In the summertime, the park down at Washburn was where all the neighborhood kids spent their time. It was this huge field that was covered in dirt, mostly bare save for the various patches of ugly grass and a small area of worn and dilapidated playground equipment. 

The equipment featured at this park was iconic to most of the other parks in Detroit as well. There was a jungle gym arch that only the older kids were capable of climbing. There were also stairs leading up to a few slides, one of them being long, flat and made of metal that grew heated in the sun and burned you if you touched it. 

The other slide was plastic and cylindrical. The outside was bright yellow and covered in graffiti.  The inside was covered in urine, usually from a kid who didn’t want to make the trek all the way home and back. If for some reason you forgot, or if you just braved the scent or were pushed down by your friends, then on the way down you were shocked from the static electricity that was built up on the inside. 

Given that the playground was in such poor shape and we didn’t want to subject ourselves to being burned or shocked, we usually found ourselves playing in the field. It was large enough to ride our bikes or play football, but it held various dangers within the area, such as broken glass or weed burrs.

The danger I remember most vividly was nestled in the fence. A beehive, about five inches going either way. It had been there for as long as we had known the park. But then one day the neighborhood kids thought it would be a good idea to disturb the locals. 

I pulled up on my hot pink bicycle, wondering what was going on. Why were all of these kids gathered around the fence? By the time I figured out what was going on, it was too late. What followed was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever witnessed. Some idiot knocked the hive down with a rock. I don’t remember seeing the bees leave the hive, but I do remember the sound they made. It was an aggressive and horrifying buzzing noise that followed behind me even after I took off on my bike. I had never pedaled that fast before, had never traveled as many blocks as I did that day. 

I never went back to that park, and I was glad when we moved away. Some kid told me bees remember faces.

We were all sitting in the living room waiting for dinner, on a normal night. Suddenly, my mom asked if we could smell something burning.

I was sitting at the end of the couch nearest the hallway when I saw my mom leave the kitchen to go and open the door. There were firemen at the other end.

I don’t know what they must have told my mom, but she came back running towards the living room and in a matter of seconds she was ushering us towards the big room with the fire escapes.

I don’t remember putting on shoes or what was said. The words “fire” and “smoke”, and the panicked expression on my mother’s face float around in my memory, however.

We walked down the hard black metal stairs of the old fire escape until we left the fourth-floor level and reached our neighbor’s window on the third floor. This is a window I had looked out of many times, because my neighbor’s house was like a second home to me, being that she was a babysitter to my siblings and me as we grew up.

We went through our neighbor’s window which someone must have opened, and remained in her living room for a short while.

I felt safe in her living room, being used to the warm lamp light and the TV being on. We must have put on some shoes if we hadn’t already, and then we were out into the hallway of the building.

I glanced at the scene of the crime — the apartment across from my neighbor’s and could imagine all of the walls being charred black, burnt to a crisp.

We ended up waiting outside of the building with everyone else in the atmosphere of the night, looking on at the firemen doing their job.

Once it was safe to go back into the building, I packed the book bag I used for school with a few things, and we headed to my aunt’s. The building was fire free after that, but my mom didn’t want to take any chances. My dad kept watch over our apartment.

The eggs they made the next morning tasted good, and it was nice to see my mom together with my aunt.

I remember telling the kids in my class about what had happened the next day at school, but I don’t think they understood just how crazy my night had been. Maybe I didn’t understand at the time either, but here I live to tell the story.

My family and I go to Lake George just for a few days every summer. There are a lot of cute shops, good food, swimming areas, and other activities to do. One thing we do at least one night we’re there is visit a small ice cream shop. We always wait until the sun goes down and the stars begin to shine. The sky slowly becomes darker and darker and the night lamps are turned on. It’s the perfect time to walk along all the others who are heading toward the lights. It’s early July so the intense heat slowly rises and the air becomes cooler with each passing minute. The bright neon signs on the ice cream shop are fully visible and the line begins to grow. We get in line behind a family of three one of which is a baby in a stroller. Two pretty teenage girls follow behind us. They talk about the shop and debate which flavor of ice cream to get. One of them tells her friend that she is getting a chocolate and vanilla twist with rainbow sprinkles. I lean over to my mom and tell her that I want a chocolate and vanilla twist with rainbow sprinkles and she laughs. I guess she must’ve heard what I heard. I usually get a vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles but her order became my favorite after that first taste. Shortly after we find a seat directly across the ice cream shop and I watch the neon signs change colors as I eat my ice cream. We come to this ice cream shop every summer and it’s still one of my favorite things to do there.

