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her lovely letters Dear Reader, This is not a story of love. This is not the tale of two souls, tangled up in one another until they unravel and form the perfect line that goes on infinitely. I just feel I must warn you before you read further, as most people admire those great love stories. I had that once, a long time ago. Or maybe it was yesterday. Honestly, I can t quite remember. Everything is muddled, smeared across my canvas so that I can only see murky browns and blues, but sometimes- yes! There! A spark of yellow, peeking through, winking at me. Let s begin there, for it would pain me to begin anywhere else. It started with little notes, a G e e! laying on the counter and a M g :) resting on my pillow. I left them back, with hints of humor hidden in between the lines and little nips of affection. Soon it escalated to longer notes, and then letters about anything- the sky, the strange man behind us at the park, the woman who lost her glasses only to find that they were sitting atop her head. Little moments, because to us those were the largest. And then-oh my love- and then it was the poems. The glorious, earth-shattering, death defying poems where he yielded vulnerabilities toward me as if they were nothing more than a curious flower caught in the wind. I ll insert a few, if only so at least one other soul can read them and feel the shift of movement that quaked the depths of my bones with love. For my Lana: An Ode to Life When our blood is mere dust on the ground, I will always be with you. My veins will be the roots to your everlasting flowers Pushing through the newfound earth, finding a way to the sun. It is the simplicity and the complexity Combined in one For Death is the true meaning of Life. -Sam Do you see what I mean? Do you notice a change within the very bellows of my heart, each pump an ode to the symptoms of humanity, each beat a perpetual reminder that humans are blessed with a curse: to feel until the ends of the earth fall, and we are nothing but dust? I will leave you there, reader, to do with that what you will. But please know that Sam and I tried to be a love story. We really did. Until we meet again, Lana 〜
23
Sebastian Astour lingered in the doorframe, unsure on where he ought to be. Comforting the dying patient, or their companion? Volunteering at the hospitals and nursing homes always took a toll, but it gave him some semblance of loyalty and the fierceness of clinging on to whatever you had left- a concept he was never too familiar with. He never knew his father, and his relationship with his mother was...weird. Distant. Too foggy to remember the details before she sent him away due to her health. It all felt like a dream whenever he tried to summon whatever memories lay at the bottom of his well of memories, drudging about and refusing to stir. In childhood, they were the happiest times of his life. But now they felt like scenes from a movie; he knew it happened, but he wasn t there, in the moment. The broken gasps of the patient brought him back. Diana, the woman uttered her name one spring morning when he had asked. Sebastian s job was to merely keep people company until someone else came along, whether they be an old friend or Death, were they not one in the same. Diana was a strong-headed old lady, with a mouth like a sailor and a wicked hand at cards. But she was dying, and she knew it. So he waited everyday until her daughter, Corrine, could join them. And here she was, everything of the daughter she was described to be. “Sebastian, come.” Diana s feeble voice drifted through his ears, nursing some part of him back to the present. He swept back his black hair and took a shaky step toward where Corinne was clutching her hand. “I m here, Diana. I always have been,” Sebastian countered, screaming internally to keep the tears inside. “You still owe me that poker game.” A ghost of a smile; then a slow- too slow- blink of the eyes. “Tomorrow, at eight.” Corinne didn t say a word, still clutching her mother s hand as if to yank her out of the hands of Death itself. Sebastian stood there for seconds, minutes, hours. For as long as he was needed. Diana died at eight o clock the next day. 〜
It was not the last name on the letter that caught his attention first, but rather the handwriting. His mother s handwriting, after ten years of silence. Sebastian Astour 1942 Edgerherset Lane And in the cornerLana Astour Winter Estate s Health and Hospital 9th floor 〜
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Dea Sa , Whe e ha e g e? I fee e ee each he e d e he e, b I ca ee e e be Re e be g. I ge g e, b a g a e ee I he . M b d eed c e, ha f b e . I a he c e , a d a e he e ed , ca ha e g e? L f e, a I ha e f .I e e A c f ed , La a
a d e e e da . I . Tha he be ,I h . e cha g g he e e e , Sa , b da d e a d ee? M dea Sa , he e be fa .
