Folio 22 by HFU Folio

f'Ol10 22

TENEOR VOTIS I am bound to give ofmyself because I have received�

Folio 22 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic ex pression. The journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family Col lege Community. Submissions, however, are welcome from con tributors beyond the College Community and may be sent to the following address: Folio, Humanities Division, Holy Family Col lege, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19114.

Contents Floating Glass .............................................................................. 4 Grandmom's Vanity .................................................................... 5 Frustrated ..................................................................................... 7 Dolphins at Play .......................................................................... 8 A Married Woman ....................................................................... 8 The Ivory Elephant ...................................................................... 9 The Runner ................................................................................. 13 Einstein's God ............................................................................ 14 The Return to the Green ........................................................... 15 Movable Expression ................................................................... 18 No Rights Reserved ................................................................... 18 Weather Report ......................................................................... 19 The Obituary ............................................................................. 20 Buildings .................................................................................... 23 You ..............................................................'.............................. 23 Runaway Train ...................................'::..................................... 24 Silence ........................................................................................ 26 Summer Afternoon on the Delaware ........................................ 26 My Beloved ................................................................................ 27 The Perfect Sister ....................................................................... 29 Haven ......................................................................................... 31 Leaners, Workers, and Drinkers ................................................ 32 Born Free ................................................................................... 33 Silkie .......................................................................................... 35 Antichronos ............................................................................... 36

Editorial Staff Chief Editorial Assistants Ronald Masciantonio Megan Clements Jason Fox

Senior Readers Evelyn Ricci Kimberly Laskowski Florence McFadden Dalva Marra Rebecca Malcarney Jennifer Kramny Elizabeth Hoffman Katherine McFadden

Freshman, Sophomore and Junior Readers: Candace Adams Freda M. Terrell Mildred Curley Christopher Tait Joanna Zawila Pamela Boudreaux

Moderator Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor, Humanities Division Thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi, Lecturer, for her valuable input and expert proofreading. Special thanks to Mrs. Michelle Soslau, Lecturer, and the A rt students for their graphic contributions. Regina Kalinowsky, Ken Jones, Ed White, Susan Arnold, Carrie Harkins And, to Sr. Johanna Gedaka, SSJ, Ph.D., whose support was pivotal in the publication of Folio 22. 3

Floating Glass Floating glass, Friends that last, All that's left, Summer has passed. Here again, Lost, my friend. Freedom has passed, Love shall last, Remember again, The leaf, my friend. The drink shall pass, Too young, too fast, Immortality is gone, Nothing, but the song. -Francis Nicoletti

Grandmom's Vanity Sitting, staring against the outside wall of my bedroom is grandmom's vanity. It is old. It is chipped. Its mirror is tarnished. It is beautiful. Every time I walk into the room, I look at it and often fancy that it is looking back at me. I can still see grandmom sitting on the dusty, mauve flowered stool, wearing her silk slip with ruffles, looking as though she were propped up by the straight, ribbed boned corset she insisted made her look thin. She loved looking pretty. Every afternoon she would clean up the lunch dishes (no small undertaking considering that lunch consisted of five courses), go upÂ stairs, take a bath, and begin the ritual that I would grow to adore watching. After her torturous battle with the corset, she would flop on the vanity stool and begin. Breathing in a labored fashion, she'd ask me to sit by her and hand her the items she needed. With a look of complete adoration on my face, I would lovingly gather up her rouge, her pressed powder, her lipstick, and her eyebrow pencil and present them like trophies when she'd ask for them. If I close my eyes, I can still remember the smell of the cosmetics, especially the powder. I used to think that heaven would smell like that. I'd watch as she carefully applied, first, the powder, then the eyebrow pencil, the rouge, and, at last, the red lipstick. She would look in the clear mirror of the highly polished wood vanity and slowly, carefully, complete her toilet. When she had finished dressing, she would go downstairs and sit in the parlour with my grandfather or go sit ou.t on the front porch so that she could greet the neighbors as they passed by. And then it was my turn to sit in front of the vanity. I remember sitting regally, that is, with as much bearing as a nine-year-old could muster, and primping in front of the mirror. I made believe that grandmother's face looked back at me from the mirror. And then I would play for hours, putting on the little bits and pieces of leftover make-up that she'd given me. What stared back at me was not a scrawny nine year old but an exotic lady. When I stayed overnight at my grandparents' house, I always slept in the room with the vanity. It was a comfort to me, especially if I felt homeÂ sick, to lie in bed and look at the vanity. I felt as if it were watching over me as grandmom did. Over the years it began to lose its polished look, and many nicks and chips became apparent. The once clear glass mirror began to tarnish, and the mauve flowered stool grew worn. Eventually grandmom moved in with my aunt, since grandpop had died, and the house went up for sale. My aunt said most of the furniture would have to be sold or given away, including my beloved vanity. I was so pleased when grandmom asked me if I wanted the old vanity. Within days it was standing in its now familiar 5

