Epitime

Dedication

There has been so much chaos in our daily lives this past year and, especially as Jewish students, the turmoil reflected both in the world around us and online seemed especially all-consuming and ever-present. This year, e·pit´·o·me offered a space to step back from the upheaval around us and remain grounded. We took a step back from the antisemitism and horrors of October 7th and brought Heschel students’ experiences, spirits, and thoughts to the forefront of our magazine.

This led us to choose “footprints” for our theme, which encompasses the past and the future, legacies and friendship, absence and hope, destinations and dreams.

So much work goes into compiling, editing, and publishing a literary magazine, and we want to shine a light on the people who made e·pit´·o·me possible this year. Thank you, Stefan, for always supporting us (and replying to our frantic emails). Thank you, Yalei, for working so hard on the layout and truly making e·pit´·o·me so beautiful. And lastly, thank you to all the talented writers and artists who amazed us with the breadth of emotion captured in their work.

We now invite you, dear reader, to open our magazine and explore the footprints within!

Editorial Board

Editors in Chief

Serena Goldstein

Sari Goodman

Associate Editors

Eden Litt

Lily Weinberger

Aerin Levine

Sadie Jacobson

Art/Photography Editor

Yalei Ravin

Faculty Advisor

Stefan Dorosz

Graphic Design/Layout Editor

Yalei Ravin

Special Thanks to

Nurit Newman

Lisa Waldstein

Gabe Godin

Colophon

A Literary & Arts Publication of the Abraham Joshua Heschel High School Volume 20 - 2024 / 5784

Head of School Ariela Dubler

High School Head Noam Silverman

The pieces in this magazine emerged from both class projects and independent writing. Students submit material and the editors make selections and suggest revisions as part of an extra-curricular activity. Epitome represents a cross-section of the literary and artistic talents of our students and seeks to showcase as many of their works as possible, reflecting Heschel's commitment to inclusion.

Table of Contents

Sari Goodman: Hide and Seek

Anabelle Gononsky: Whispers of Ripe Choices

Ella Nadel: Echoes of Innocence

Serena Goldstein: Leaving

Anabelle Gononsky: Symphony of Youth

Danni Jankelson: Ode to a stubborn friend

Lila Nanasi: Ode to Gray Hairs

Yonatan Amster: The Lightkeeper

Ayelet Spevack: Bittersweet June

Felix Harari: Sunlight

Lily Weinberger: Return

Lila Nanasi: The Bespectacled Fruit Man in the Kitchen

Yalei Ravin: Ode to Perfection(ism)

Daniella Grinker: Praise Poem for Stuff

Adira Kress: Sisters

Manu Sinayuk: If Poetry Were a Sport

Parker Slarsky: one of the past

Sadie Jacobson: Eulogy for Mucky

Felix Harari: The Copper Man

Eden Bar-Chama: Spectacled Thrill

Sam Steiner: Paradox of Freedom

Jordan Zaretsky: Onward

Oli Lipman: Some Poems

Elana Farbiarz: Nonsense

Ayelet Spevack: Let Go

Shiri Sobol: How is math used in real life?

Jayden Podchlebnik: By My Window

Amia Kaplun: The Number Four

Eli Goldman: The Cheese

Yoni Benichou: November 29th

Shiri Sobol: Beauty Behind the Glass

Bee Levy: Off-beat

Maya Seltzer: Time to Wait

Aerin Levine: Colors of the Flag

Molly Mandl: My Footprint

Danni Jankelson: The Gift

Sigal Bezborodko: Another Hour

Daniella Grinker: J. Rober Oppenheimer! Am I right, ladies?

Amelie Prevor: Daughters

Serena Goldstein: Savior

Maya Barlev: Not a Machine

Ben Hymowitz: Old Mike

Miriam Gross: Solitude

Jordan Schwartz: Candace

Hide & Seek

By Sari Goodman ‘24

I’m hiding

But I’m hopeful

They’re looking

They’ll find me

I won’t be alone much longer

I think I wait

My breaths shallow but strained and quiet

I want them to find me

But I don’t

What if they don’t

What if I’m here forever

Stuck in the bush

My feet would grow roots

My hair would sprout blueberries

My fingers branches

My body a stump

The day spun from dusk to dawn as I squat there waiting

Breathing

Panting

And in all those hours my panting never seemed to slow

Never waned

Never subsided

Just as loud as it was as the hours passed as when I first found shelter beneath the bush

But slowly

The leaves glowed differently under the setting sun

The shadows belonging to the trees e l o n g a t e d

Fingerlike branches r e a c h i n g s t r e t c h i n g to the horizon

The birds’ chirping

Is replaced by crickets

And then it’s dark

I can’t find my way home under the stifled starlight

Photography by Amelie Prevor ‘26

Whispers of Ripe Choices

Inspired by Sylvia Plath By Anabelle Gononsky ‘25

In my restless dreams—

I see my grandmother’s mango tree.

In the sunny state of Florida, lies a mango-bearing tree in my grandmother’s quaint garden. Little me was always enamored by the gigantic and juicy fruit. I made my grandmother swear to never cut the tree down. She kept her promise, and as I got older, my life was presented to me like my grandmother’s tree. Each branch bore a large and juicy mango. Each mango represented one possibility of my life.

One of them was a professor, one of them was a mother, one of them was an Olympic ice dancer. Each one was more compelling than the last, and choosing one meant forgetting all the rest—it felt like that, at least. Any mango I chose would be delicious, but this was masked by the idea that only one delectable mango existed. Mangoes go bad the longer you wait to eat them.

If I waited too long, there would be no more mangoes, and I would be stuck in a monotonous and regretful life.

The easiest outcome was to spend all my time pondering which mango to choose instead of living out a fruitful path that was so proudly presented to me.

In the meantime, each mango will shrivel up and disintegrate into nothing but dust, leaving me with less than I started with.

Now— all I want is to be a little girl enamored by mangoes. I don’t want to choose which is the best.

Echoes of Innocence

By Ella Nadel ‘26

It feels like I’ve lived two different lives.

This is something I think about deep in my mind at least once a week. I tend to talk about this with my mom. She understands. From ages 1–10, I lived in a small town, in a small county, with a small school. I played outside and jumped on trampolines that were big at the time and small if I looked back at them now. I had friends who did not judge me. They thought I was outgoing and social. I would wear a bright pink shirt with these cloth-like shorts because I hated pants. My mom would yell at me every morning to put on a pair of leggings. My excuse was “it was too hot” or “they feel ITCHY.” I ended up wearing the pants. My friend who lived next door had bright, long, straight blond hair and sharp blue eyes. Emily was her name. Oh, how I miss Emily. We would ride our bikes from day to night wearing our sweaty cloth-like shorts and our hair all out and wild. Her brothers would come outside and play with us; roller skating, biking, basketball, you name it. In the back of my house, there was a small creek, about 4 feet wide with dark brown water and jagged rocks. Surrounding the creek was a vast line of trees with big brown leaves. Emily and I would occasionally take plastic beach buckets, grab the brown leaves, head towards the creek, take the mud and water, and put them in the bucket. We called it “our poison potion.” We would take a large stick and stir it up. Sometimes we would prank our moms to think it was real soup just to get a laugh out of them. Emily understands.

I think about this repeating scene in my head every week. I think about the biking, the leaves, the creek, the vast line of trees, and Emily. From ages 11–15, my first life ended. I remember the day my family sat me down on my living room couch and said to my siblings and me, “We have news.” I jumped, my heart raced, and I choked up. I did not know what they were going to say. My mom told us we were moving. I whined a little… then started to cry. For some reason, it was like I knew this life, my childhood, was going to end here. I was scared to leave my friends and my whole life I built in this small town. Now I’m 15, and I go to a school I never thought I would be in. I live another life. My current life includes binge-watching cooking videos on Instagram, arguing with my sister, coming home at 6 pm, and having anxious thoughts about the stupidest things, for example, Math. Along with this routine, I think about the first life I had. I’m thinking about it now. I think about it at night when I’m lying in my bed. I think about it during that one boring class in school. I think about it with my mom. Because she understands.

Leaving

By Serena Goldstein ‘24

I am always well-versed in missing them

In leaving them for days at a time

I am already well versed in knowing their absence And missing our fights so much I forgot how bad and vicious they got and still I am already well versed in how I will miss you and your smile and your hugs and our fights and your anger and meanness and your ability to make me feel small and your smile and our laughter and I already am accustomed to this loss

It’s familiar like a well-worn glove I will slip on I can imagine it already.

Photography by David Rosen ‘26

Symphony of Youth

By Anabelle Gononsky ‘25

As children, we live life through an orchestra performance— Each encounter is a symphony of innocence.

