARTIN
What?
JILL
Did your dad suddenly take more interest
in his appearance out of nowhere? Did your
mother suddenly start spending more time
with the 25-year-old gardener?
MARTIN
Stop.
JILL
Here’s a good one, did your dad start telling
your mom he would be out with a coworker
named Chris, or Alex, or Jo. Which you later
realized could be short for girls' names.
MARTIN
That’s enough! You know, since you have
such a high moral opinion of yourself, tell
me. Are you happy?
JILL
Happiness doesn’t exist. You can’t chase a
feeling.
MARTIN
Contentment does, are you content? What
are you protecting yourself from by detaching
yourself? Turning out like your parents?
Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but
you’re a musician living in Nowhere, USA.
JILL
At least I’m not delusional.
MARTIN
Maybe if you felt something every now and
again you could sympathize.
JILL
Maybe if you self-reflected you could be
something more.
MARTIN
What if your parents didn’t care what you
became, as long as you were happy?
JILL
I’m sure they wouldn’t want me to turn out
like them.
MARTIN
What? Fulfilled?
JILL
How do you know my parents are content?
MARTIN
Well, from what you can see, are they?
JILL
I don’t know. They never complained.
They were much happier when they split,
although they were still in a band together.
Overly emotional people. A bit like you
actually.
MARTIN
Strange they produced such a detached
daughter.
JILL
Produced, really dude?
MARTIN
You know what I mean. You’re just so…
Emotionally constipated. (Jill looks made
for a moment before she starts quietly
laughing, Martin cracks a smile)
JILL
(She covers her face and sits)
Emotionally constipated? Your word choice
today, man.
24

Script
I hope you’re not using anything like that in
your speech.
(A quiet moment passes. Martin sits with
his face in his hands. Jill takes a deep
breath. She looks at Martin with pity,
then compassion. She looks at the floor
while speaking.)
I’m in too deep. If I start to feel… everything,
25 years of emotions… It’s over. I wouldn’t
be getting anything done, I'd just be dealing,
coping--self-medicating, probably.
MARTIN
Then don’t feel everything now. Let emotions
come when they do, and if they bring
up the past, let them. You can’t be a real
person without your feelings. Sorry, that was
a dumb way to put that.
JILL
I think that’s the most cohesive thing you
have said, but the opposite could be said
about you. I don’t think you’re delusional.
Naïve yes, but not delusional.
(They both half smile at each other before
sinking into themselves again. Martin
covers his face with his hands. Jill reaches
her arm out and awkwardly pats his
shoulder. When he looks at her, she quickly
stops.)
MARTIN
I thought I’d be married by now.
JILL
I thought I’d be in law school by now.
MARTIN
I guess we both failed.
JILL
Jesus, we’re too young to talk like this. Do
you have any of that liquor left?
(Martin passes her the small bottle)
MARTIN
It’s too late to do anything about it now.
JILL
Think of it this way, with all your issues, sorry,
but you would be on your way to divorce.
And with my mess, I would be on my way to
a courtroom breakdown.
MARTIN
Probably while working on my divorce.
JILL
Probably.
MARTIN
Are you saying we weren’t cut out for the
lives we thought we wanted?
JILL
No. Yes? No. I’m saying we tried to design
lives for people we thought we were, not
who we actually are.
MARTIN
Do you know who you are?
JILL
No, do you?
MARTIN
Absolutely not. We just… have to keep failing
I guess.
JILL
I guess. It would’ve been pretty funny to
watch you stop the wedding on the basis of
your one-sided relationship.
MARTIN
(Laughs)
25

Script
It would’ve been. Great story, too.
(Laughing dies down)
We could die in this elevator.
JILL
That’s a wonderful thought. If we do, do
you have any regrets?
MARTIN
Not taking the stairs.
JILL
Like actually, what do you regret?
MARTIN
Hating myself for so long. It was exhausting
and only a little justified.
JILL
When this elevator works again, and you
have to be up at that altar next to the happy
couple, what are you going to do?
Blackout.
•
26

Meeting You
By Jade Ramos
Meeting You 1
Meeting You 2
Fluttering heartbeats and shining eyes
stealing quick glances of you,
ecstatic when our fingers intertwined
Pulling you closer, closer
You pull me closer still
I can barely keep my gaze on you
flashes of smiles I fantasize
Who are you?
Your body is so warm as I hold it to mine
Our words dance between us
Our thoughts fill the sky
You bought me ice cream and it tastes sweeter
now
I think I like you a lot
the warmth that curls through my cheeks
I reach out and you take my hand
Fresh innocence and care is all we’ve got
Your web has me but it doesn’t matter
I’ve fallen and so luckily been caught
Pounding heartbeats and glistening eyes
tears blurring my image of you,
fingers clutching my chest as I cry
Get away from me
You pull me closer still
I want to forget you now
dark clouds raining down your lies
Who are you?
My body is cold as you still fill my mind
Your words are flat now
Your thoughts I couldn’t surmise
The sweet memories rot and decay to dust
I think you horrify me
my guts tearing themselves out in bloody yanks
You reach out but I want to run away
Ears stinging with each sharp plea
The little bug feels the web quiver
bubbling in false rage
I want to leave
27