place in my bedroom. Grandmom has been gone for several years now, and the vanity has grown more and more dear to me. I considered having it refinished but deÂ cided not to. It remains in its original condition. The wood is chipped and the stool cover old and tattered. The mirror is badly tarnished. And the whole body of the vanity looks a bit stooped to me. But every so often, if I stand looking at my reflection. I see my grandmother looking back at me, and for an instant, only an instant, I smell the lovely fragrance of her powder. -Nancy M. Werner

Frustrated the animals in my closet long ago turned into shoes and Snow White no longer has a happy ending she is competition for the handsome prince who must be a Mormon he marries everybody else but hasn't come to rescue me yet the mirror makes a good ice skating rink but I could never swim in it and it never did tell the truth the roses outside the window still smell the same to me though I'm not sure I've ever smelled them before "frustrated" was a new word and it came in handy when the gate was up and even more now that the gate is gone because cereal doesn't talk anymore because the translation from the pictures in my head into the crayon reality is never quite the same is never quite as good is never what I mean I want the shoes to go away they fit in too well they don't belong here

-Chris Bidlingmaier 7

Dolphins at Play Flecks of ice blue outline the waters Pointed beaks pierce into mountainous waves Propelling into the air sun-lit shadows glisten upon white bellies. Diving down into this blue abyss, they reunite themselves with a world that they know as home. -Candace Adams

A Married Woman A matried woman taken too young Looks at the youth of a man. Thinking she should have had a chance, Wondering about the missing parts Guilty at the thought. He returns the glance to a soap opera victim. She walks away toward an empty house, Crying in a shower for relief. Feelings run down the drain Thinking she should have had a chance. -Janice Jakubowitcz

The Ivory Elephant Gretchen put the napkins in the napkin holders and tried to blink sleep out of her eyes. Even though she had worked at the diner for five years now, it was still almost impossible for her to be awake at 6:30 in the morning. The diner was mostly empty except for Ed, who sat alone in a booth, and two truck drivers who sat at the long counter eating the grits that Gretchen had brought them only minutes earlier. For as long as Gretchen had worked there, Ed, as a matter of fact, had occupied the same comer booth, the one next to the window which faced the highway. "I like to see who's coming," he had often explained. He would arrive promptly at 6:30, when the diner opened, and remain there for exactly fifty minutes. Today, Gretchen approached him. Their conversation was unfailingly the same, a nice familiarity in a place where every visit brought different faces. Besides, she really liked Ed. For some reason he reminded her of someone she knew, but she was not quite sure who. "Morning, darlin'," he said with a slight accent as she approached his table. "Hello, Ed! " she replied. "Can I get you something to drink while you're trying to decide?" She already knew the answer. ''I'll have the usual," he said as he thrust the coffee cup to her. As she poured the steaming liquid, she watched Ed look her up and down. His stare would probably trouble most women, but Gretchen had grown used to it. It wasn't as though he was looking at her in an obscene way, more like avuncular approval. "Your daddy must be proud to have a beautiful daughter like you," he said with a gap-toothed smile. She tucked a loose strand of hair back into her bun. Gretchen smirked. He had said that everyday for five years, and she didn't have the heart to tell him that she hadn't known her father. From what she had heard, he had left when she was one. It had just been her and her mother since that day. Living in a cramped apartment above a delicatessen. That was why she was a waitress rather than doing what she was destined to do--become a doctor. "What will it be, Ed?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer to that question. "I'll have two of 'em there sunnyside eggs. And tell the cook not to

