Was it were to be

In were it of all to see

Alas a lone stone

For sight to be free

Was it we’re all a thingy

A frag of the bone

Now see it to be

It shone through it and was he

With all the fly drone

Be free and go see

All we were was was deadly

A last bemoaned groan 

Twilight will it to go in time and space

We were all that was in this crime and place

“Potential” is a concept

treated as intrinsic yet

we seldom ponder if the

people seeking comfort be

interested in their own

improvement that you have shown

you’ve restated and consoled

now it’s just becoming old

you’re constantly repeating

your efforts became fleeting

so don’t waste your time thinking

of a horse that’s not drinking

Our Season

This time of the year, it is our season.
How could this winter be a time of love?
When it should be a time of unreason
Ice skates, hot cocoa, time I grew fond of
I wish i could embrace your hand this time;
Hold it until I am once again warm.
If possible, would it be such a crime?
Cradling our hearts in a snowstorm
Forget that, winter still remains wondrous.
The city veiled with snow is alluring;
Gazing at the flakes fall, all just soundless.
It’s frigid, but inside I am burning.
This time, will I be able to pull through?
This winter won’t be the same without you.

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.