〜 The letter sat atop his counter, unopened. Sebastian felt guilty, but after ten years of silence, he just couldn t figure out why his mother had just contacted him . She had e f e, he thought. She could have contacted him during his high school graduation, or acceptance into college, or a simple check-up on her son. And the address, that was different too. It wasn t his childhood house, perched atop a hill, overlooking tendrils of roots and oceans of forests. It was some sort of health facility, which means… Sebtastian shook his head and stared at his shaking hands. O e , a voice purred in his ear. So he did. 〜 Dea Sa , G e h . He de e e ha e had. I a h ha c ec , h gh e e ed b he e ab e c f h e h ee c ed che , ed be da df g. A a ed hea ha b ed ee f edge a d d a d a -I a e e e ce ha , a be he a . If I a a d, a d I ha e d b ha I e be, he I ha be he e f h . P ea e Sa , d h e a a f e. I ha e f g e a e e . Cha e e e , a d he a h d ee e, face, a d ha e had, ee h . Seba a . S ea g f, he , Seba a . I h I e e he e de e h e .H ha e bee ? F g e e, f ha a a he ge e c e e a e e h. I de , e e , ha gh ha e ha e ed. I d .W e e a e ?A ea ,f he . A e . Y M he , La a 〜 25
And that was it. No overbearing questions, no reference to his academic career. And the date was wrong. It wasn t recent at all. It seems as if his mom had written this letter a long time ago, under the pretense that she would be...dead. But she wasn t. And Sam hadn t come forward either, he d never met a Sam in his life, never really knew who his father was. Why was the letter just arriving now? Sebastian glanced at himself in the mirror, tears threatening to collapse into a non-stop river of pain. Twilight black hair with piercing, cool eyes blinked once. Twice. Sebastian wondered if his mom, Lana, looked like him. Equally black hair, yet a soft jawline replacing his hard one. Sebastian looked intimidating, but he wasn t. Not on the inside. His mind wandered to Sam, and he immediately grew sadness. Was Sam his father? Where had he gone? What happened between him and Lana? 〜 The nurse sighed, visiting her last patient of the day. The woman had been here for awhile, young as she was. It was fairly uncommon to see such a severe case of either amnesia or dementia, the nurse never knew for sure. Her black voluminous hair showed no effect that she had been stuck in the same room for ten years. The nurse knew she had a son, and knew that she wrote letters to pass the time. One knock, another knock. “Come in,” a simple voice responded. Lana sat by the window, idly tracing her fingers along the window. And surrounding her- letters. Mountains of letters, unsent and unread by anyone but her. “How are you doing today, Lana?” The nurse asked kindly. Lana ignored the question. “Did you send my letter?” The only letter she had asked to be sent. To her son, albeit it a decade late. Yes, the nurse had sent it. “Yes. Why don t you talk to him, seek him out?” The same question everyday. She didn t know whether Lana forgot or chose to ignore the question. “Because of him.” Sam. The unspoken name lingered between them. Sam had always been a mysterious figment of her past, just another piece to her puzzle of a life. It was because of Sam that she had refused to see her son, because the memories of her past love were too painful to bear. And when she did want to see her son, she always forgot the next day. It was a sad cycle of pain that she lived in. That was why she kept the letters, physical proof that once she loved someone. The nurse shook her head, grasping toward the paper that had sent her to Lana s room in the first place. “I have a surprise for you, Lana. I think you ll like it.” There, she placed the piece of paper ever so gently on the windowsill. Two words murmured from Lana s lips. “A poem.” Her mouth cracked into a feeble smile, the grandiosity of her happiness concealed behind those sad, sad eyes. With trembling fingers, Lana reached for Sebastian s poem, and began to read. By Madeline Wuest 24 26
Wa h Tha E
e i
Off Y
Face!