break the sunny part. And six slices of tha' greasy stuff he calls bacon," he finished, closing the menu he had never even looked at. "If our food is so bad, why do you come here?" Gretchen asked as she did every day. "I don't come for the food, sweetie. I come to see you." Ed winked and sipped at his hot coffee. Gretchen brought Ed his food and returned to her dreaded task of filling the napkins. At 7:20, exactly fifty minutes after he had arTived, Ed deÂ parted. "See ya tomorrow, sugar," he called to Gretchen as he left, the door slamming behind him. She watched him through the window as he pulled his heavy coat around him. The wind whipped at his thinning white hair. She watched as he started across the two-lane highway. Too late. She saw the large white tractor trailer bearing down on him ... **** Gretchen entered the little room. The lawyer sat behind his desk. He pushed up the glasses that kept sliding down his nose. Gretchen couldn't believe that she was here. Ed's funeral was just yesterday. The little crowd of people looked at her as she took a seat in the last row. She heard whispers around her. "Who's that girl?" "Wow, that old Ed!" "What could Ed possibly leave her?" Gretchen nervously picked fuzzies off her old black skirt and tried to ignore the whispers around her. Questions swam around in her mind. What could Ed have possibly left her? And why? She was only a truck stop waitress. She had dreams of what she was going to inherit. Wouldn't it be great if it was enough money for her and her mother to move out of their cramped apartment! "Let us begin," the lawyer started, pulling Gretchen out of her dayÂ dream. He stood and pushed his glasses up on his nose again. "Before I begin to read the will, I would like to express my sincere condolences for the sudden loss of Edmund Campbell . .. ." Gretchen stopped listening. Campbell. So, that was Ed's last name. Where had she heard that name before? " ... and to my sister, Agnes"- a lady with silver-blue hair and big round glasses stood up-"I leave my furniture. To my brother, Robert, I leave my book collection." Gretchen was drifting into boredom. The list of people went on and on. "To my waitress, Gretchen." Gretchen perked up and paid strict atten10

tion. "I leave my ivory elephant that my father brought back from India when I was a little boy. I also leave to her the secret that I have kept for so many years. Gretchen, please forgive me for not telling you that you are my daughter." Gretchen sat paralyzed. The gasps and whispers of the people around her echoed in her ears. Though numb, she slowly rose and on wobbly legs walked to the desk. My daughter. My daughter. The words repeated in her head. She pictured Ed sitting in his booth with his coffee mug in his hand. She pictured him smiling at her, with his missing teeth. She also pictured her mother. working two jobs to rear her. She felt sorry for herself-it wasn't fair I She never had a real family. She would always have to work in a diner or someplace'else less desirable She would never become a doctor! She finished the long walk up to the lawyer's desk. With shaking hands, she grabbed the little elephant. The white ivory felt smooth in her hands. The emerald eyes twinkled at her mockingly. All those years, Ed had known and never told her. All he had left her with was a stupid elephant paperÂ weight. How dare he! She hurled the elephant across the room with all her might. She heard it hit the wall as she ran for the door. -Kimberly Laskowski

The Runner The runner postures at the start . with eager limbs and pounding heart Too long restrained, he aches to flee uncertain of his destiny Then, like a shot, he charges free with confident agility, dismissing each of them that warn of penalties that must be borne if in his hurry he selects that branch strewn path he'd best neglect He sees not stumblers at his side, nor does he hear their mounful cries his duty missed, but dream retained a gilded prize, his only aim Compelled by dwindling, precious time too many mountains still to climb In frenzied haste too late attends to that which waits at journey's end Thus twilight finds him lost, alone and sadly, never reaching Home -Gloria Kersey-Matusiak

Einstein's God Without matter pulling and occupying space, Space would spread out and relax. Reach its boundaries, and lose itself in a vast realm of dreams. Dreams of matter pulling it back, and waking up as matter. The spirit is space, our bodies its dreams, God is unseen, A being that cannot change dreams of change. Eternity is the bliss of endless sleep, But a sleep rife with bright moving dreams. Our deaths are momentary pangs of reality which remind God that He is. -Henry Tokarski