Poetry I
Meeting You 3
Nervous heartbeats and tired eyes
we look different now,
fingers dancing together and apart
I catch your warm hand
You follow my lead
I look steadily at your face
lines of pain softened by time
I’m starting to know you.
And I know that tears do dry
And words can be melody
Our thoughts unified as we try--
Don’t forget--but the future is sweeter now
It takes a lot to rebuild trust
weeks and months of persistence our testament
You loosen your grip but I choose to stay
We know there’s so much to discuss
No spells or webs, but magic nonetheless
borne from our hope in us •
28

Collectables
By Margaret Kovick
The smoke unfurls above me in wispy grey clouds. I watch it as it separates and rejoins itself, twisting
and twirling like old-fashioned ribbon candy. I think now that I have never seen something so magical.
The vibration of the music seeps into my bones. It comes in waves, flooding the trailer all at once, and
then recedes, dissipating into hollow vocals and synthesized angst. It’s Pink Floyd. Something from
Wish You Were Here, but I don’t remember the name of the song. It is sad, and a bit angry.
I should be on drugs, I think. It feels like I’m on drugs.
But I’m not. I swear I’m not on anything. I’m comically sober considering where I am and the types of
people who usually find themselves here.
I am not alone here. (I’ll call him Freddy) is standing in the corner of the room, where a plywood
counter with peeling paint meets a rusty Coleman stove. Above him, a wood plank of a shelf holds
bottle upon bottle of unopened Kraken. The bottles are black and glossy and full. There must be at
least twenty of them. Who in the world needs that much rum, I don’t know. But Freddy doesn’t. I
have never seen Freddy drink Kraken. I think that’s why I’ve always felt safe here. This is the home of
someone who knows self-control.
Lost in smoke and a second-hand high, I don’t ask why he bothers to have a Kraken collection. If I did,
maybe he would tell me the truth. That he is a trophy collector. He likes pretty things, slightly dangerous
things, things that give him an air of mystique and depth. And he likes to show them off.
29

Non-Fiction
The content of the things matters less than their appearance. If he wanted to drink the Kraken, surely
he would have by now.
He once said to me, “you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t find you attractive.”
I think most people would take that personally, but I didn’t. I got it. It was honest.
At the time, I told him I understood. “You have to have pretty friends,” I said, “just in case it turns
into something else.”
He smiled at me. “Exactly.”
Now, I’m lying on the couch next to him. We are two leftover Tetris pieces that cannot fit together,
but make a twisted sort of sense side-by-side. He’s smoking a joint. Its paper body rests obediently
between his weathered fingers, quietly smoldering until he brings it to his lips and it burns deep red.
Running his fingers through his thick black hair, he asks, not for the first time, “How did we get ourselves
into this mess, Maggie?”
“Don’t blame me,” I say, “I just sell tea.”
I don’t look away from the smoke.
“Yeah, yeah, always miss innocent,” he says. He has a subtle Puerto Rican accent that I once found
endearing.
“Yeah.”
I know how it happened. It happened the way it happened before, the way I hoped it wouldn’t.
I let it.
30

Non-Fiction
I don’t say that as in oh, I was so swept off my feet I just couldn’t control myself, I say it as in, when he
told me he wanted more than friendship, part of me had hoped he’d take it back--that he’d keep me at
arm’s length as his shy, blonde friend. But when he didn’t, I found myself saying I did too. I was flattered.
It’s flattering when a good-looking, smart, funny, good-reputation-holding, older (much older)
man wants to spend time with you. That is why I say I let it happen. Because I knew it would. I just
didn’t want to believe it would. This was supposed to be a person who knew self-control.
After we kissed, all I could see was a fluorescent number “40” flashing feverishly above his head. I had
thought it didn’t bother me. I had thought I was genuinely attracted to him. I did like Freddy. He was
sweet, annoyingly generous, and always smelled like dark chocolate or myrrh or some rich, exotic spice
I couldn’t place. But I was eighteen and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
I thought I had stumbled into a lifelong friendship. We had been honest with each other. He was
afraid his almost-sort-of-girlfriend was going to leave him, I was in the process of breaking up with my
first real boyfriend. I told him that I wanted to travel to Sweden. He told me that he wanted to start
a shoe-shining business for renaissance faires like this one. I told him that I couldn’t stand my sister’s
boyfriend. He told me I wasn’t as pretty as my sister, but only when I asked. He was right. Honesty.
Blatant, fine, new.
There was that day we walked through the woods behind the faire site together, climbing over boulders
and talking about bears. It was seamless.
But the friendship I had thought was going absolutely swimmingly turned on a dime when Freddy’s
almost-sort-of-girlfriend packed her bags, left the faire, and left New York. And then it wasn’t about
self-control. It was about clinging to a confused possibility.
There had been a point, a few weeks earlier, when he kissed me on the cheek and I felt my entire body
ignite. It was an empty kiss, a platonic kiss, a small goodbye gesture after stopping by my booth to
chat about nothing in particular. I had silently thanked god that Freddy was in love with someone else
because otherwise, the potentiality for messiness was unquestionably high.
31