The curry goat’s powerful, spicy aroma was cut through by the heaviness of cigarette smoke. I watched my grandma struggle with the broken zipper of my coat as I stood rocking lightly on my toes. Her roots’ new growth showed the lovely natural gray tone, opposed to the black dye at her ends, that reflected how much experience she had living in this world. She had four braids around her head as a result of my cousins and I playing with it earlier that day while she watched her morning TV shows. She finally gets a hold of my zipper and zips it all the way up, her eyes following till her thick, coarse hand touches my chin. My older cousin, who was on the couch with my younger cousin watching TV, is called as she brushes her hand on my jacket. My grandma reached into her handbag and pulled out a 10 dollar bill as my older cousin came to stand beside me, dressed to go out. Picking up the lit cigarette that sat in the ashtray on top of the stereo next to her she swiftly brings it to her lips. She instructs my cousin and I to go to the corner store, get a pack of Oreos, some Haagen Daz vanilla ice cream, some butter pecan ice cream, and one candy apiece, and that’s it. She spoke clearly and precisely. She gave the cash to my older cousin while resting her cigarette between her lips and giving each of us a serious look. My cousin and I dashed to the door as soon as she spoke those three golden words, “Go on, now,” we couldn’t wait to leave. We hurried down the steps, racing to be the first one outside. We approach the front door, swinging it open as chilly wind whipped against my face, and then sprint down the four steps, halting just before the curb. All around, the sounds of the night could be heard. Raccoons chattering, people returning from parties, drinking and smoking by neighbors on the corner, and loud music emanating from apartments. The darkness around us was illuminated by the bright lights from the convenience stores and street lamps. In anticipation of our grandmother’s cue, we turned around to her window that faced the street. We observed as she checked the road to make sure no cars were coming before giving the okay to us.We hurried across the street, stepped inside, greeted the owner, pet the kitties, gathered everything we needed, and double-checked that we had Grandma’s precise change before saying goodbye to the owner and exiting the store. Grandma was still sitting at the window, keeping an eye on us. We waited for her signal once again, and when she gave it, we crossed. Running back inside the building, we rode the elevator up while chatting about the events that occurred while we played outside with our friends that afternoon, as well as the treat we would be enjoying once we got back upstairs. Grandma is waiting for us at the door leaning on her walker as we enter through the door. She takes the treats and change from us and instructs us to get ready for bed so we can enjoy our cookies and ice cream before bed. The perfect way to end the night off.

For Gma.

October 24, 2009. It was a routine Saturday morning. The day was showing signs of rain showers by giving us a fair warning with the overcast sky. I picked out a pair of jeans along with a blue t-shirt and put on my platform flip flops. In my mind that was the perfect outfit to spend the morning at my mother’s office in. My mother and I started our short journey to her workplace. As normal, the car was filled with the voices of Whitney, Celine, and Mariah as we sang along cheerfully to songs dubbed as timeless classics. The car came to a stop beside the roaring Caribbean Sea, a definite sign of the rain that was to come. My mom’s waterfront office view was something that I never grew tired of. The sound of crashing waves calms the nerves instantly. Four hours flew by quickly as I listened to the Jonas Brothers on my MP4 player, and we headed to the supermarket. We pulled into the lot, and my mother’s phone began to ring.

The rain I had anticipated began hitting the roof. That was another sound that deeply satisfied my soul. “Hello,” my mom said as she put the phone to her ear. I could hear muffled sounds coming through the speaker. It sounded as if the person was hysterically crying. “When you calm down, call me back.” With those words my ended the call and we began searching for umbrellas and prepared to exit the vehicle. The phone rang again delaying our exit. This time around, I could not hear noise fragments from the other end. “What do you mean?” my mom questioned. I immediately turned around filled with concern, mouthing the words, “What happened?” I took note of the stream of tears now running down my mother’s face. My heart began to race. My body temperature rose. I knew it was not good news. “My child,” she says, “your father is dead.”