The Return to the Green "... and it was beautiful then. The fields were green, every green the mind could conjure! From the pale sweet lime of the new leaves, to the kelly of the grasses, to the dark green black of the lakes and bogs. Ah, and the rivers were silver, glistening like veins on the sides of the mountains. And in the morning, when the mist rises, one can see the ghosts of kings and queens, long since buried beneath the sod." The boy sat entranced as his grandfather spoke of Ireland. He had heard the tales a hundred times but felt a calm reassurance to hear them for the hundredth and one. His Aunt Moira scowled from the sofa where she stitched a new lace cloth for the table. "Bah, you old fool!" I remember it not that way. It's an island, and the rains pour down, drowning a soul. There was nothing to eat, no theater...why, it's a damned good thing we came here." "Is that right, woman?" Paddy rose from the fire and came to stand over her. "Is it contradicting me you are?" "No, not at all." Moira batted her eyes shamelessly, then turned to Sean. "I just recall it differently." Sean laughed, looking up from the sink where he washed the plates and cups, and set them on a towel to dry. Some things never changed. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was little again, and the only difference would be that his mother would walk through the door about now and put an end to the arguing. But she would be gone four years this Christmas Eve, and he missed her more than ever. There were nights when he craved her gentle arms around him so much he thought he would die from the wanting. But he was all grown up now, having turned eleven on his last birthday, and he knew his mother was never coming back. "I still remember like it was yesterday... the beauty of the mountain, the blue of the hills. Sean, come sit beside me, boy. I need someone to listen to me talk about home. I feel lonely tonight, and that's the only thing that will help," Paddy said with a sigh. He coughed as he pulled up his rocking chair to sit by the fire. Sean was familiar with his grandfather's melancholy moods, his thoughts often filled with his beloved daughter, his Katie, never far from his thoughts and always in his heart. "The boy doesn't want to be hearin' your old borin' tales of the isle. Leave him be, Da. He's worked hard at school today. Sean, you be off to bed." Moira spoke without looking up from her sewing. 'Tm not so tired, Aunt Moira. And I enjoy Paddy's stories. Really, I 15

do." Paddy stood a little straighter, then smiled and winked at his grandson. He chuckled a bit, then lowered himself back into his rocker. "Come sit beside me then, lad, and tell me what I can imagine for you. What do you yearn to have me recall?" "Tell me about the cottage by the lake. That's my favorite place, I think," Sean answered enthusiastically. He lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor and gave Paddy his full attention. "Ah, Sean, me boy. I agree with ya, lad. That be the most beautiful niche in Ireland. A garden where the angels themselves go to rest." Moira sighed. "I guess I have no choice but to sit and listen. But mind you. I'll not be havin' you fill the boy's head with sentimental tales of home. He was born here in Philadelphia just as my dear sainted sister wanted him to be. God rest her soul." Moira blessed herself and kissed the silver crucifix that hung around her neck. "He's an American and it's here that he beÂ longs." "Nobody's puttin' the boy on a ship, daughter. Now stop screaming like the Banshee and let me talk myself to sleep." Paddy lit up his pipe and sank back into his comfortable chair. "The place I remember," Paddy spoke, his voice deep and clear, "was always the blue-green of the Isle. Everywhere you looked, the green looked back. But so many hues of green and blue were there that a million colors appeared wherever your eyes rested." Sean had heard Paddy describe this place many times, but he never got tired of the tale. This was the place where his family had lived in Ireland, the home where his mother and aunt were born and the house where his grandÂ mother breathed her last. His parents had celebrated their wedding day there; there, too, the whole Ryan family had sat around the fire and dreamed of America. The house was a tiny two-story cottage. It sat by the side of a lake, snuggled like a fledgling in its nest. Built of stone and mortar, it stood brown and gray and black. Star-sprinkled moss covered the walls, growing here and there, smelling musky and green. The moss felt like cool velvet, rich and smooth and lustrous. Ivy crawled among the moss and mortar, binding the house together, like angel arms, alive and strong and watchful. A large chimÂ ney grew from the red roof, smoke always twirling and furling from the top, mating with the wind blowing down from the mountains. The sapphire lake sparkled with white light scattered down by the sun; pearls of illumination floated on the surface of the water. Splashes of fem green from the trees reflected on the surface. The old trees, their rickety arms reaching down toward the cool depths, appeared as old men deeply 16