Non-Fiction
And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. And I became something else. Something new and shiny moved like a
chess piece to the forefront of a game I thought we had agreed not to play.
He had told me, “Every guy you meet will see you as a conquest. He won’t be able to help it. It’s instinct.
No matter who you are as a person, he’ll see you as an attractive young woman.”
I didn’t want to believe that. I don’t believe that.
Now, I stare at the Kraken bottles. Under the yellow trailer lights, I see that a faint layer of dust has
collected on their necks. And I wonder how long they’ve been here, and about the small, trapped,
useless life they’ve had.
Freddy knocks the last bit of ash off the joint and into a coffee mug. The smoke has nearly cleared. I sit
up, suddenly.
“I’m going home,” I say. “It’s getting late.” •
32

John Henry Totter
By Meg Gephart
The memory that sticks in my head is not when I saw him three weeks ago or at big holidays.
Instead, it is a small moment from over a decade ago when he came to visit and helped me make my
bed. He told me that, in the Navy, they had to make their beds so that a person could bounce a coin
off of the sheets. This filled my childish heart with delight, and we spent a while bouncing coins off
my bed, laughing while he told me stories about his days in the Navy. The relationship between a
grandfather and granddaughter can be one of the most precious in a person’s life. That is how it was
for me. Time is a tricky thing, and you always think that you have more of it.
I received the news standing on the side of the street, waiting for the bus. No warning, no
preparation. Simply an incredulous, “What?” Then, the disbelief and the horror and the panic of
knowing that I’ll never see him again set in. Memories flooded in all at once—the anthology of stories
that depicted almost twenty-two years of adventures and laughter and mornings around the breakfast
table fighting over the last crumb bun. Now those moments were gone and I was left with the guilt
of being thousands of miles away. But I knew he would understand. He didn’t want us to make a fuss
anyway. He didn’t even want an obituary.
My sister and I watched the funeral over livestream. We had a bird’s eye view of the simple
coffin that my carpenter grandad would have loved, as it was carried in and set in the center of the aisle.
Our family followed behind it, each laying a hand on the top—the last physical connection anyone
would have with him. No one wore traditional black. Much like my grandmother, he would have
wanted everyone to dress brightly at his funeral. I watched my usually stoic father choke up while
reading a passage from The Book of Sirach about great friendship. My uncle played a moving piece on
the piano in my grandad’s honor. It sounded like him. The service was over quickly--far too quickly
for someone who had such a massive impact on the lives of so many other people.
33

Non-Fiction
I watched the procession carry the coffin back out of the church. I said my goodbyes through
the screen and sat in numb silence for a while. The reception after the funeral was more like a party.
My sister and I were carted around on my mother’s phone between different family members, replying
to questions. Everyone kept saying to us, “He was so proud of you girls. He loved you so much.”
My grandad was a devout Catholic. He attended the 7:30 a.m. mass every single day until his
death. The last time I saw him was the day before I flew back to Rome. He was very excited for me and
jokingly told me to say hi to the Pope for him. Of course that was a rather impossible feat, but three
days after the funeral off to the Vatican I went. I didn’t see the Pope, but I was able to feel a little bit
closer to my grandad. While in the San Pietro Basilica, a mass started, and the halls were filled by music
perfectly supported by the acoustics. It was enough to stop anyone in their tracks. As I looked around
at the splendor of San Pietro while mesmerized by the music, I found some peace. I was as close to my
grandad as I could possibly be without going back to the United States. In those halls, I found a bit of
closure, yet something was still missing.
I was haunted by the lack of the physical goodbye that I would have received at the funeral.
I needed to heal--at least a little--rather than be consumed by memories and the guilt that I wasn’t
there. My grandad kept his word no matter what and was always there for all of us. He was the one
who found and lugged a massive antique desk up a two-hundred-year-old staircase because I didn’t
have one. He kept a tape in the cassette player for years because I listened to it every time I visited. He
would send cards every holiday and birthday no matter what. The year I lived in Spain, he looked all
over Long Island to find a Christmas card in Spanish. I’ll miss receiving those cards, seeing his handwriting
on the envelope. How could I say goodbye to all of that?
In the early hours of February ninth, I had a dream. My grandad came to visit my apartment.
He sat and talked to me for a while. When he stood up, I got to hug him and feel my arms wrap
around him and his around me, and to say my goodbyes. His last words to me were, “I love you, goodbye.”
•
34