In the orchestra of childhood, laughter rings like a harmony And tears flow like the gaunt strains of a violin.

Life is good, life is grand.

As the crescendo heightens to the darkness of being a teenager, Life is no longer as grand.

On the endless shores of school and the other burdens of being a teenager, we find ourselves sifting through sand to pick out those innocent symphonies.

Bedridden, as the haunting melody of the orchestra comes to a close; We ache for a final refrain,

Just one last riveting note of music, One last crescendo of our youth, Yet in the silence.

Promises of hope are heard among the buzzing quiet.

For the orchestra of life moves on.

Though the tune may change, Beauty is found in the newness.

Mixed Media Art by Abby Segal ‘26

Ode to a stubborn friend

By Danni Jankelson ‘26

She’s the kind of person to not want that.

The kind of person to ask for advice and not follow it,

The kind of person to do things out of spite,

The kind of person who messes up terribly because they cannot ask for help.

She’s the kind of awfully stubborn person who cannot take no for an answer.

The kind of person who defends their opinion until their dying breath, Oh, and god forbid she has to apologize for something.

But she’s also the first person to stand up for me,

The kind of person who leads a revolution in hopes of something great.

She’s the kind of person who pushes you straight into the deep end and doesn’t help you out.

But oh well, I guess you learn.

She’s the kind of person that will advocate for me no matter what.

The kind of person who reassures me that she will always be there for me

In sickness and in health, sitting by my hospital bed,

Laughing and arguing about nothing at all.

That’s just the kind of person she is.

Photography by Amelie Prevor ‘26

Ode to Gray Hairs

By Lila Nanasi ‘25

My mother has me pluck them from her scalp when I point them out, her little strands of silver.

I am a small bird pecking at her mother’s feathers. I shouldn’t have told her I was admiring them, now they get brushed on pant legs and tablecloths on their way to the floor.

Might they get vacuumed or swept away forgotten with bread crumbs and dust bunnies?

My father’s right sideburn, grayed since 19, hopefully from his collar-bone-broken bicycle accident, because danger is more interesting than genetics.

An old lady sits on a park bench and watches the pigeons. I watch her watch the pigeons.

She may have seen cities develop, children grow, waters rise.

Print by Avi Spaner ‘26

Now a cup of tea and a newspaper: A record of the world she will soon be leaving, but her shimmering hairs will be left on sweaters’ shoulders, woven into shag carpets, a record, remnants of her life. Each strand recounts— one, a summer spent giving tours at an art museum another, sun-bleached, and lifeguarding silver slivers, shining scrolls.

I pray I will be seasoned with my own shimmering strips of cesium, thousands of threads of Portuguese sardines. And as my split ends lose their golden tinge, pennies to dimes, my grays will leave a canvas to be inscribed, recounting the museums I have visited, the people I have left.

Charcoal Drawing by Noam Bar-Chama ‘27

The Lightkeeper

By Yonatan Amster ‘25

For my grandfather Emmanuel who suffered from Dementia. I hope to leave an impact on others like he left on me.

Outside of his windows, the sky was always overcast and dark. The occasional seagull would fly by, fading into a small white speck in the distance just as fast as it appeared. Unlike him, it was free. The eternal fog that surrounded the lighthouse held him in, the revolving light atop his tall home doing little to dispel it. How he’d ended up there was a mystery; his memory was as blurry as the world beyond his glass cage.

Letters and photographs plastered the glass, all relics of a forgotten time. Upon the small wooden desk on one end of the room sat his stationery. He occupied his time writing to people he couldn’t remember, his pen gliding across the paper like a skater on ice beyond his control. The words seemingly generated themselves; the man was simply a vessel used to write them. In the middle of the room sat a tube, which extended down towards the ground to deliver the letters he wrote. Every so often, a shipment would arrive to him through the tube in blue and green wrapping paper. It contained little else than paper and ink, which was all the man needed. Very rarely, the shipment would include a small letter addressed to him or a photograph, the faces scrubbed away by the passage of time.

The man’s days were long, seemingly never-ending. It was impossible to tell the time of day, as it always looked the same outside: dark and cloudy. When he wasn’t at his table writing, he spent his time across the room, reading and looking at pictures. He’d remember the names of people or things, but they meant nothing to him. Klein, Disengoff, Ofrah, they were all worthless. Faces in pictures would seem familiar, but their names had been scrubbed from his mind. His memory was a blank slate, but nothing could be etched in. It always stayed blank.

A set of stairs led down to a locked door. The man couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried it, but he knew there was no point anymore. Although it was likely his only way out, he didn’t bother paying it any mind. His routine had been ingrained, and the days blurred together. He could hardly remember what he’d read the day before, and he’d often

Charcoal Drawing by Lily Rose-Keinan ‘27

find himself reading the same letter again and again and again without realizing it. When the tube sent up a package, he’d open it, hang its contents on the wall, and forget about it. Less than a day later he’d already be wondering when the next one would arrive.

One day, a package arrived. Smaller than usual, it was packed in a small red box. Further than differing from its usual appearance, it seemed a normal package. Inside, the man found a key, accompanied by a single word scrawled inside the box: remember.

The word scared him. It felt sharp, possibly even dangerous. The lack of memory was almost comforting to the man, who didn’t even know his name. The little life that he had could be uprooted instantly by the word and the key that accompanied it, and he left the box in the middle of the room. It was both sacred and sacrilegious, beautiful and hideous, and so he treated it as such.

The box sat there for what could have been days, weeks, months, or years. Memory would come and go, but that box would forever remain ingrained in his mind. He consciously avoided it, afraid of what would happen if he unlocked the door. It followed him when he wrote his letters, looked at photographs, and all the more so when he opened a new package. While he didn’t realize it, the key had given him back his memory. He remembered to avoid it, never looking at it more than he needed to.

When the final package arrived, it came in the same red box. He dreaded what could be inside, but he never failed to open a package when it arrived. He took it to his desk and looked at it briefly. At some point, his curiosity got the best of him. Opening it carefully, he peered inside with trepidation. A small picture, frayed at the edges, lay inside. He picked it up slowly, taking in every last detail. Something was different with this picture. It was clearer than the others, somehow. He flipped the image over. Scribbled in dark blue ink were the words “we will wait for you.”

He looked back on the picture for a moment, as a smile crept onto his face. He remembered.

Print by Emily Borden ‘26

Bittersweet June

By Ayelet Spevack ‘25

Like a refreshing breath of deadly air, a sweet bite of a poisoned apple, going to disneyland without any rides, a nice new house that holds no memories, the haunting warmth of June creeps into my skin as the sun starts to set on a late night of laughter. Something grabs my heart and squeezes it tight. Is it hugging me or strangling me?

I do not know.

I cannot breathe.

It’s the drop of a roller coaster where your stomach is left at the top and your soul soars to the skies and your body falls to the floor. I would hug you for years if you would let me.

I walk towards the edge of the cliff hoping never to reach the end because I’m not ready to jump. So I distract my mind–

I don’t think about my impending doom because whether I’m ready or not, whether I jump or fall off the edge, the floor will no longer be beneath me and I’ll be lost.

How can something be happy and sad all at once? How can opposites mix into one frustrating feeling that takes over me?

I want to hold your hand for eternity, but that would be selfish.

So I let go and fall.

Print by Avi Spanier ‘26

Sunlight

By Felix Harari ‘24

Here.

dwells a towering tree of thought... Planted in the rich sod of upbringing, rooted in resolute habit

Bathing in divinely intense warmth, its limbs contort... Stretching, to somehow grasp the golden sunlight... Emotions branch out to form luscious leaves of ideas...As budding action slowly blossoms at the tree’s tips...

Cavernous gashes in the bark are constantly carved out... The tree’s life relentlessly chisels away at the tree’s life... The malefic weed of perfectionism... Overtakes and withers all greenery

Exhaustion molds what once were pristine wooden branches... Into decaying, lifeless

Emotion... Causing leaves to shrivel... Slowly plummeting toward the hard-caked soil

Soil contaminated by obtrusive negativity... Brought upon by the tree itself... And its fellow saplings...Under the corrosive influence of self-doubt... The tree’s unique rings begin to fade

The tree aches for a gardener

Reclining in its refreshing Shade... Preserving its brittle Exterior... Trimming the tainted Branches... Keeping the soil

Pure... Yet the tree exists in solitude... And must nurture Itself... It gathers in sunlight

To synthesize into food... Food of Self-reliance... Self-confidence Self-love... In doing so, the tree can grow through... Scorching summer heat, turbulent fall gusts Unrelenting winter blizzards, shocking spring rainstorms... The tree then transforms into a flourishing, vibrant evergreen

Sunlight unravels into an assorted scatter of rays... Each tree absorbing its own beam of happiness... What is your tree’s shining lifeline???