rooted in the Irish earth, never to be cut down, never to leave. Two emerald hills rose up behind the cottage, like a woman's ample breasts, protecting the cottage from wind and rain. When darkness fell, they nurtured and rocked the house to peaceful sleep. They were the color of sapphires and topaz and emeralds, giant jewels rising from the warm black earth. At night, the lake sparkled from the reflection of the moon, always alive, always brilliant. From the cottage, a flickering light glowed through the window, and the music of a mandolin, mixed with singing, danced across the lake. It had been a peaceful place, a home where his mother had grown up and laughed and played. Sean had not seen his mother laugh very often, especially after his father passed away. Katie always wore a sad, reflective expression, the wistful appearance of one who daydreams her life away. Sean closed his eyes, his grandfather's voice still in the background, and imagined his mother standing in front of the cottage in Ireland. Here, she would always be smiling. A vision of his mother's grieving face flashed before him, the slump of her shoulders as she worked her days away cleanÂ ing houses for the rich. "Lad, are ya fallin' asleep before me? Ah, I know you've had a long day, beginning way too early this morning. Take yourself up to the loft now and rest your weary bones," Paddy spoke quietly, his hand on Sean's shoulÂ der. Sean opened his eyes slowly. He was tired, so he rose slowly from the floor and kissed his grandfather good-night. Aunt Moira had fallen asleep on the sofa, her sewing still on her lap. Without a word, he climbed the ladder to his bed and crawled beneath the blanket. His mother had knitted it for him, finishing it just before she had died. Sean pulled the afghan up under his chin and closed his eyes. The family house in Ireland filled his senses. He loved it so, although he had never actually seen it. He would see it one day. It was the only way he would ever see the green of his mother's eyes again or the black of her hair. He longed to be in the place where she had laughed and loved and dreamed. One day he would return to Ireland. One day he would return to the green. -Elizabeth Hoffmann

Movable Expression Smooth, Harmonious, Orchestrated movement of sound. Keys, hammer, Mozart's music all around. Children, Memories, Lessons to be cherished. Many years of practice Helped them grow and flourish. Baby Grand, Upright, Many more to choose from. Numerous keys make music While we sing along or hum. -Bernadette Silverthorn

No Rights Reserved I'm sitting on a reservation, But what is it reserving? They've taken everything from meÂ My home, my past, my dignityÂ Gone, all gone. My grandmother tells me Of the glory that once was Long ago. They call her a "storyteller" As though she's a liar. People pass by and stare at me Like I'm a caged animal, A relic of the past Forced into preservation. I'm sitting on a reservation. -Freda M. Terrell 18

Weather Report no more weekends exactly like this, ok? all of the time (all of the time) every atom of space between raindrops on Saturday, pieces of wet grey-blue sky drenched bark, every collection of points: Time, every swoop of exploding foam of a weekend becoming cold, becoming brittle, becoming fragile, you were everyThing/One/Time. -Keith Groff

The Obituary The familiar shrill whistle from the tea kettle summoned Emily just as she finished folding her second load of wash. A small smile tilted the comers of her mouth, and pleasure radiated from her dark eyes as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Her morning ritual was at hand. Emily had made it a point over the last several years of rearing babies, cleaning and cooking, to take time for herself once a day. Every morning around ten-thirty after most of the morning chores were finished and the kids were off at school, she would sit down with a cup of Twinings Irish breakfast tea, a small plate of cream-filled ladyfingers, and the daily paper. The sun was streaming in bright shafts of light through the kitchen win dows. A gentle April breeze carried the scent of spring through the screens, fitfully ruffling the lace-tatted curtains. Humming the melody to the Beatles' "In My Life," Emily took down one of her many "Teacher" mugs from the top cabinet. And although her teaching days had long ago been replaced by changing diapers, cleaning messy rooms, and being on the receiving end of homework, Emily was loathe to part with these few reminders of the days when she was more than just "Em, my wife," and "Mom." She turned off the gas and removed the ceramic teapot from the stove before pouring the water over the tea bag. Jasper the cat announced his presence with a loud meow, followed by a lethargic twist around her calves. "Hi, there, baby, are you hungry?" Emily crooned to the cat, her com panion until three o'clock when school let out. Emily broke off a small por tion of a ladyfinger she took from the refrigerator and placed it on the floor. The rest went on a plate next to the cup on the kitchen table. Sighing, Emily sat down on the padded chair and began to flip through the paper while sipping and munching. She read through the front page and the city and region section, reading through the usual reporting of robberies, illegal dumpings, and drug busts, before flipping to the daily magazine and entertainment section. The antics of the rich and famous were always a source for a good chuckle. She noted that Macy's was having a sale this weekend; Tom Hanks' new movie premiered on Friday; and Dear Abby scolded a self-centered new mother. She was just popping the last of the ladyfingers into her mouth when she turned to the obituary section of the paper. Emily always saved this for last. Her mother had always believed that looking through the obituaries was a good way to make sure everyone was still alive. Emily felt her mother's somewhat irreverent philosophy did, indeed, contain profound wisdom.