Panagiri Under the Stars
By Alyssa Pasvantis
“Are we hugging?” Ana asked.
We hadn’t seen each other in a year and a half.
“Umm…” I hesitated, as about a million thoughts ran through my head. Is it safe? I’m wearing
a mask. That should be enough. But is it taboo nowadays? It used to be that we hugged and kissed each
other on both cheeks without even thinking about germs. Is she asking because she’s hugging?
“Yes?” I said, but didn’t move forward.
Thankfully, Ana did. It was a loose hug--no kisses--but it was something. I was grateful for
this small bit of contact with a girl who had become like a sister to me after almost twenty years of
growing up in the same church community. Ana was part of my parea, the affectionate Greek term for
a small group of friends. There were about eleven of us who had met as babies in strollers, pushed by
our mothers into St. George Greek Orthodox Church every Sunday morning. As soon as we learned
to walk and talk, our parents added Friday night Greek language school to our schedules. By the time
we were in high school, we were spending entire weekends together. Greek folk dance practice took
up Saturday mornings and was followed by car washes, bake sales, or Domino’s pizza fundraisers for
our costume and music fees. Though we hadn’t chosen these activities, eventually, we all grew to enjoy
them--especially the dancing. We began to feel that we belonged together, no matter how different we
were as individuals outside of the Greek community. Our connection had fueled our frequent visits to
the church after we graduated high school, for holidays and festivals like the one we were at tonight.
Tonight, the beloved “Panagiri Under the Stars” was finally making its post-lockdown comeback.
“Come on, Alex is over here,” Ana guided me over to Alex, another adopted older sister. She
was standing near a large wooden table covered with a blue and white tablecloth. When she asked "Are
we hugging?" I was slightly more prepared and my hesitant "Yes?" came out faster. I had hoped the
35

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initial discomfort would subside as we exchanged “I missed you”s and began catching up on what we
had been doing over the last year and a half of the pandemic. However, about ten minutes into our
conversation, excitement faded into awkward stares, and somehow we fell into silence like strangers
seated together at a wedding.
For all of our lives, we had taken for granted how easy it was to stay connected by staying
involved in the church. When the COVID-19 virus confined Christmas service to a broadcast on
television and reduced birthday celebrations to cake emojis sent over text, we were unprepared for how
quickly our circle broke apart.
Now, reunited, the only relief from silence was Alex’s suggestion that we all get drinks. While
standing in line at the bar, I tried tossing out old lines of conversation, hoping someone would bite. I
asked the once boy-crazy Ana if she was dating anyone.
“No,” she replied, “you know how it is. It’s the same old, same old.”
But I didn’t know. Had the “same old” changed in the past year and a half? I waited to see if
she would elaborate, feeling somewhat guilty that I didn’t know whether pre-lockdown Ana was the
same as post-lockdown Ana. She looked mostly the same, but with a slightly shorter haircut and a new
pink bag to fit with the fast-fashion trends she had always loved following. There was a big blank space
in my perception of Ana then and Ana now, and I didn’t have the evidence to judge whether she was
as unchanged as her appearance suggested.
She didn’t give me an answer, but, luckily, our friend Panagioti found us before we returned to
waiting in silence.
“Excuse me! You’re too young for that!” Panagioti exclaimed as he playfully grabbed the
Mythos the bartender just served me out of my hand.
“I’m 21!” I countered, not realizing this information was front-page news.
Alex, Ana, and Panagioti all looked shocked, and the quiet quickly transformed into a cacophony
of unbelieving “No way”s and “Wow, the time has really passed”s. It felt a bit like I was among
older siblings who never got to see me grow up, and, for a second, I felt pulled in two directions. Was
I the nineteen-year-old girl just beginning college that they obviously remembered so vividly? Or did I
have to prove that I had become someone else?
Uncertainty about my own identity was replaced with uncertainty about my friends’ identities
over and over again throughout the night. I repeatedly had to explain the change in my age, college
major, and career goals in response to every incredulous look. As the night went on, I even began to
36

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question my memories and past judgments of our shared past. George, the goofball party animal who
couldn’t have cared less about homework in high school, was moving back home from his big state
college in the hopes of becoming a doctor. The transition had been gradual for him but absolutely jarring
for me--he had told me a year-long story in the time it took for me to spread a little extra tzatziki
on my souvlaki sandwich.
Just as jolting was the realization that during our separation, all of our paths had diverged.
We had transitioned from high school to college together, cushioned by church events, but we had
been moving into the real world of careers, serious relationships, and ever-increasing responsibilities
in almost complete obliviousness to each other’s lives. Now, as we were passing tomato salad around a
table lit by artificial stars, we began to rediscover each other. The silence was overtaken by spurts of excited
conversation and halting moments of contemplation. As more members of the group joined our
table, there were more people to break the silence when others ran into the roadblock of not knowing
what to say. Gradually, as our entire parea reassembled, the evening inched towards what old times
had been like.
The phantom of COVID-19 grew fainter as the beating of the drums and strums of the
bouzouki grew louder and we made our way onto the dance floor. We formed a semi-circle and joined
hands as we moved from the Kalamatianos to the Tsamiko and Zeibekiko. We expressed our joy and
passion through these dances just as Greeks have done for thousands of years. However, the phantom
did not completely disappear--at least in my mind. Though we danced like we always had, the rest of
the evening had been very different. I wondered if when the music stopped we would return to hesitant
conversation and our now seemingly separate existences. Looking down at our string of connected
hands, it seemed as if our culture and the church were the only threads tying us together. With a
pang of sadness, I wondered if the pandemic had created a sharp enough shear to sever those threads. •
37