A story? Of budding action blossoming into flowery change?

A place? Mountainous redwood forests, where trees know no limits?

A song? The chirping harmonies of birds hovering overhead?

An action? Biding time strengthening twigs into timber? Or a person? The boundless greenery surrounding and overlapping with yours

Funerals Are No Fun

Inspired by “The World To Come” by

Dara Horn

By Daniella Grinker ‘26

The shovel lies turned over reluctantly perched at the edge of a grave like a crouching gargoyle or a wrought iron fence or something equally goyish but entirely Jewish

The shovel’s shallow canyon where the handle meets the blade that cradles bits of dirt is a thumbprint of sorts a dispelling of the whispered memories that fell on our brows and settled softly on our windswept hairs as gentle flecks of white and hovered on our eyelashes swirling around our hazy figures in gusts of angels’ breath

The warm ash that blanketed our pink fetal figures lies in brilliant fields of red guelder rose, like the dirt and depression of this world is ever present in the one that came before a constant fixture in our unborn lives until one day or night or dusk or dawn or somewhere in between because time is different: contracted constrictive concave in that prenatal cavern

The burnt dust was brushed from the space between our lips and mouth so that we would grow womb-weary and leave crying and crawling but not clawing at its walls

And just like that, we emerged forgetting our futures

Do you remember?

We must return to that world of womb-learned secrets.

Charcoal Drawing by Michael Kaplan-Nolan ‘24

I Am Waiting

In response to Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s 1958 Poem, “I Am Waiting”

By Yalei Ravin ‘26

I am waiting for the day when people will take me seriously and not shake their heads whenever I say something and I am waiting for the day when I am confident and brave and true enough to be the real me and I am waiting to graduate and enter the world where I will be a real person with real thoughts and real ideas that matter and after I grow up I hope that I won’t have to wait anymore

I am waiting for my stuffed and smelly and slow train car to be replaced with a glistening high-tech transport that exists only in the depths of my imagination and I am waiting for books to be free for anyone who wants to read and I am waiting for school to realize that no one wants to take gym class and I am waiting for an actually good night of sleep a trivial thing to wait for when you think about the fact that there are people out there still waiting for peace and after war and peace and in-between I pray that I won’t have to wait anymore

I am waiting for my paintings to come to life and tell me the truth and I am waiting for dance to whisper its secrets to me because everyone else already knows them and I am waiting to see the Earth from space as a tiny little ball like the astronauts of Apollo-11 and I am waiting for the moment when I am captivated by wonder for the world but maybe that has already happened

Charcoal Drawing by Aaron Koffman ‘27

Ode to the World

By Jonathan Heisler ‘24

Life is beautiful, difficult, scary.

Every crack in every wall

Every curve in every letter graffitied onto every building, tunnel, and truck

Every black man, white woman, and Spanish child

Every Mercedes with the symbol on the front grill missing

Every restaurant sign with a missing letter

Every splotch of tar shaped unlike any other of its kind on the sidewalk

Every drop of paint that drips an inch too far on every mural

Every holiday light that hangs down from the roof of someone’s terrace

The roof of one man’s terrace, but the floor of the man above him’s terrace.

Every delivery man who stands off the corner waiting for the light to turn

Every piece of gravel, exposed by the construction crew who tore up his home of a road

Every ridge in every building, put there meticulously by its architect

Every gray strand of hair sprawling from the head of every father who takes his two sons to the park to play soccer.

Beautiful, difficult, scary.

Raw, and unashamed.

Our world.

Painting by Serena Goldstein ‘24

Return

By Lily Weinberger ‘26

The hot sun hits her face as she feels the flower-filled air brushing softly against her dress. It had been years since she returned, but here she was— standing in the creased grass left from her dog’s footprints, and as the music drowned out the neighbor’s voices, darkness came over her house. She was home.

Photography by Amelie Prevor ‘26

The Bespectacled Fruit Man in the Kitchen

By Lila Nanasi ‘25

That eyebrow scrunch of a man spacing clementine crescents, arranging apple slivers, or plating banana pennies

How he paints sunrises with the content of an orange, elegantly illustrates flora through the medium of strawberry Watch as he meticulously performs a three step washing routine on every batch of green grapes Or sorts through each blackberry, immediately expelling any moldy or rotten, leaving only those firm and sweet.

Notice how he fixates over the distribution of segments in his classic fruit ring, shifting these three left and these two right to accommodate for the space left when he ate one of the precious wedges for “poison control”

Before waltzing into one of our bedrooms ceremoniously placing the platter on a bedside table and saying good morning.

Gouache Painting by Maia Donath ‘24

Ode to Perfection(ism)

By Yalei Ravin, ‘26

First it goes a little bit this way Then it has to be moved just a little bit That way. Down to the millimeter. Perfect. To be perfect is to be good. And everything has to be good or else the world will end. And there is no going back after that. It takes too long to put on my socks, to lace up my shoes, to leave the house, to write one email, to eat, to do homework, it all takes too long. Too much effort is spent on the small things. Too much time is spent choosing the perfect word, the perfect response. Because it’s make or break and to break is to shatter. And striving to be perfect is the only thing keeping all the broken shards of me glued together. So then I think maybe it’s not too much. Maybe—

Instead of an overthinker, I am thoughtful. Maybe instead of caring too much, I am careful. Maybe I am doing everything I can to just keep moving forward. But maybe, I also need to realize that every little chip in the glass won’t cause it to shatter.

Pen & Ink Drawing by Abby Segal ‘26

Praise Poem for Stuff

by “Ode to Things” by

Pablo Neruda

By Dani Grinker ‘26

I have a crazy, crazy love of things. I like ornate things like embroidered tablecloths with little stitched fruits on them: oranges, cherries, and grapes. I love rugs and tapestries rich with colors, itchy when you lie down on them, but so pretty to look at especially when you stand on their coarse hairof-a-shorn-animaldied-a-delicious-red-color surface with your fleshy and soft, scaly and calloused, wounded feet.

It’s like dipping your ten toes into a fuzzy pool of pomegranate juice.

Barely visible things tickle my fancy as well: how the steam floating above the rim of a mug of tea looks like a long haired figure dancing gracefully along the surface bending and moving and swaying its hips to the rhythm of energized particles, or how laminating paper gives it the illusion of being official Through the miracle of applying a thin sheet of plastic, it has been frozen in time, no longer able to be edited or revised,

Inspired

Mixed Media Painting by Haym Suissa ‘26

and no longer able to give you paper cuts.

Those morbid, scary things are really something else: cozy hospital socks with the sticky blobs on the bottom that you take home and wear to bed once a week because they swaddle your feet in comfort even though you received them when someone put a scalpel to one of your extremities. And the buttery, pseudovanilla flavored Pepperidge Farm Chessmen-like cookies with letters of the alphabet on them that they gave you at the doctor after you got a shot and did not die! They are lovable because again, you lived to see another day and to eat your cookies.

Painting by Mai Yifrakh

Sisters Man in the

By Adira Kress ‘25

“Remember the time we were up all night watching movies, Or the time we put on a fashion show, Or the time we pranked our parents, Or the time we baked dozens of cupcakes?”

Sisters are the ones who judge you the hardest But you can also be yourself around,

Sisters are the only person you can purposefully be mean to But no one else can lay a finger on,

Sisters are the people who you can fight with for hours But joke with a minute later,

Sisters are the friends who steal your clothes But you’ll be able to take them back,

Sisters are the roomates who make the room messy But who will clean up in the end,

Sisters are the shadow who follow you around But don’t feel clingy,

Sisters are the bullies who make you the punchline of every joke But you’re just happy to see them laugh,

They are your built in best friends, Your soul mates for life, The people always by your side, Sisters.

Painting by Juliette Nili ‘24

If Poetry Were a Sport

By Manu Sinayuk ‘25

If poetry were a sport, I’d be pretty lame, On the sidelines, I’d sit, not joining the aim.

Always asking, “What’s the secret? What is the trick?” Trying to grasp it, but it’s like catching smoke so thick.

I’d get so fixated on one rule, thinking that it is key, For it only to vanish, confusing poor little me.

Trying to score, taking my shot, But my teammates groaned, wondering if I had forgotten.

Struggling to find my way, Coaches are frustrated, hoping for a much brighter day,

In this field, I stumble and sway, Like a novice on the pitch learning each and every day.

Taken over by similes and metaphors, a language quite grand, A big challenge on this land.

It is like a dance I simply can’t follow, Yet, with each stumble, there is a lesson I eventually swallow.

For a world of verses, so vast, I am a poet, learning pretty darn fast.

The road might be rough, the path may be unclear, But I’m embracing the challenge and conquering my fear.