He e da i i e a . Ma e a e i ih ie ha ab e eed ge i g d e. I a i e a .I ea i g ea e d e ai i e ih ife. I e g if e fi i h. Ig ai e b ff hi g a e a d c a ed hi ec f a d a d bac , i g achie e he igh di a ce ead he a d e e . Ie e A he e, a d a ea i g i e c e ed f he a e i . She ed he head f he ad f a e , he e he had beg a gh d a i g f he i ed chai he he ide f he ,a d ed a he a ge i d behi d he b de . She a he ag e da i e f he i d a he agai a c ai f d , idi g hi eegee d he e g h f he g a , he fa igh ide f he i d . He b a igh deaf, a d did hea he i e e he d f hi ice, b he g a ced a he , a d eei g he a e i fi ed hi he e ad, he c ghed. He . She hif ed he ga e i edia e , a d i ed, bef e di ige a d de ibe a e i i gd he ece a a f he da . She had he da ched e e i ed, a d a he a ed a a ed-d i f hi , he e i ed he ge a he i d a he agai . She a e a i e e he b, a d had e e e e ie ced i d a hi g da , b he b f e e a ec e a , h had bee de ed ge e a ece i i f he ffice b i di g, had d he ch i ha he i d a he a de igh f chee , a d a ed he a a b i g af e a i gd e . Si ce he fi i hed he i a , a d bef e he b had e e fi i hed eadi g h gh he ge e, he cha ced a g i e a he i d . T he i e, he a , h gh i i di i c h gh he a d , ee ed be i g d a he , i ead f f c i g hi a . She c d ca ce c de hi ha acc h gh, a he a d i g ch he a e hi g, i g . The i h, e he i e , a d h gh he i d he a hi face c ea . He a i i g a he ! O e , d a a ica i i g! She a a he di c ce ed, a d fea ed he a bei g ea ed, b e hi g e he chi i ed , e hi g he d he e e if ed, i gi hi face. Thei c ac he d f a i a ge , a d i fe a a a a if he e e d f ie d . The ha ed a e f e e , fc ec i , a d f fa ci a i . Ab e -c ci af e he e a ed, Ig ai e e ed he e e he b , h , hi c edi , had ce a ed f hi a , de i e he i e ac i g i g a d hi . Ig ai e i hed he d a d fi i h a ead , i h ie i g he ea f he i a ie ce, b e i g ha , if he did ge a d , e hi g d a he b . The i d a he , i e e ,b i h a i ge f feig ed ee e , c e ed he c ea ec i fga ih a a e agai , b i g hi face. The he i ed ea , ic i e d he i d , i i a c ea a d d , a d hif ed f he ie , e ab he e i d . N ha he had bee a chi g c e . She had b e ed hi ca a , f he c e f he e e. 27
F he e f he da , Ig ai e a e e . Whe he a i i g, he i hed ge . Whe he a , he i ed he e f i bac d agai . The da d a fa e f a he i g, a d c a b i g a d d a e he e . She c d acce di ac i . B a di ac i i he f f a ha d e, i i g face had c e he a . F ha he had he cha ce c ide i , he a ha d e. Tha a ha he had iced ab hi he he fi a hi face, b he ce ai a ha d e. S e hi g f a cha e , he g e ed, b he e e ie ce a d he de c i i f he e i ec e a . We , he e e e cha e i hi d. O e head c d be ed b e e i d a he h e e i ed! The e e e he h gh ha c a be ed f a e i i he i d a he e h gh he da cha ac e i ica i de . Ig ai e fe he h gh e be i ib e he face, ha a ed b i e c f ic a he a . B he , i a ea ed ha he e a i e e a d ee ed eb i he i d. Whe he b e ed h e ed da a e , Ig ai e hed f he b ffice a d i he ai ffice. She ca gh he ef ec i f a h ac he g a a e b he ece i i de , a d f ced he e f ed ce he eed b ha f. I d d h f he b i di g i e a ca . She e i ed he ffice a d ade he a d he g df . He eg e e e b i g beca e he e he a a ead ace he he a ed . She a e ha a f he did a ,b i a a a a ha i i ed e f-c . She hed e he g a d he b i di g a d a ed he ide a . A a a a di g b he e a ce. A a i hb e a a d a if b d hi , i h ee e ed ha f a he bice . A ca ab e a i h a b c e i hi ha d, a ag hi h de , a d a fa i ia e e i hi face. He had bee ai i g f he , he aid. He h gh ha af e he a he had ac ed, a if he had each he f age , he had be e ac a ge ac ai ed. He had a ed he hi ha beca e he had d ed f he i d f a e, he a d i g f he ife f g d. She i ed. He ade i ea i e. A d he a e iab e. She i ed ha . B E
a Ka