If I'm Being Honest
By Autumn McIntyre
My obsession with my physical appearance began when I was twelve. The history is long,
boring, and frankly, upsetting. My mother always told me that I needed to lose weight, my extended
family told me I’d be prettier if I lost ten pounds, and I generally despised the body that I saw in the
mirror. Eight years of self-hatred later, I discovered that starvation was the only thing that stopped the
nagging in my head.
So please don’t ask me why I can’t eat because I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be skipping
meals. The part of my brain telling me to starve myself is a lot stronger than the part telling me to stop.
I began intermittent fasting in spring 2021, as a sophomore in college. I only ate between the
hours of two in the afternoon and eight at night. I liked the result I saw in the first half of the day – a
flat stomach. But, after I ate lunch, my stomach would protrude out of my skirt or high waisted jeans.
I started limiting my lunch and dinner portions…then I stopped eating lunch…then I’d only eat half a
plate of food for dinner.
When I arrived home for summer break, my mother told me that I looked good. Initially, I was
proud. Throughout my eating disorder, I felt like I was doing something right. As if I received a gold
sticker for each meal I skipped. This pride increased when my mother validated my appearance, but
that made me realize that I looked good because of the deterioration of my health.
This led to a summer- long journey of mental tug-of-war: between my unhealthy habits and
my desire to get better. Eventually, recovery won and I started eating small lunches. I consumed foods
that wouldn’t make me feel guilty, like eggs, vegetables, and chicken. I told myself that I needed to eat
– in the summer I worked forty hours a week in retail.
I was still obsessed with my body but, hey, at least I was eating. That had to count for something.
I ate regularly during this last semester as well. I was making progress.
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Until I relapsed during winter break.
The old habits came back like an old friend and I embraced them in a warm hug. I knew exactly
what to do this time because I had learned from my past failure.
During break I worked five days a week, from five in the morning to two in the afternoon. I
skipped breakfast then I ate an orange and a protein bar for lunch. When I got home, I’d run on the
elliptical for thirty to forty-five minutes and then I’d weight- train for another thirty to forty-five minutes.
My mother regularly cooks Asian food for dinner. It’s dense with veggies and meat, but also
contains a lot of sodium and fattening foods like rice and noodles. I ate them anyway. My mother
would have become suspicious if I had stopped eating her food. And I told myself it was okay to eat
those dinners because, withwork and exercise, I burned more calories than I consumed.
I made sure that I ate … slowly. I read online that it helps with bloating and that it's better to chew
your food fifteen to twenty times. It should take at least thirty minutes to finish a meal, and one
should stop eating before feeling full.
I had to adjust my habits when I returned to school in January. My class schedule was packed,
and I couldn’t exercise like I used to. I’m also not on my feet as much as I was.
But I can starve myself to make up for it.
Here’s what it’s like:
I don’t eat breakfast and I don’t eat lunch. I might eat an apple around ten in the morning,
but I try to avoid doing that. I usually just drink a lot of water to fill me up.
My first ‘meal’ of the day – the only thing I allow myself to eat besides dinner – is a small container
of yogurt. I buy plain Greek yogurt because flavored yogurt has more sugar. More sugar means more
calories.
I take over an hour to eat the yogurt. My friends laugh because it looks ridiculous. Objectively,
this habit is funny. And I get it. I laugh along and pretend that I take ages to eat yogurt because I’m
weird, and not because of my eating disorder.
I cook Asian food for dinner. Although Asian food relies on vegetables and meat, it also contains
noodles and white rice. But I’ve swapped ramen or udon noodles for buckwheat noodles, and
white rice for brown rice.
Sometimes I don’t like eating a full plate of dinner and I want to cut back. But I tell myself
that it’s okay. I’m starving myself the next day to make up for it anyway.
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I'd rather not eat than overeat. It’s easier to have positive thoughts surrounding starvation
than negative ones around my body.
I don’t want to get help. I don’t want to tell my friends about this. I don’t want anyone to ask
me if I’m okay because I’m obviously not. I can’t give anyone the explanations they want, and I don’t
want their pity. I don’t want them to think that they have to walk on thin ice if they mention food or
going out to eat. I don’t want my eating habits to be monitored and discussed. I have no interest in
announcing to everyone: “hey, guess what? I have an eating disorder! My favorite pastime is starvation,
what’s yours?”
I don’t want to explain what’s going on in my head because I … don’t … know. I don’t think
that what I’m doing is actually bad because I feel fine.
I’m in control.
Reaching out means I have to get better, and to be honest, I don’t want to get better.
I just want to lose twenty pounds. •
40