Collage by Mika Afriat ‘27

one of the past

By Parker Slarskey ‘25

we used to have sleepovers. cooking an extravagant three-course meal, followed by a usually-failed, but tasty, baking attempt

we woke up at the crack of dawn. eager to begin our day together, we walked the length of the city, and more, talking non-stop, sharing stories, predicting our futures, and reminiscing on our past

we went to practically every coffee shop in the entire city. ate all the popular New York foods, and visited every ‘trendy’ spot

i told you everything because you listened. my secrets were safe with you, my problems were resolved by you, you understood me

now you crash at my house on the weekends. i offer to play a board game, you deny i offer to experiment in the kitchen, you would rather go out i tell you about my life, you ignore me

i’m not sure who you have turned into. glued to your phone, oblivious of your surroundings, and uninterested in my life what do I do? are we even still friends?

maybe it’s time to go our separate ways. move on with our own lives, because this friendship is no longer.

Photography by Liam Bahar

Pen & Ink Drawing by Anni Green ‘26

Eulogy for Mucky

By Sadie Jacobson ‘25

When the dolphin died in the superfund Canal adjacent to my house it shifted my attitude towards nature.

I grew up in NYC and was used to the fumes, the stenches, and the nonchalant passive New Yorker. However, it was known in the surrounding twentyish blocks that the Canal was particularly foul. The Canal’s surface was covered in slick, thick oils which created rainbows that would mesmerize the local children. I admit that the kaleidoscopic water seduced me, but that was when I was naive to the health of the organisms barely surviving in the muck below.

The area was an industrial blight knocking against an up-and-coming residential rebirth. There were multiple abandoned factories and deserted warehouses that with the Canal created the landscape of my childhood. I recall watching one of my first sunsets in the reflection of the Canal while leaning on the crumbling wall of my favorite warehouse. The vibrancy of the screaming colors has since been burnt into my mind as a bittersweet memory after my father said, “You know . . . those fantastic colors are due to the pollution.” This was a poignant moment for me as I realized how poisoned the Canal was. The unnatural hues that reflected on the water, the colors that made both the water and sky so beautiful were what was killing it.

My favorite warehouse was always covered in graffiti. Often there were rude and unsavory words sprayed on the concrete walls, and I would ask my parents what particular words meant, and each time they looked more shocked than the last. I credit the warehouse vandalism with providing me with my salty Brooklyn vocabulary. In the evenings I would practice taking soccer penalty shots against my personal dictionary as I knew I would have peace and quiet because the smells were so rough on the nose and brain that no one besides my doting father would interrupt my shots. It was also local lore that after dark, the ghost of a mob hit haunted the Canal.

Nobody found the lost dolphin until daylight when it was too late to save him from the lethal concoction of the Canal. I remember feeling heartbroken, that my Canal had become a death trap. My nightly penalty shots were now tainted with the death of a beautiful sentient being. Even though people tried to save him, we had failed to be true custodians of nature, but we all grew through loss.

The community started to clean up litter: plastic water bottles, needles, shopping bags, and styrofoam cups. The neighborhood is now up and coming so the city of New York deemed the superfund Canal worthy of cleanup. My warehouse is no longer littered with crude words but is now plastered in building permits.

The neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. The Canal is lined with trees and enchanting tulips. There is a field of grass that has become an illegal dog run. There are Save the Earth posters taped to the benches. Posters that other local teenagers and I placed in the

dead of night to inform the new generation of the pollution, all in memory of the dolphin. I no longer get the silence I once craved, but now find happiness in families having picnics facing the Canal and children asking their parents what words like ozone mean.

Despite my joy in a somewhat cleaner Canal, I recently learned my warehouse will be pulled down for a real dog-run and small plant nursery. Part of what the dolphin taught me is that nature is all around us even in an urban environment. The community and the individual have an obligation to the birds and dolphins as we are all finally “obeying the same law,” for a future hopefully devoid of unnecessary death— at least in my neighborhood we have made a start.

Charcoal Drawing by Maya Braiterman ‘27

The Copper Man

By Felix Harari ‘24

For the first time he could remember, the copper man woke up late one morning. His bedside alarm routinely shook him awake at 4:08 AM, but the man had forgotten to set it the night prior. The clock was antique; round and silver, with two plump bells at the top. One of the stubby legs was cracked, so the clock sat awkwardly on the man’s nightstand. One brisk November morning, some time ago, an open window triggered the clock to wobble too violently, and like a brittle autumn leaf, it tumbled off its box, almost in slow motion. The clock bounced onto the man’s thin mattress pad, which was placed directly on the floor, propelling the copper man’s most prized possession a few feet across the room. Upon landing, the impact caused the left leg to crunch and snap. To this day, the man avoided trampling the fallen autumn leaves, as in combination with the aggressive breath of November, doing so always took him back to that bitter morning, exactly 32 years, 9 months, and 26 days ago. When recalling the event on his morning walks, a squirrel seemed to scurry down the branches of the man’s memory to bury a swelling acorn deep in his throat. The day of his clock’s downfall was the time the copper man came closest to missing work until the day he woke up late, 32 years later.

His job was his calling, his purpose, so he never missed a day. Skipping his shower and breakfast, the man swiftly yet cautiously wrapped himself in his passion. He threw on his bright bronze dress shirt, suit, and pants— all rigid and crusty from layered decades of dry paint. Over the years, they became stiffer and more challenging to put on, and as the copper man grew older and less mobile, the time allotted to his dressing routine grew. After sliding on his socks, penny-covered loafers, and top hat, the man carefully smeared makeup on his face, neck, and hands.

Covered in copper, the man left his apartment, his dark outfit blending in with the bare and poorly lit stairwell. As he stepped outside his building, the man was greeted with the sweet aroma of dew. No cars or people roamed the streets; the world was a still, intensely blank canvas. The man enjoyed this rare peacefulness, a special treasure only found in the very early mornings. As layers of sunrise were painted over darkness in prolonged gentle strokes, the man quickened his pace across the empty scene.

Painting by Michael Kaplan-Nolan ‘24

The copper man reached his office just as dawn approached, cutting it closer than ever before. The sun broke through gray skies and fed the world a purple-golden glow. The copper man shimmered in the new colors of the park and settled at his usual bench. The bench’s rectangular plaque read “Pond View Point,” which was laser cut in large black letters into a thin golden sheet. Its paint had blistered and was painted over countless times during the man’s career. Now the bench was a bright brown that impeccably complemented his attire.

The bench was surrounded by greenery on all ends, almost secluded from the park’s main walkway. A yellow chrysanthemum bush grew to the right of the bench, but the weeds on the left-hand side were advancing their attack. Now, they were just barely kept at bay by weekly weed killer sprays. The screws on the bench were beginning to loosen, making a slight squeaking noise whenever someone sat down. As the man sat, he placed his old pickle jar below the plaque. He got into his static pose at the edge of the bench and angled himself toward the water. Resting his chin in his hand, the man crossed his legs and pensively looked out to the pond, and soon coins stumbled and clinked into the jar.

People slowly trickled into the park: moms on their morning jog, late students sprinting to school, and wide-eyed tourists. The walkway curled around the rim of the pond. Sometimes families hosted picnics on the small grass boundary that separated asphalt from water. Occasionally a kid’s ball, maybe even a kid, would tumble into the slushy abyss. This would always send the family into a panic, just for the child to pop out of the shallow water covered in grime and muck but otherwise unfazed.

The man observed hundreds of blurry figures hurry past him, yet rarely was he noticed. He knew all of the regulars, but very few even acknowledged him. He was a statue, not a man, and was mostly treated as such.

However, when the night slopped deep obsidian paint over the horizon, the city was just barely illuminated by glowing windows scattered throughout the skyline and unsteadily blinking street lamps. The lights transmitted a homing message to the losers of life’s game of tug-of-war, and they emerged out of the shaded greenery. Unconfidently trudging throughout the park, limping or bumping into trees, they all made their way to the copper man. Some mystical power forced these stragglers of society to pour out their sorrows onto the bench. The man always had trouble determining whether it was a type of otherworldly control or merely the substances they reeked of late into the night.

As the copper man silently observed the daytime strollers, runners, and bikers, he recalled their hidden stories. A morning yoga group instructor once confessed to the man her guilt for the death of an attendee’s pet. The street was sleek with snow, and the white puppy blended in with the pristine, shining road. She heard a THUD and almost leaped out of her car to help the dying dog. A member of the yoga group stumbled towards the pup as red tainted the pure white street. Upon hearing his core-shattering howl of heartbreak, misery dripped down the in-

Painting by Haym Suissa ‘26

structor’s face in unison with the pet owner’s, as if to offer some fruitless comfort for her rotten crime. To drown it out and escape recognition, she slammed on the accelerator. The car roared away, smearing the road with two faint red tire tracks.