I felt my throat tighten. Suddenly, the sound of the rain I had loved felt too loud. The car did not seem nearly big enough for two people. I no longer cared about entering the supermarket and going about my day. I turned to my left glancing out the foggy car window, then to my right at my mother’s tear-stained face, frozen. I now only had one parent. Words cannot describe the horrifying sound that escaped my lips as I joined my mother in mourning.

It’s the 4th of July and we are headed to Grandma and Grandpa’s house as usual. we hop into the car and sit in our unspoken designated seats. My brother always gets behind the driver and I get the behind the passenger seat. The ride goes on and I can feel my eyes getting heavy. The sound of the tires against the asphalt, the faint beat I can hear coming from my brother’s headphones, while the radio plays in the background. The 4-hour drive feels like it gets longer and longer every year. We arrive and I hop out of the car and see nothing but fields for four-wheeling. Acre upon acre of untouched land waiting to be explored. I hear another car coming up the gravel driveway which will be the first of many as we always have a family reunion for this special occasion. The house is packed for dinner with over 20 people standing in Grandma’s tiny kitchen. Apple decor covers the walls from top to bottom. I go over and reach out to touch one of the apples. My fingers skid along its rigid texture. The smell of prime rib fills the house making my stomach grumble. The table isn’t big enough for all of us so the kids head to the living room and sit on the floor. My plate has prime rib, salad, carrots, and a baked potato. As I take a seat, in what feels like slow motion, my baked potato rolls right off my plate and hits the floor with a thud. In this house, we run off of the “5 second rule”. After dinner, we clean up and head outside for fireworks. I pop open my Grandpa’s tailgate, hop in, and lay underneath a starless night. I lay there staring at the moon and leave the reality that I’m in until, BANG! The first firework sets off and brings me back to the real world. I sit up and watch in awe as all sorts of colors light up the sky. My favorite firework are the ones that pop and then sound like rice crispies. Grandpa made sure to get a lot of those this year. Our night ends with cheers and claps from everyone as we all head inside in hopes to find a comfortable place to sleep for the night.

The fear of being alone can consume you until you actually experience being alone and realize it isn’t so bad. It’s like wanting to dip your feet in water for the first time but you’re worried that it might be too cold. But you dip your feet in and somehow the water is cold, but the cold grows on you and all you ever want to do anymore is just stand there in the growing warmth of the once cold water with your feet touching the ocean floor. The sad songs play through your headphones on a loop while you lay in bed with your eyes glued to the ceiling wanting to know when you’ll start feeling less alone. Then you realize to overcome things you have to claim them on your own. What I mean by this is that you must own those feelings and make them your own. That’s what I did two February ago. Scrolling In bed on the laptop I am currently typing on now with the same two fingers as before because I haven’t managed to type with all ten fingers yet. I know, quite sad. That’s beside the point. The thought had entered my brain that I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself because pity doesn’t buy you much regarding self-worth. So, my hand dug around my purse and grabbed my wallet to then grab the card that has accepted me so much happiness. I clicked away to buy myself a gym membership. Now was the hard part, I put on my leggings after fighting and tugging to get them on. Packed my bags with the same lock I’ve had since middle school, put on my running shoes, and took a deep breath preparing myself for the challenge of being alone. I walked on what was a warm day and the sun was beaming, and the snow on the street was finally melting. When I reached the doors of the gym, I knew there wasn’t any turning back. I walked in and the smell of sweat hit my nose as it defrosted from the cold. That was the first and last time I was afraid of being alone. Putting myself in a place where I knew I had so much to be judged for allowing me to realize nobody cares as much as I thought they did.

The horizon was dark and stormy as we drove over a highway. I remember my eyes rolling with fatigue and fighting to stay awake, while my mother and father chatted away at the front of the car, talking about whatever it was they managed to find simultaneous interest in. Angel, my older but drastically younger brother, was fiddling with his Nintendo beside me. The air conditioning was crisp and audible, cooling the faint twinge of pink on my cheeks from having spent time playing outside in the warm spring air, before my mom, unbeknownst to me, dragged me along on what would be the only family trip I’ve ever known.

We didn’t often go out because my parents worked often, so when my father pointed out my mother’s side of the window and urged me to take a look, I couldn’t even describe the feeling that went through me. There, in the distance, read two words with enough power, any exhausted child would rise from their seat screaming with anticipation and joy, and it said, “FERRIS WHEEL.”