Letters to Julia
By Julia Eisen
Dear 16-year-old me,
Hello! It’s me. Your young self. I am 5 years old. I live with Mom, Dad, Elena, and baby sister Leia. She
cries a lot. I hope she stops crying soon. Elena and I can’t watch TV when she cries. She is loud. How
are you? What did you do today? Are you still in Ohio? I hope you are happy. I hope Leia is happy
and is fun to play with too. Elena is my best friend. Besides Olivia and Anna. How are they? Anna’s
brother opened the door for me today at school. That was nice of him. I hope you have a boyfriend.
I hope he is cute like Zack Martin. I love Suite Life of Zack and Cody. Do you still like to play? My
favorite to play is pretend camping with Elena and dolls. I like the Barbie Mermaidia barbie that I play
in the bath. How is school? Are you smart? I am smart in class. I sit at the yellow table and everyone
knows the yellow table is the smart table. How is Mom, Dad, Elena, Leia, Grandma Betty, Uncle
Doug, Uncle Dennis, Uncle Martin, Uncle Matthew, Aunt Anna, Uncle John, Josh and Alie? How is
Grandaddy Joe, Grandma Sharon, Aunt Laura, Aunt Kenna, Uncle Shoe, and Uncle Joe? I hope they
are happy too.
From,
5-year-old me
Dear 17-year-old me,
What’s high school like? Will it be any different from middle school? I see some of the popular girls
already going to football games and meeting people from other schools. Will I do that? I want to be
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popular. It looks like more fun. I like my friends, but they could be cooler. Elena has more friends
than me – I can tell she will be popular. Already in 6th grade she has a boyfriend. Do I at least get a
boyfriend in high school? What’s driving like? Do you drink? I don’t think I want to drink until I’m
legal. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Do you feel like you’re finally cool? Do you hang out
with some of the popular girls? Ugh, I wish I had a crystal ball to see what my life will be like. I get so
worried about my future. I don’t really know what I want to do with my life. Should I know that by
now? I just want to know that it gets better!!
Love,
13-year-old me
Dear 36-year-old me,
I hope your adult life is as great as mine is right now. I had the best first semester of college. Winter
break is almost over, and I can’t wait to go back to campus and see my friends. I think 2020 is going
to be a good year! Sometimes I do miss high school, though. Looking back now, I wish I had been
more confident. I spent most of those years feeling like a burden to everyone I met. I didn't meet good
people until the end, and I wish we could’ve had more time. But now I have a friend group I really
love. Every day we spend hours in each other's rooms, talking nonsense and watching movies. There’s
Cailin, Joe, Luca, Erick, and of course Margot. She is the perfect roommate and my best friend. Also…
I don’t know what will happen with Adam, but I hope our friendship turns into something special. I
really like him. I can’t believe how fast my life has changed in just a few months. Does it stay this good?
What are your favorite memories from college? Which semester will be the best? I hope things stay
the same in the next few years, or that they get better. I’m having so much fun going out to bars and
parties with my friends. I can’t wait to get back to campus and have many more drunken nights,
singing at the top of my lungs to the Jonas Brothers and Taylor Swift--and ravaging chicken tenders
afterwards. Is it weird that I oddly miss the dining hall food?
What did you end up doing with your Journalism degree? I think I want to go into broadcasting and
be an anchor, but that might change. There are times when I second guess my decision--I worry about
my future. When that happens, I have to remind myself that I’m doing my best.
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I wish we could have a face-to-face conversation--I want to hear everything. Where do you live? What
does a perfect day look like for you? What do you do for fun? For now, a letter will have to do.
Best,
18-year-old me
Dear 10-year-old me,
A lot is changing for you right now, but I don’t think you realize that yet. You moved all the way to
New Mexico after living in Malaysia for three years! It was a huge culture shift, but you adjusted well.
Most people don’t even move out of the state they were born in. You made great friends in Malaysia
and it was hard to say goodbye. I hope you cherish the memories you made there because that’s the
last time you’ll live abroad for awhile. You’ll get used to that in the future when your family moves
away from you.
I love that you still love to play pretend: that you walk around the neighborhood hoping that a prince
(or Edward Cullen) finds you, that you imagine you’re in District 12 when Dad whistles from the
dining room, that you think you will sprout a tail and turn into a mermaid the minute water touches
your body. One time, Elena caught you flapping around and laughed. Now, she and I remember that
moment, and even though it was embarrassing, I love that you are so creative.
My biggest question to you is… what do you think is going to happen in the next 10 years? I wish I
could remember what I thought my life would be before it actually unfolded; before middle school
drama, before I started dating, before the fall-outs and reconnections. My days are now filled with
internship applications and assignment deadlines. I just miss your freedom. This might sound scary,
but I want you to know everything will be okay. You even end up finding your prince!
Please take care of yourself. Take care of your family. Hug Leia for me. I wish I could hug 5-year-old
Leia right now.
With all my love,
19-year-old me
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Dear 20-year-old me,
Hey. It’s me. I’m so glad that you’re living abroad again. Covid has been hard for a multitude of reasons,
but you know that already. Travelling and living in Europe has been the thrill of a lifetime. Even
though this is a special experience, it’s still hard. You’re meeting new people and adjusting to roommate
dynamics. You miss your family. You miss Adam, your friends, and your old life. But what did
you really leave behind? Another happy hour at the rundown college bar? Going to sweaty, dark frat
parties where they constantly play the same music? You’re in Rome, for god's sake. Yet sometimes, you
can’t help but reminisce on the past.
You miss the playfulness, the innocence. You no longer dream up scenarios of teenage heartthrobs
finding you in a crowd and taking you backstage– unless it’s Harry Styles. Your daydreams are more
realistic now: will you have a well-paying, secure job? Will you be living with someone you love? Will
you still hang out with your college friends?
You need to stop thinking about the future and take a deep breath. I am thankful that you have
taken this leap of faith and set out on a new adventure. Cozy up in the uncomfortable single bed
with scratchy linen sheets. Relish it all. Turn to your roommate and say, “Isn’t it so crazy that we’re
in Rome?” Because it is crazy, and you made this happen. I know that, one day, you’ll look back on
this moment of your life with the same affection as your first semester of college. These days, months,
years--they will all turn into snippets of time that you can fondly look back on and appreciate.
Lovingly,
20-year-old me •
44