That night she had walked through the frosty park with an icy bottle in one hand and imagined the poor creature’s blood on the other. Her face was as pale as the powder that disguised the dog. The instructor collapsed on the bench, and while sleet poured around them, she unleashed a blizzard of emotion and pain on the copper man. Slurring her words, the woman’s putrid breath polluted the air, and he almost flinched behind his frozen-shut eyes. As she disappeared into the white night, the instructor thanked the copper man for honoring their deal of confidentiality.

“They” had no deal. The man had a deal between himself and the living, breathing park around him. The copper man’s confiders somehow knew he would never utter a single word they said, never judge them. The copper man wasn’t merely there for his patients to offer some form of catharsis; the silent psychologist deeply cared for them too. They didn’t know it, but each person who sat on his bench profoundly impacted how he viewed the world. And viewing the world was all he did.

The man knew of all the evil committed by his confessors but never blamed them. Maybe he was blindly optimistic, but he believed everyone had complex reasons buried in the soul, concealed by emotions, experiences, thoughts, flesh, blood, and skin. Yes, tragedy cursed his little world, but Man can discern the surface of our universe’s twisted reasoning, while the copper man curiously peered into the murky beyond. So man watched the ebbs and flows of life’s rapids direct the acts of the city. Therefore, he preferred the term “hopeful realist.”

The man was a hushed, invisible presence in the park, always watching, always listening. He found that silence is best for deep conversation, which was what he provided his patrons. When a child approached him, crying about being sidelined with a broken arm for the remainder of a football season, the man sat with his eyes painfully closed and listened. He didn’t remember hearing the young boy again.

The copper man didn’t know it, but the child returned years later for additional mute advice on more mature issues- being rejected from his dream job as an artist and his dream girl. Later, the copper man silently told him not to worry when the young man broke down about his relationship with his parents. Often, he wanted to give reassuring hugs to these shattered individuals. Still, he never moved. He was a statue, after all.

There was one exception to this.

He first saw her decades ago, walking through the park with a friend, her long hair flowing in the warm July breeze. She wore a blue denim skirt and a Notre Dame college sweatshirt. She glanced at the copper man, and they maintained eye contact for an eternity. Suddenly she was gone, like a mirage in the summer heat. The next day, he could have sworn she smiled at him.

The man had never felt this way before. He began to spend all his waking minutes fantasizing about the woman in the blue skirt. Something about her radiated more than copper. He realized she lived in the new skyscraper across the street from the park. The man even began ignoring the night wanderers to ponder whether she already had a boyfriend or if his unconventional lifestyle would inhibit their relationship. After coming to the harsh conclusion that she was taken, he prayed he was wrong.

One scorching August afternoon, the copper man sat as paint slowly melted off his clothes into a mushy brown puddle at his feet. The woman approached him and asked for his house number.

The man was caught off guard. He longed for this moment, but as he stared into the face of reality, he realized he hadn’t considered what to say. All he wanted to do was talk to her. His body inched forward. He noticed beads of sweat drip down the woman’s forehead. His

heart tried forcing his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t. The woman stood, waiting for him, growing impatient. The man’s hands trembled, trying to fight his conscience and reach for the woman he so strongly needed.

Eventually, she laughed and played it off. “I must be going insane, asking a statue for its number.” She walked away, and as she looked over her shoulder, the copper man winked and almost cracked a smile. The woman paused and thought for a moment before walking away. The man watched her bright figure grow smaller and smaller. With each step she took, his heart skipped a beat. He was sweatier now, his chest swelled into his throat, and his heart throbbed in his head like a powerful bass drum.

He kept watching the woman on her walks around the park, but she barely looked at him anymore. Eventually, she was joined by a man, who soon afterward, began to follow her into her parkside skyscraper. Years later, he saw her pushing a baby carriage, then holding a child’s hand as he hobbled around the brown fall grass.

As he grew old, so did she. He loved her through their old age, but time didn’t treat her as well as it did him. She began to go on walks less frequently. Sometimes she needed a walker’s assistance. To the man’s dismay, she was soon pushed throughout the park in a foldable gray wheelchair by her home nurse. The radiance in her eyes had dimmed, and she seemed to always be focused on the pond. She forgot about me, the man painfully realized.

One day, shrieking sirens sped toward her building, filling the park with blindly flashing red and blue lights. The man refused to believe it until he noticed her nurse bawling to the paramedics, struggling to stay upright.

The man’s body ached. Tears wiped the bronze paint from his face. He let out a soft whimper. He sunk into the bench, and suddenly, he didn’t care about his uncle’s broken clock. He looked to the sky, hoping to see her figure cast in a constellation. But the sky remained an expressionless black; no angel’s wings illuminated the night.

When the copper man got home, he began to sob. At first, it was a soft wail. He hadn’t used his voice in years. He never needed it. Gradually it got louder. The man was surprised by his own voice, impressed even. So he howled throughout the night, becoming a monster. The copper man threw his chair at the table, ripped the pennies from his shoes, and tried gouging out his eyes. His cursed eyes were the only reason this was happening. He awoke on the floor, the moon still dully shining, surrounded by pennies and pain.

Again, he let out a soft whimper. The copper man decided to keep his eyes firmly closed in the park over the next few weeks. He believed he had lost his privilege to observe. Every day, until he finished mourning, the man forced his eyes shut once he sat down at his bench. He imagined the woman in the blue skirt’s face until she slowly faded, piece by piece.

Charcoal Drawing by Milo Spalter ‘27

First, he lost the shape of her ears, then her nose. Her rosy cheeks, large eyes, and the specific reddish tint of her lips. Step by step, she climbed into his dark attic, full of cobwebs, memories, people, and feelings.

Time soon began rotting away the wooden rafters of the man’s attic. Forgetting to set his alarm clock was just the beginning. He forgot his confessors’ stories, how they grew and changed, and soon the copper man had no way of distinguishing between people. One day, he was gone.

The bench’s bronze paint began to fade away. Screws slowly loosened and fell out and the boards splintered and cracked. By the time the park’s trees finished their seasonal ritual of shedding their leaves, no copper residue was left on the bench to absorb the city people’s warmth, emotions, or memories.

Some time later, copper lit up the secluded bench yet again. A former patron and current artist had helped the town install a glowing copper statue of the man, facial features and all, perfectly on point. However, instead of facing the pond, the statue looked toward the other side of the bench, where all of the man’s closest friends used to sit. He lovingly wrapped his arm around the rest of the bench and smiled contently. But his mouth stayed shut, as it always did.

Charcoal Drawing by Aidan Bochner ‘27

Pen & Ink Drawing by Maayan Perten

Spectacled Thrill

By: Eden Bar-Chama ‘25

My mother often reminisces about that time she left the store in Brooklyn with new glass frames, balancing on her narrow nose bridge. Her freckled cheeks, adjusting to the heavy burden of the optically impaired.

Her eyes still glisten when she remembers her newfound fascination with leaves— minuscule pointed ovals, with spines and outstretched fingers. Rather than the vast clumps of green globs, she thought clung to tree branches all along.

During college, she sported bulky blue frames. Placing her vision-ators on spectacle, as if to say, “thank you.”

We still don’t know why her parents let her out of the house looking so alien-like. But she claims they “were a look.”

Pen & Ink Drawing by Olivia Verbitzky ‘26

Now, she proudly parades In bifocaled saucers; and travels the world, taking in all the sights she can,

preparing to be a grandmother, when each waking hour she’ll cry out as her hands frantically feel around “I just had ‘em, where’d they go?” as her glasses sit perched happily and obliviously atop her head of grey curls.

Nonetheless, she will find comfort in knowing her portable magnifying glasses already gifted her the thrill of distinguishing a single leaf amongst green globs.

Print by Avi Spanier ‘26

Paradox of Freedom

By Sam Steiner ‘24

Freedom’s vast array, the ultimate paradox

Standing with a key, but infinite locks

To open one, step through the door

Leaves so much unknown, too much to ignore

Beyond each threshold, a world to be seen

Different dreams run wild, as your conscience intervenes

Trepidation forever lingers, whispers in the mind

‘What if ___’ is all I shall find

But courage interjects, confidently urges you on ‘Embrace the unknown,

To the unknown, everyone is drawn’

So grasp the key, approach your desire

Let the whispers subdue, there’s no time to inquire

Have you made the right choice

Have you made a mistake

There’s no way to know, no reason to ache

Every decision is a risk, We can’t predict the unknown

But if you insert the key and twist open the lock

Be grateful for the freedom

To choose the path you will walk

Charcoal Drawing by Lionel Septimus

Onward

Jordan Zaretsky ‘26

Quick. Scan the ground. Look left, right, straight ahead but never back.