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Growing with the Garden Ma loura couldn t help skipping home after detention. Her netted irises were finally blooming in her beloved garden, which she had been tending for as long as she could remember. She wanted to bring in a nice bouquet for her mother. It was a strangely warm day for late January; the sun dappled the trees and offered a little warmth for her metal gardening tools. She carefully unclipped her cushion from her basket, pruned her deep indigo irises, and bound them with paper and string. She took a moment to feed the frogs in the pond at the center of her garden, and walked down each row to check each plant, bud, and blossom. As the sun began to crest the trees, she made her way inside through the back door. Her mother stood in the kitchen on the telephone. Yes, Mr. Guillum, she waved a welcome to Ma loura as she stepped in. Her father sat at the dinner table. We can talk with her again She s headstrong, but she means well She does well in every other class and has her priorities Yes, we will speak with her Thank you, Mr. Guillum, have a good night. Her mother sighed. Ma loura, darling, how was your day? She stepped over to the table to take the freshly cut irises. It was alright. Ms. Lockwood kept me in detention again for not paying attention. Ma loura, these are beautiful! her mother reassured her as she placed the flowers in a vase. But, you need to pay attention. I know the class feels irrelevant to you. What can your father and I do to motivate you? She gave her daughter a loving look as she gave her a hug, You are so smart. You do well in all of your other subjects. It s just so boring. I have no way to learn more about flowers in that class. It serves no purpose to me; it s so irrelevant! When will I ever need to explain the politics of archeology to anyone? Ma loura sighed. We know you can do better. Principal Guillum knows you can do better. How about this: if you can raise your grade in Ms. Lockwood s class this semester, your father and I will buy you some new plants. Whatever kind you want. Really? Because I ve been eyeing some Lisianthus for a while, but I d need to plant those in early March for them to bloom by summer. They re a bit rare and exotic, but so beautiful. I m up for a gardening challenge, Ma loura babbled, starry-eyed thinking about new flowers. Her mother gave her a stern look. Here! If I raise my grade by spring break, can you buy them for me, and if my grade drops in the last quarter, I ll pay you back? As her mother pondered the suggestion, Ma loura s father stood up and placed a hand on his wife s shoulder, Shefali, our daughter has a reasonable point. She is growing up to be an ambitious young woman; she has an internship with the florist this summer. She will be able to handle herself. She placed her hand on top of his, You re right, Nhitesh. Ma loura, we will do this for you. She smiled warmly, Now, let s have dinner. 29
Ma loura could barely eat from her excitement. *** The next morning, Ma loura brought bouquets of irises to school for Mr. Guillum and Ms. Lockwood as an apology. Mr. Guillum was not in his office, so she left them with the secretary. Ms. Lockwood accepted the flowers reluctantly. Ma loura tried to restrain herself from gawking as she saw Ms. Lockwood set them down, the weak petals and leaves crunching against the desk. Ma loura took her seat; the noisiness of her class settled and was replaced with the sound of Ms. Lockwood s kitten heels against the tile floor. The cinder block walls made the room feel much colder. The projector buzzed on as the lights flicked off. Today, class, we are looking at some ruins in Ghana, Ms. Lockwood s strident voice droned. Ma loura strained to keep focus. The room seemed to get smaller, and Ms. Lockwood s words less coherent. Come on, pay attention, Ma loura encouraged herself. Do it for the flowers. Oh the flowers, how she wished to be in her garden. No. Back to Ghana, she snapped back to reality. She scrambled to catch up on the notes. The harder she tried, the tireder she became. I could just read the slides and textbook at home Her mind began to wander back to her garden. The soft blue sky, the warm sun. Skipping down the rows, pure bliss. Ma loura. Laying in the reddish dirt, letting it blend in with her tan skin. Ma loura. Letting the beetles climb into her black hair. Ma loura. She could lay in this meditation forever. She felt a nudge on her foot. She blinked back to find herself still in the classroom, the lights on, homework written on the chalkboard. Ms. Lockwood was walking toward her desk. Yes, Ms. Lockwood. Could you, uh, repeat the question? What is the homework for tonight? she demanded. Ma loura glanced at the board, Review our notes, read section three of chapter six, and answer the review questions. The test is planned for Wednesday in two weeks. The bell rang. Good. Now write it down like the rest of your classmates have. Ma loura scribbled it down, shoved her books into her backpack, and promised herself not to daydream in class ever again. *** Ma loura s visits to her garden grew shorter as the test approached; she spent longer and longer in her bedroom trying to study. She spent hours reviewing her notes, making flashcards, answering review questions. She tried every study tip she used for all her other classes. She used her desk and chair more than she ever thought she would. 30