Balconies
By Madison Walters
The woman with gray hair tends to her plants. The younger woman in a pink hoodie smokes a
cigarette. The girl my age folds her laundry. The curly-headed man wearing a sweat suit is also smoking
a cigarette. The man who appears to be in his thirties cleans his glass door. Then there’s me, reading a
book. One thing connects us all: our balconies.
Though we don’t know each other, I’d like to think we have a few things in common–a love
for the pigeons that incessantly coo, a dry amusement for the little yappy dog who screeches happily
anytime his owner takes him for a walk, a fondness for the chilly yet welcome breeze that blows
through our hair, a hopeless weakness for the city sounds that only the bravest will own up to enjoying.
It’s not home, but it’s the closest to one that I’ve ever gotten. These are my neighbors.
Vivacious plants curling over the guardrail, multicolored clothes draping over laundry racks, a
small grill in a state of disrepair, a rainbow pinwheel furiously spinning in the wind, a more than likely
stolen blue street sign with an arrow on it–these are just a few of the things adorning my neighbors’
balconies.
My simple balcony doesn’t have much, not even a chair. At my balcony, I like to picture the
lives of my neighbors. It’s harmless enough.
I think of the little old lady and how her grandchildren probably visit on the weekends.
“Don’t lean too far over the edge, my loves.” How she regales them with stories of her youth while
shaking out her laundry. I see the children’s amazement at the pigeons and seagulls swooping by in the
air.
The woman in the pink hoodie seems a bit tired–her hair in a messy ponytail and her eyes
slightly sunken inward. Perhaps her next-door neighbor keeps her up all night as he and his girlfriend
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argue. The cigarette perched between her lips is a small gift to herself, or maybe it’s nothing like that at
all. Maybe it’s a vice.
The girl my age decides to have a nice weekend to herself, saving her laundry for this beautiful
Sunday afternoon. Later, she’s going to call her family and catch up with them. It’s been so long–too
long, even. She’ll soak up the sunny day, while tending to her verdant plants with a glass of wine in
hand and a satisfied smile across her face.
The man in the jogging suit just got back from working out at the local gym down the street.
He smiles brightly, maybe because he ran a 5k in his best time yet. His patience and hard work are
paying off.
The man cleaning his windows has two very small children, a boy and a girl–practically toddlers,
but they grow up so fast! His two little children desperately want to see the world that the view
from the balcony offers. Unfortunately, they’re too small and it’s too dangerous for them to go out
onto the balcony yet. So, instead they take in the sprawling brick buildings with little grubby hands
splayed onto the glass door, leaving topsy-turvy smears in their wake. Their father cleans up their
handprints without complaint.
What, if anything, do they think of me? What’s she reading? Could she be the one with the little
yappy puppy? Why does she always look so content on her balcony? Maybe she’s relishing an afternoon off
from her job at the local grocery store? Maybe she just moved here and hasn’t gotten bored to tears of the
city yet? What is she scrambling to write down in her notebook right now?
Do they know that I’m thinking of them and wishing them a wonderful day? Even if they
don’t know, I hope they can feel it.
I certainly can with every fleeting smile and shared moment out on our balconies. •
46