Don’t look back.

The trail is ahead—the footsteps of the pioneers, the heroes, ahead. Not behind. Never behind.

Ah! Come, child; it is time to chart your own course, to pave the way for those behind you. But do not worry! It is not hard to do.

Just leave them some footprints, and they shall be through.

Print by Liam Barlev ‘26

Some Poems

By Oli Lipman ‘24

This is a poem: “These are words These are more words”

This is a poem: “As winds begin to pound the corrugated door The new born mouse begins to see the black of its abode and feel the cold of new born night along its back”

This is a poem: “_____________”

This is a poem with words: “You are beautiful You are a bird You are magnificent You are beyond words”

This is a poem: “OOOOOOOOo

Trailing o Beside the bigger Os Will it ever grow to be an O Or is it o forever”

This is a poem: “Mice squeak

Mice cry

Mice get cold and die

Mice are alive

Mice greet you at the door

Mice tuck you in

Mice feed you cheese if you let them

Mice are nice

Mice say things twice

Mice say things twice”

This is a poem: “I can’t write a poem”

This is a poem: “I am a mouse curled up tight

Painting by Michael Kaplan-Nolan ‘24

in hole

Behind a corrugated door

In the city”

This is a poem: “I am poem”

This is a poem: “This is a poem

This is a poem

This is a poem

This is a poem

This is a poem

This is a poem

This is a poem

This is a poem”

Graphite Pencil Drawing by Ezra Zbar ‘24

Nonsense

By Elana Farbiarz ‘25

I am stupendously, naturally, debatably, outlandishly, fantastically, absurdity From the way I say Manhattan pretentiously, I am hilarity. I am spinning, gurgling, deliriously skipping I’m out of control.

It’s absurd the way I feel. The way the way I feel changes And the way the ways of the feelings change

Someone told me If you will it, it will be. But will it be if I will it?

Because some days, I am but dust and ashes, and some days, God. God, sometimes I am the world.

Am I the dust of your last month’s obsession? I think I am.

I always cry on Yom Kippur

The gates are closing and I am rushing, I am sifting through a mountain of heart thomping And I want to be right here forever

And I like walking through corridors of yellow metallicness, the maliceness of New Jersey Transit Waiting Rooms smiling at my own maturity

I can’t look at my old emails

Because I am the brunt of your nostalgia And you make me so nostalgic And I want to be this age forever

I think I was hurling myself towards this from the moment I was three Since the cold of every winter was so I could be sixteen

Because the night I turned sixteen I sat on the train starting at my reflection in the mirror

Steeped in teen deliciousness

And enamored with my own superficiality.

Mixed Media Art by Farrah Slonim ‘26

Let Go

By Ayelet Spevack ‘25

Muffled silence fills the crisp air of autumn. Almost as if the chill absorbs the sound of my foot hitting the damp pavement and spares me from the echo of my own step. Darkness wraps itself around each slender tree branch and crawls up into the hidden sky. But I seldom think of the sky now, for it’s something of the summertime. Icy oxygen impales my nose with each inhale. Its electrifying chill weaves fluidly around my bones and through my lower neck and down my spine and comes out through my arms. My blood hasn’t yet adapted to the fresh chill of autumn— it still runs as warm as it did before the death of the sunny skies. My numbed fingers lose grip of the bag I clutch— of reality.

The street is eerie and haunted. My stomach tells me I’m being followed. With each silent step

I run further and further away from the imaginary man my paranoia created, who chases me down the orange-yellow-red haunted autumn street.

There is something romantic about autumn. No— it’s romanticized. Autumn is dark, autumn is gut-churning, autumn is broken puzzle pieces, autumn is letting go,

Autumn is a facade.

But humans decorate autumn as a glittering masquerade of pumpkin-scented nonsense made to warm their frozen hearts left pulseless by August’s end.

Photography by Yair Cohen ‘26

How is math used in real life?

By Shiri Sobol ‘25

In kindergarten

We would learn how to count up to 100

Showing off the highest number

We could count to

With our peers

Counting up to 10 to play hide and seek On the playground.

First grade meant that I would begin Adding Adding 2 and 2 on my fingers

Adding new friends

New skills

New experiences.

Second grade

We learned subtraction

Subtracting my worries from the equation As we raced to recess And sat at a lunch table Without a care in the world.

Third grade

We learned multiplication Working on memorizing Our time tables And multiplying friendships.

Finally, Fourth and fifth grade, We learned how to divide. And we were hit with the question: How is math used in real life?

In middle school

I learned the answer To that question.

I count my flaws

By multiples of ten Count calories For every meal

Counting the number of times

Graphite Pencil Drawing by Yalei Ravin ‘26

I cried this past week On my fingers

Only to realize I don’t have enough fingers and toes

To even count that.

If society tells me to subtract my waist

My stomach

My nose

They tell me to add fuller lips, Longer legs What is left of my identity?

I began subtracting my self-confidence And as people were being subtracted From my life I wished that somehow I could add them Back into my equation.

Fractions of myself Seem to be undiscovered Holes filled to the brim with

Emptiness.

Fractions of space designated for Love and affection.

I want to find an inner part of myself That would tell me that “Everything is going to be okay.”

But I can’t seem to find solutions To the situations I am put in.

The fragmented pieces of my heart Await to be mended back together To form a whole.

Yet, I don’t have the missing factor That will sew my wounds.

In 8th grade algebra I try to cover up

My flaws and bruises. Within I am black and blue Yet, I can’t place bandages On my heart.

Pen & Ink Drawing by Emily Borden

When I look at my reflection in the mirror It taunts me My ribcage seems to exceed the x-axis.

I wish I could be like other girls.

I realize now that I am envious of math.

How can math transcribe its problems into words so easily While silence leaves my lips as I try to address My issues?

I wonder Why is it so easy? For math to find its missing variable.

However,

There is one thing for which I am grateful While math has rules set in stone That they must abide by, I am free to carve out my own path.

Maybe that way I can make myself whole.

Print by Mai Yifrakh ‘26

Ink Painting by Jordan Schwartz ‘24

By My Window

By Jayden Podchlebnik ‘24

The candle by my window burns

The warmth dries my tears

The smell clears my runny nose

I’m trying to sleep

Why can’t I stop thinking

My mind wants me awake

Why can’t I be sleeping

Am I making some mistake

My heartbeat slows

My scars feel so warm

I can’t lift my arms

The world isn’t so bright

All alone

All alone

The candle by my window burns

Photography by Libe Wartzki ‘26

The Number Four

By Amia Kaplun ‘25

Four: the number that has followed me wherever I go. I live the life paved for me by the three who’ve already lived it. Teachers know my name, my summers are already predetermined, and apparently, I need to go to a city school. I’m the fourth. I can’t get a word in at the dinner table unless my mom stops the conversation to give me a turn to speak. I always feel like I’m a step behind. There are jokes I don’t understand and memories I wasn’t alive to experience. The things that consume my entire life are irrelevant and childish. My worries are unimportant because, after all, I’m just a kid. I’m the fourth.

But it’s not always bad. I’m the fourth. I learn from their mistakes; I pay attention in class, clear the table when I’m done, and NEVER argue back with my mom. My personal favorite: I get away with being lazy. I move independently and under the radar; I call my own shots. I am a silent observer, constantly listening to their bickering and laughter. “Stop touching me!” “Can you stop biting the fork when you chew?” But the meaningless drama soon morphs into long-distance phone calls. “I miss you.” “When are you coming home?” I lie in my bed and await the two-word updates that arrive only once a month. I am the fourth.

Photography by Libe Wartzki ‘26

The Cheese

By Eli Goldman ‘25

It sat on the counter fresh and shining in the light. On the first hour the cheese had promised delight.

But nobody was home their footsteps had gone away. So the cheese was alone on the counter it did stay.

After a day had passed the cheese remained on its tray. Noshing would be a blast and there was no price to pay.

But still no one ate it and it began to crumble. None tried even a bit; They had too much to juggle.

As time went on and on, The cheese became forgotten. Its “best by” was long gone; It had turned stale and rotten.

Only now looking back, The cheese seems quite appealing. To have some of that Jack Would be quite a great feeling.

But it’s too late to cry the cheese will never return. And now’s my goodbye, but there’s one last thing to learn:

Enjoy things while they last For they’ll soon be in the past

And although time won’t freeze Before you leave, eat the cheese!

Photography by Paul Abramson ‘26

Pen & Ink Drawing by Liam Barlev

November 29th

By Yoni Benichou ‘24

Running through the grass

I can feel the dirt.

My heels give me insight

To the unknown world below me

Tunnels run deep with the insect passing

To the individual Ant

The perfect soldier under a selfish monarch

What does it think as it carries a stadium on its Back?