Many know it by Luna Park, or Coney Island. The same one with that broken ass roller coaster, always two rides away from getting that damn park a lawsuit. The Cyclone, they call it, but death trap is more fitting. There was also the iconic Spook-O-Rama, or however you spelled it. Either way, (and less importantly for the wholesome-ness of the story, my father forced me to take a picture with that creepy ass reaper statue).

Anyway, from that point on, both Angel and I rousted in our seats, kicking our legs, and talking about hopping on our favorite ride the Thunderbolt. It is the most vivid memory I have where we were laughing uncontrollably, and not solely because laughter was easier to do than cry. When we got close enough to the park, the first thing that hit my ears (besides all the other kids screaming and laughing and running around without a bone to detect danger in their bodies), was “Numb” by Lincoln Park. Ironically, my brother and I loved the band, so despite its dark lyrical messages, I actually found, and still find, the song to be one reminiscent of happiness. After jumping out of the car, my mom grabbed Angel’s hand, and dad grabbed mine. They led us down a block-wide strip of mini-games, blinking lights, pinging sounds, until finally, the gloriously sweet scent of funnel cake invaded our nostrils. Thus, we convinced our parents to let us invade their wallets.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember anything from then on, but maybe it’s better that way. God knew I could sit for hours imagining the rest.

I remember the first time I went in an airplane. It’s one of those experiences where people explain how it felt but you still don’t get a firm grasp on it. My first time was when I was around 17 and I wanted to visit my childhood friend in the west. The minute I realized I would have to fly I did get quite nervous but honestly, the feeling didn’t last. It was a little after noon and the sun started to sink under the clouds. I waited in a long line anxiously waiting for this new experience. I doubt anyone was as happy as I was awaiting this moment. From the outside the plane does look big but as soon as you see the inside your brain loses all reasoning and you are just so confused for a second. I could hear the electricity and engines vibrating against the floors and walls of the plane. It was cold, almost like a walk-in freezer that they use in most restaurants. The space was narrow and it was hard to move, it felt as if I was being packed into a can of sardines at this point. In my head, I wanted all of this to be over, even though I had just found my seat. 

Most would close their eyes when they’re scared of a fiery metal death, however, I chose to keep them wide open. I feared the million little things that could go wrong as we started to move down the runway. But I also feared the million little things I would miss if I blinked. The speed of the accelerating bullet train with metallic wings pushed me far back in my seat. The ground had gone from solid colors to a flashing blur, the lights spun around my window as the plane had left the surface. Then it happened, my view had been expanded, to put it into simple terms, it felt like I was Google Maps. The world had become so smaller, yet I still felt like an ant all the way in these clouds. At this point, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning from cheek to cheek. Yeah, my heart was pumping and I couldn’t believe physics would allow this, but this moment became forever engraved in my childhood.

The city was always my biggest enemy as a child.  Noises that would shatter my skull and a million vibrations that would alter the beat of my heart.  It made me wanna scream, pull my hair out, throw a fit.  This deep uncomfortable feeling I experienced in the city is what made going up state to visit my abuelita all the more special.  It was quiet and lacked the vibrant lights that burrowed into my eyes and blinded me.  That perfect getaway for this undiagnosed ND child became a place of many great memories, but there is one that I recall often when I feel overstimulated. 

My dad used to take my sister and I to this trail somewhere up there, and we would ride our bikes until we started getting close to town, at which point we would turn around and head back.  There was no greater feeling to 8 year old Samantha than riding my little white and purple bike through that path on an early/mid autumn day.  I would pedal leisurely, enveloped by a canopy of green, yellow and red-ish leaves.  Sun breaking through the cracks like the light breaking through the surface of the ocean waves; so serene and so gentle.  The wind would cool our bodies, clad in shorts, T-shirt’s and a thin zip-up hoodie from Old Navy.  It would help us keep going down the trail that never seemed to reach an end, of course until it did, but the ride was so smooth.  None of the cracks and unevenly raised ground like the sidewalk, instead it was like I would glide, none of the vibration. And, if I closed my eyes, it was like the sounds of nature, the rustling of the leaves and the calls of the woodland creatures, would become a heartbeat itself.  I can’t even begin to explain the scent of crisp air. It smells cold, like what I think sky blue would smell like.  I wish I could go back, but I can’t see myself ever learning to drive.