She paid attention in every class. She thought things would be different; she felt confident she would do well in Ms. Lockwood s class. The day of the test came, and a few days later the grades were returned. Things had not changed. She scored 67%. What did she do wrong? She came home in tears; her sleeves were damp from wiping her face. She felt inconsolable. What did you do differently? her mother asked. Do you think you are trying too hard? I don t know what I m doing wrong! she sobbed. I, I need some time in my garden. She took up her basket, her knee pad, and tools, and sprinted to her garden out in the brisk evening weather. She sat by the frog pond and cried a bit longer, and when her nose felt clear enough, she lay down in the soil. The ground felt cold, and the wind blew the trees. She felt at peace. And then she realized what she needed to do. She needed to study out in her garden, where she felt most grounded to remember things better. Her flower friends would be there for comfort, the bugs there to listen to the lessons. She returned home for dinner refreshed, revived, and redetermined. As boring as Ms. Lockwood s class could be, Ma loura knew she could succeed. *** Does anyone know why the archeologists couldn t find any people here despite the signs of a developed society here? Ms. Lockwood asked her class. The class shifted uncomfortably. Ma loura couldn t recall reading about why in her textbook. No one seemed to know why either. One person raised a hand and was called on. Did they all leave? Not quite, this civilization lasted long enough for there to be multiple generations of people, so it is unlikely they all left. There was a long moment of silence, Remember, they found what looked like a burial area. Their test concluded this soil was disturbed in sections that would fit a coffin. Soil. Ma loura s hand shot up. Yes, Ma loura. Was the pH of the soil too acidic for bone to be preserved properly, so they dissolved and left no trace? Ms. Lockwood looked astonished. I know it affects flowers, so maybe it does for bones too. The class all turned to look at Ma loura. You are correct, Ma loura, Ms. Lockwood concluded. Ma loura beamed as bright as the sun for the rest of the day. *** Ma loura s grades soared higher than she expected, and her relationship with Ms. Lockwood warmed with the weather. While she still was not very interested in the subject, she enjoyed her time in her garden, and was willing to sacrifice some time to add to her flower collection. As spring break approached, her parents kept a close eye on her grades, and upheld their promise.
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Ma loura, we re going to the store. Come with us! her mother called to her the first morning of break. We re going to the nursery! We requested some Lisianthus. That s what you wanted, right? She bolted down the stairs, and shortly after she laid eyes on the plants of her dreams. She spent the rest of the semester caring especially for her new flowers. In between study sessions, she d water and weed. Come the end of the school year, they bloomed a vibrant purple. And with the end of the year came report cards. And Ma loura smiled victoriously. She got straight As! On the last day of school, Ma loura marched proudly into school with two bouquets: one for Mr. Guillum and one for Ms. Lockwood. This time, Mr. Guillum was in his office to receive the flowers. Ms. Lockwood greeted Ma loura warmly as she entered her classroom. The tile floor and cinder block walls no longer felt so cold. She handed Ms. Lockwood the bouquet. This time, Ms. Lockwood had brought in a vase to display Ma loura s flowers. She placed the flowers inside and adjusted them with the same care Ma loura felt for her flowers. Ma loura sighed with relief. She skipped home joyfully that afternoon to prune another bouquet for her mother. By Elizabeth Miller 21 Artwork by Stella Fernandez 24
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