The ends justify the means?

“All hail the queen,” it says. What is there to gain?

Photography by Amelie Prevor ‘26

Beauty Behind the Glass

By Shiri Sobol ‘25

Snowflakes float onto my skin like freckles

Melting at the golden touch Of my rosy cheeks

I am illuminated by an abyss of white Untouched And glittering In the chill blue air

Is it wrong to step into the snow And potentially ruin a moment so Picturesque?

Instead, I go inside And observe the beauty from Behind the window pane Watching life move on in front of me As I timidly stand behind the glass

Ink Painting by Jordan Schwartz ‘24

Off-beat

By Bee Levy ‘25

On a Saturday, in the late afternoon,

When the moon was in full bloom,

A woman walked into the train of doom

Wearing her new purple shoes

A man surreptitiously emerged

Walking in from the subway car next-door

Holding a beaten-up coffee cup

Shaking pennies to an off-beat tune

He looked outwardly bruised

When the woman with the new shoes refused

A father and daughter entered the subway car

And their presence loomed

The father’s black shoe-laces looked like tangled black licorice

And his daughter looked sick of it

As she climbed the thick metal pole

Dancing around his blackened soul

And then an elderly woman entered

Curly gray hair hung on her shoulders

Her eye bags looked like boulders

She beseeched the young girl to climb off her seat

And the girl agreed

When she heard the sound of her slow heartbeat

And together they sat, scared of the past

Print by Maayan Perten ‘26

Awaiting their fate, because the train was late As they tapped their shoes to an off-beat rhythm.

And so when I finally entered this subway car, I felt exposed to their presupposed sadness And I tried so hard to resist And maintain my bliss And write my own story.

Print by Farrah Slonim ‘26

Time to Wait

By Maya Seltzer ‘25

“I can’t wait”

A phrase that gets thrown around

As if it some kind of sports ball

Gaining traction and glory while it lingers in the air

A phrase of joyful yearning

Wishful thinking, some may say

An urgent sense of excitement

A thrilling desire to move time

What if there was a way to not wait?

To long for the future so badly

Sacrificing the present

Giving up all the now

In hopes for a better later

Is it worth it?

To waste the present

Not relish in all the joys And all the pain

Learn the lessons And reap the benefits

Let me wait

Teach me to wait

To be patient

To absorb my now

Before you know it

That later will be now And the regret

For taking advantage of the past

Will be greater than any desire— To escape into the future

You can wait And it is time to do so

Pen & Ink Drawing by Ezra Brodesser-Akner

Charcoal Drawing by Aaron Koffman

Colors of the Flag

By Aerin Levine ‘25

“I’ll meet you in ten” your warmth was my yen as we painted a memory a summertime reverie

and when the august sun bid us adieu impossible was the thought of abandoning you for our colors were one when we walked each day lest the clouds come and flags get in the way

but even oceans and lands apart your invisible string led straight to my heart we never once walked alone me the breath to your lung you the marrow to my bone

droplets then rain then hail then thunder soon flooded the rainbow we once lived under as the words genocide and apartheid got in the way we walked less and less skipping a day

how can a rant become an accusation it is when friendship suffers a mutation of your ache from the green black and red blitzing my bereaving blue and white until they bled

yet we both urged for peace

Pen & Ink Drawing by Farrah Slonim

praying for light but benign to the enemy our flags both seemed to fight

like oil and vinegar our colors divided the pain of our peoples leaving us blindsided until the only truth that remained reality was the death of our former congeniality

now I walk alone your footprint not next to me because hatred and pathos devoured our ecstasy I do not know if this is truly the end perhaps we’ll meet again when colors can blend

Print by Ezra Brodesser-Akner ‘26

My Footprint

By Molly Mandl ‘25

My destination is the journey

It is about what you can find

There is no hurry

Move, with your heart and mind

You do not have to know where you are going

Use the wind as your guide

And you will flow without knowing Eventually, the earth will be on your side

Photography by Liam Bahar ‘26

The Gift

By Danni Jankelson ‘26

It slips and it slides and it glides off my tongue. How can this be hard for anyone?

A rhythm, a beat, a song an anthem.

I dive deep into the words the tantrum in my head calms

I understand—yo entiendo. A way to connect, a way to breathe Language is my gift.

I speak and I speak and I speak. But I listen, that too I heed and I feed

On the letters, the syllables the way the lips dance.

I’m in Mexico, Tel Aviv Madrid, sometimes in France the language takes me It moves me

I dive deep into the words I am inspired by it I am soothed by it It is my gift from the world.

Print by Emily Borden ‘26

Another Hour

By Sigal Bezborodko ‘26

My mother always used to say: “I need another hour in the day.” At first I didn’t understand, but now I do completely. Every day I have piles of work and things to get done.

Not just with school.

I have two little siblings, my beautiful brother and sister, whom I love with all my heart. But I can’t balance them with the dance, the singing, the school, the crying.

High school is supposed to be fun, so I wish I understood why I can’t even sleep enough to enjoy it, or even try.

It takes me an hour to get to school, leaving at 6:45 AM to get home at 5:30. So tell me when I’m supposed to relax, have fun, or enjoy anything.

“Make your mark on the world” they say, then give me one more hour in the day.

Print by Abby Segal ‘26

J. Robert Oppenheimer! Am I right, ladies?

By Dani Grinker ‘26

Why can’t I be like those self-indulgent pricks? - a man wetting himself at his sheer level of boygenius-ness, the tortured brilliance of his youth, his morbid accomplishments that flame out in sparks, burning the women who love him.

How can we sympathize with the men who almost destroy the world?

Well, they are the ones that hear the music, attain carnal and demonic wisdom, rub iron against iron, and make themselves gods - the executors of His will in an age of supernatural death.

Soli deo G-L-O-R-I-A /in excelsis deo.

But if men are gods and Gods are men, then what does that make me? I guess that I am simply condemned to a lifetime of questions.

Print by Maayan Perten ‘26

Daughters

By Amelie Prevor ‘26

My sister was 3 and a half years old when I was born. Since we can both remember, we have been a part of each other. Of course, we weren’t always close. I think it’s the same for many siblings. When one of you is a crazy little kid and the other is an easily irritable tween, there’s not much you can like about each other. Of course, we were both little girls, so we had some similarities. I liked watching shows like Victorious and iCarly with her; I liked stealing her blush and lip gloss from Claires; and I always enjoyed playing Subway Surfers on her newly bought phone. But we definitely had our differences. She’d hate my loud renditions of Katy Perry songs in the car: she’d be bothered by the annoying conversations I’d try to start with her cool tween friends; she’d be embarrassed by the tantrums I had. On long car rides, at home, and at airports, she’d roll her eyes at me and beg my mom to stop me from doing whatever weird thing I was doing, and I’d amp up the act to make her more angry. This led to the fighting. Scratches, biting, pinching- nothing was off limits. We’d fight over almost everything at that time, but once my sister started high school, we started to bond. At family dinner, which we had every night with assigned seating (me next to my mom and my sister next to my dad), she would gossip about her school friends, and my dad would mock them, talking in exaggerated tones and silly faces. Most nights, I’d walk away from our dining room with my stomach hurting from the amount of food and laughter I filled it with. I started to crawl into her bed and watch movies with her, sometimes to tune out my yelling parents in the other room, but sometimes just to be with her. To sit with her, to fall asleep with her. Sharing a bathroom with her was still pretty annoying, but we’d begun to laugh as we shoved each other out of the mirror’s reflection. On car rides, I’d make fun of her music taste, but I always sang to the songs with her, both of us with our heads outside the window. Once she decided to go abroad, I only really thought about what it meant for her. Who she would meet, what she would do. I didn’t understand how it would affect me. But from the moment my family dropped her off at the airport to now, I’ve felt it. Her absence. It’s almost like her emptiness has its own established presence. I feel it when I bring four plates to the table instead of three. I feel it in the empty chair at family dinners. I feel it as I brush my teeth, with only one set of eyes looking back at me. I feel it in the way my parents look at each other. It’s almost like half the reason they were together is gone. I feel it in the long car rides when my sister is still connected to aux, and so the only music in the air is just my parents arguing. I feel it in the absence of hugs and the absence of her hands covering my ears. Shielding me. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m the reason we’re falling apart. Why can’t I fill the emptiness? I recently visited her, just me and her. As I hugged her goodbye, all I thought of was her in my arms. Not anything specific. Just her presence.

Savior

By Serena Goldstein ‘24

The baby bird splashes out curled up on the sidewalk its mouth open in a silent scream no one will ever hear

But I hear you l do

I see your cry for help the red fleshy mouth that will never move never again open for food never again cry out so small so fragile so soft

So dead and squished on the harsh pavement. You probably worry no one cares but I care that you’re not here no matter how small you are or were. Your colors still seem so bright.