The Apartment's Lament
By Lauren Neely
WHAM!
My God, it’s like these kids slam my doors for fun.
The six new girls I have to keep an eye on this semester have no proper door etiquette—or
really any etiquette! All with the same flaws as the previous American girls I’ve watched over. What
are parents even for? Chloe can’t make her bed. Kamila notices the pile of dishes in the sink and prays
they’ll disappear before she uses the kitchen again. Helisa never wears a jacket when it’s cold outside.
I can’t keep up! Then we have Sydney with her piles of laundry. It’s no wonder she’s always late for
class – she can’t find anything to wear! Mia could sleep the whole day if Josie didn’t wake her up every
morning. Ah, Josie. Such a good girl. She takes after me. Still can’t push in her chair though.
I was enjoying the sun pouring in from my balcony window when Helisa walked in with a few
grocery bags. So much for a little rest and relaxation. My God, this girl is withering away in front of
me. I’m surprised that she doesn’t have scurvy by now with the lack of fruits and veggies in her Erasmus
student diet.
“I hope you two left some junk food for the other shoppers,” I say as Helisa and Sydney walk
in, arms full of grocery bags. “Helisa, you need to eat real food! I have pasta, eggs, grilled cheese...Oh! I
could make you bruschetta. You like bruschetta, right?”
Helisa huffs, “Apartment, I, like, just got home! You’re, like, suffocating me! Give me a second.”
“Fine, fine. But just so you know, you didn’t ‘like’ just get home. You just got home,” I say.
She’ll thank me later.
“Ugh!” Helisa rolls her eyes and storms off towards her room, leaving Sydney with the groceries.
Well, that was selfish. I’ll have to talk to her about that later.
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“Sydney, sweetheart, shut the door. You weren't raised in a barn.”
Two of my other girls are on their phones, talking to their other mothers. Chloe is complaining
about a boy and Josie is asking if sauce needs to be refrigerated after it’s been opened. After my
first few groups of kids cycled through and many phone calls later, I noticed that all moms are the
same.
“How can you be bored? Don’t you have homework? When I was your age...”
“You need to pick up your phone! I thought you were dead in a ditch.”
“No! Listen to me. It’s whites, lights, and darks.”
Do mothers ever stop fretting over their children?
Suddenly, I notice a terrible crime occuring in my kitchen.
“Kamila! You know that it's illegal to break spaghetti in Italy!”
“But Apartment,” she whines, “It wasn’t going to fit in the pot!”
“If you wanted your pasta to fit in the pot you shouldn't have bought spaghetti! Don’t act like
this was your only option. There’s cavatappi, fiorelli, fusilli, gemelli--keep making that face at me and
it’ll freeze that way!”
I am pulled away from Kamila’s atrocity by a cry of frustration down my hall. Gazing at Mia’s
room is like looking at the aftermath of a tornado. Her “clean laundry chair” is about three feet high
now. I have a suspicion she would rather lose all the functionality of her desk chair than put her laundry
away. Mia is currently dressed for what looked like her circus clown audition.
“Apartment, I have nothing to wear!” Mia says theatrically.
“Well first of all, you’re mixing three different patterns.”
“Sydney says that mixing patterns is in style right now.”
“If Sydney jumped off a bridge--”
“Yeah yeah, ‘If Sydney jumped off a bridge would you?’”
“I don’t sound like that. Mamma mia, you girls are giving me a headache.”
These kids drive me crazy. They’re always complaining about this and whining about that.
There is never a moment of peace.
But secretly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Each of the girls has an entirely unique--and sometimes questionable-- personality. Kamila is shy but
good hearted. Chloe is always in a rush, but she is there for her roommates if they need her. Helisa
forgets to take care of herself, but always offers to make food for the girls when they aren’t feeling well.
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Mia spends a little too much time on her appearance, but whenever one of the other girls makes it
through the mounds of clothing blocking off her room, she’s always willing to lend them a hand. Sydney
has a short temper, yet always stands up for her roommates. Josie is a little antisocial, but always
makes time to join the other girls for Sunday movie night. Each of my girls have traits only a mother
could love. I'm glad that these girls were placed with me and not that deadbeat apartment down the
street.
I may not have been there for kindergarten dance recitals, and I won’t be able to attend their
graduations, but I am here to witness these girls overcome the difficulties that come with roommates,
college, and living abroad. I am there for the 3 a.m. dinner parties, for the you-hog-the-bathroom
roommate fights, and for the quiet girl-you-are-so-hungover-right-now mornings.
Each year I get a new group of kids, and each year it just gets harder to let them go. Every
packed suitcase reminds me of their arrivals. Every hug, goodbye, and “I’ll see you next year” tears me
in two. Every last look around haunts me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cracks start showing through
my walls, my doors.
I spend my time watching my kids grow and learn throughout the school year, just to wonder
what they’re doing for the rest of their lives. Will Kamila finally do her dishes? Will Mia still sleep the
day away? Will Helisa continue to refuse drying her hair before going out? Will they still stay in contact
with each other? Will they think of the memories they made with me just as fondly as I do? All I
can do is hope that Sydney cleans her room, that Josie goes outside every once in a while, that Chloe
makes her bed, and pray--pray a whole lot--that their other mothers take advantage of the fact that
they have arms and hug the life out of my girls. How could you not? Look at those chubby little cheeks!
I could just pinch them all…-- •
49

Poetry II
Oranges When Sick
By Jade Ramos
I was taught to eat oranges when I'm sick
I don't quite remember being told
no clear memory of when it all began
but perhaps all of my mother’s lessons simply
merged
seeping together to create an understanding.
I now eat oranges when I’m sick--
in a pinch, any fruit will do.
Sickly sweet and sweetly sick
popping grapes between my lips
and spitting out the seeds and illness.
My mother isn't here to take care of me now
though I know she wishes she were
I could, we could, but I find I won’t
as oranges won't cure what she does to my
mind.
I continue to eat oranges when I’m sick
pressing the flesh inside my mouth
to wring out the juices and rejuvenation
breathe life back into my sore throat.
If my mother were here I’d eat oranges
after warm soup and a nap in her bed.
But her love and food won't cure her curse in
my head
constricting my throat without bacteria
welling tears in my eyes as I bite down on
muscle.
I think of her as I eat oranges when I’m sick
my mother can't take care of me now, but
that’s alright.
I can feed oranges to myself.
I can peel oranges myself.
I can buy oranges myself.
I can cure myself.
The juices remind me of home and remind
me of disease
I pop another slice in my mouth and know
regardless
somewhere my mother disagrees
even though she’s the one who taught me
to eat oranges when I'm sick. •
50

Thank you to Professor Andrea di Robilant, our wonderful contributors,
and the LIT/PUB editorial team--this magazine would not have been
possible without you.
Rome, 2022