I guess I wanted to care for something So insignificant and small no one thought of it. I want to be that protector but I’m not sure l have it in me to take note of all the yellow little beaks crying out for help the silent red lips never to speak again

Watercolor Painting by Yalei Ravin ‘26

Not a Machine

By Maya Barlev

Found Poem from Sadness is a White Bird by

Moriel Rothman-Zecher

No one ever talks about how incredibly f**king comforting it would to be a machine.

I laughed. You laughed too. We laughed and laughed. We were always laughing when we were together.

And then we were outside, and the air was colder, and the stars above us were brighter and the city looked small and everything looked more beautiful.

Maybe we could try to be together anyway, despite everything,

We talked about fate and meanings and novels You started laughing. Your chest rose and fell with laughter: a gorgeous sight.

Our conversation felt so normal.

I was able to follow your lead, then and always. Almost always, at least

I felt like we could be on the same side of history after all.

I was overcome with a sudden urge to tell you everything. To fill the empty spaces inside me with your smile.

You were silent.

Am I the enemy all of a sudden?

I tried then to continue the conversation, like when I was a child and I’d stall my mom before she turned the lights off, struggling desperately to think of something, of anything else to say, to ward off the darkness for at least one more moment. ‘Wait-’ But it was too late. The conversation had already ended.

And eventually, we turned to walk back home, together and alone.

How can your love for me not conquer everything?

I began to cry.

The air was frozen around us. The world was frozen around us. There was no world around us.

breathless, each fiber of my body frozen, and it felt like there was much more at stake here than just our different interpretations of a story

I miss you… I’ll always miss you.

Collage by Mara Eisman ‘27

Old Mike

By Ben Hymowitz

Old Mike

a look uncaptured yet beautiful

So perfectly imperfect; forged out of pure chaos

Eyes, Blue like the waves rising

Scars , Red like the glare of a rocket falling

Hair, Brown like the land he rest on

Skin, White the color of his face the first day

A fire behind him propelling him toward

The weapon he was to become

The damage it did he would not know

He could never understand

He never cared to

There was a mission

He was to do it

To like it was a different question

But he felt sasiated with his position

Accomplished in his actions

and proud of the thing he had become

Eyes, looking for anew; stuck in the visions of old

Scars, the marking of a world far behind

Hair, unkempt yet tidy; out of habit not necessity

Skin, tight taught stretched and mangled

All from a man that he is no longer

He stands before you unabashed

Almost angelic in his tone

“You want a lesson?”

A unlearned - soon to be- man…

“Whatever you’ve got to give me”

“Live. Live like you mean it”

Solitude

By Miriam Gross ‘25

millions of eyes stare at Me as I rise above mountains, seas, and highways the thick, dark clouds are good friends they part for the sake of My spotlight. the crisp evening air hugs me as I twirl radiating light to all the people I wish they could be just a little closer— the stars aren’t great companions. they want all the attention.

Candace

By Jordan Schwartz ‘24

“Do you want to sign up for the ASL club?”

“There are only two spots left on the debate team. Sign up while you can!”

“Liberal Activists Branch?”

“Cultural cuisine needs more members.”

WHY IS IT SO LOUD IN HERE?!

Okay, walking away now.

“Come join current events we have snacks.”

posted right below some small pots with little sprouts.

I type my name and email into the billionth computer today to make sure I’m on the roster.

FREE PLANTS HERE

Eyes gazing over the tray, I grab one of the only plants left.

“They’re pretty easy to take care of just make sure not to overwater it and...”

“Okay, cool- thank you!”

Ugh, I still have to commute home.

I rush out of the bus and into the Q station on 57th & 7th ave.

I’m tired of carrying around this stupid plant.

It’s going in the water bottle compartment of my backpack now.

That massive screen above the station tells me I should be running because the train will arrive in one minute.

I fly down the stairs, trying not to trip

“SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE”

I’m not gonna make it.

It’s leaving the station. I’m down on the platform now, and the train is nine minutes away. The station isn’t too packed today, so I sit on the wooden benches in the center of the platform. I pull out my phone and start playing Tetris.

“Honey, I’m a physician you just had a seizure; an ambulance is on the way. Your plant is okay, don’t worry.”

“Huh”

Everything’s foggy, and all these people are standing around me. What’s going on? Why am I so close to the tracks?

“I called your mom she’s going to meet you at the hospital.” Who is this woman? Is she trying to kidnap me?

Was I drugged or something?

“I’m okay, don’t worry.”

I’m trying to get up but can’t lift my head.

I just realized that I’m all sweaty and covered in dirt, but I guess that’s because it’s hot and dirty on the platform, and I’m lying on this nasty floor.

Suddenly two paramedics appear, and they begin lifting me onto a stretcher.

I’m fine I probably just passed out or something.

“It’s okay I can walk.”

“No, you can’t. You almost fell into the train tracks.”

They’re not wrong.

I profusely thank the woman who supposedly saved my life as they carry me out of the station, one of my more humiliating moments.

“We’re taking you to Weill Cornell Hospital. Do you remember your name?”

“Uhhh”

The more I think, the less I remember.

Everything is foggy in the ambulance, the female paramedic keeps asking me the same three questions. I knew my name, address, and school, but I couldn’t tell her for some reason.

The volunteer Hatzalah guy keeps shining a flashlight in my eyes.

“What happened?”

“You had a seizure.”

That’s not very helpful.

WHAT’S GOING ON??

I’m lifted out of the ambulance, but I still feel weird.

I see my mom run out of a cab in complete panic

I hope I didn’t freak her out.

“I’m okay, mom, don’t worry!”

“No, you’re not. You had a seizure.”

“Well, I feel fine if that helps at all.”

I get poked with a bunch of needles and get my blood drawn by some overly enthusiastic pediatric nurses.

I’m still spaced out, but at least I can remember my name now.

The head of neurology explains what happened.

“It seems like you had a seizure, but because we have no way to contact the woman who called us, we don’t know for sure.”

“I have a couple of questions for you.”

Great, more questions I can’t answer

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Playing a game on my phone while waiting for the train.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“No”

My mom looks sad.

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

I have no idea. Guess I’ll count on my fingers in front of this brilliant doctor.

“Four, I think.”

“Ok.”

My older brother comes into the ER completely frantic.

“Are you okay?!?”

“I’m good now; I just don’t remember anything.”

Everyone’s being so overdramatic about this, it was probably just a one-time thing.

I get up to use the bathroom, my bed is covered in dirt for some odd reason.

I’m choosing to ignore that because I need to pee.

When I come back, my mom is holding my plant.

“Where did this come from?”

“I got it because I joined the gardening club!”

“Oh, okay, the dirt spilled everywhere.”

“That makes more sense. I knew the subway was dirty, but not this dirty.”

They sit with me for a while before the doctors come back in.

A pediatrician comes in with four nurses, who begin lecturing me.

“You need to take care of yourself, your body’s in fight or flight mode.”

I’ve heard this so many times do they think they’re gonna make a difference?

“The less you eat, drink, and sleep, the more prone you are to seizures.”

They finally discharge me a couple of hours later.

When I get home, I carefully place the plant on my windowsill.

It needs a name. That lady who saved me from getting hit by a train looked like a Candace, so I’m going with that.

I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with me; why would I change my habits?

Over the next couple of weeks, I remembered to water Candace occasionally, but she doesn’t grow.

A month after my first seizure, I have another one in school.

My blood test returns a couple of hours later, and I learn that I really should’ve listened to the doctors last time.

I’ve been severely malnourished for months, and my body’s been slowly shutting down, which I assume is why I feel like shit all the time.

I also get diagnosed with epilepsy which sucks because I can’t be independent anymore.

I guess my mom didn’t realize how much I was neglecting my health, but since finding out, she’s been monitoring EVERYTHING.

“Have you eaten breakfast?”

“You need to go to bed early tonight; I don’t want you to have a seizure.”

Her anxiety starts rubbing off on me, so I change some of my habits out of fear.

I finally start eating lunch at school, bringing a water bottle daily, and sleeping at least eight hours a night.

I start obsessively scheduling my life because I feel so out of control.

At 6 pm every day, I water Candace; over time, she grows.

I eat the same foods every meal because I’m terrified that any changes will cause another seizure.

This obsession is mentally exhausting to keep up with, but I feel less at risk when I take care of myself.

Candace begins to grow on my windowsill, not into anything extravagant, but that gradual progress seems to reflect my own growth.

I’m on a preventative medication to stop my seizures, making me slightly more comfortable with inconsistency.

However, this doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring for myself or Candace. Candace saved my life, and this is how I’m choosing to show my gratitude.