Her eyes scanned down the list of names, Aaron, Bufford, ...Evans, Gregory,...Marshall, Newman, Osheski,...Pappalardi, Pope, Quigley,... Stanhope, Swift, Tate, Taylor, Unvarsky, Whitmore, Wolford...Her eyes slashed back to Whitmore. She read the details listed under the name: WHITMORE, Adam P., April 9, 1995, of Phila., PA, beloved son to Alfred and Mary, dearest brother to Francis, Patrick, Danielle, Michael, and Marianne, and devoted uncle to Frankie, Devon, and Sara Whitmore, Patricia Galloway, Matthew, Paul, and Alex Whitmore, and MaryKatherine O'Malley. Relatives and friends are invited to the viewing at 7:30 p.m., Thursday, April 14, at O'Connor Funeral Home, 875 Geneva Drive, and the Mass of Christian Burial, 10:00, at St. Christopher's Roman Catholic Church, Int. Our Lady of Grace. In lieu of flowers, please make contributions to Fox Chase Cancer Center, 7701 Burholme Ave., Phila., PA 19111. A white-hot surge of dread shot through her, so absolute and pure that, for a moment, her senses were focused acutely on the sickening feeling bur geoning inside of her. She only dimly heard the noisy clatter of the teacup slipping from her fingertips, felt the now tepid tea splashing her hand. Desperately, she read the notice two more times, vainly searching for a mistake, some small sign that it was not Adam who was the owner of the obituary. Stuffing her fist against her mouth, she forced back a sob. The truth was there, stamped out in small black letters. "Oh, my God," she choked. "Adam...oh, God, no." She sat very still, not daring to move for fear she would shatter. In an attempt to collect herself, she focused her attention on the mundane things around her. The clock on the wall opposite her loudly ticked off the undetermined seconds and minutes. The happy sounds of birds drifted to her ears. The sun re mained bright in the sky. It was almost obscene. Soon, the complex miasma of her grief gave birth to anger, the helpless, floundering kind of hostility that desperately seeks to direct itself. She won dered bitterly how everything seemed the same despite the fact that a man had died. She blinked back the stinging pain of tears as she shifted her attention back to the obituary that now appeared terribly pathetic and,trite. Adam was reduced to inadequate words on a piece of newsprint. A man's entire life was summarized in a few phrases that did nothing to describe the person he had been. They did not describe the unique shade of his eyes, the tenor of his voice, or the shape of his hands and fingers. That he bore a small scar over his left eyebrow, owned a trophy from boyhood baseball days, went untold. The obituary did not say that he enjoyed pizza with milk or that he loved old Jimmy Buffet songs. And the words only hinted at the love and devotion he showered on his family and was given in return. But 21

Emily knew. She knew all of this about him, or had known about him. Her anger quickly left her with that thought. Had known. It had been almost eleven years since she had spoken with him, even longer still since she had seen him. Oh, there had been many times over the years when she had wanted to call him, see him. But she never felt that she could. The last few times she had seen him after her wedding were strained and tense affairs. Even their telephone conversations had become stilted and contrived, peppered liberÂ ally with inanities. His last call had been to tell her that he would not be able to come to Andrew's christening. Their estrangement had hurt her deeply. But as time went on, she forced herself not to dwell too heavily on thoughts of him. Their relationship was soon reduced to annual Christmas cards with family pictures and brief "Hope things are going well with you" salutations. And even when she had written lengthy descriptives of the latest happenings with her life, her children, and even, sometimes, Jake, she had never gotten much in return. In retrospect, maybe it was better that way. Certainly it was less painful. By thinking of him the way he had been, she at least could keep her memories. But now there would be no more Christmas cards, no wondering what he was up to. He was truly lost to her. Emily laid her head in her hands, then, and finally allowed herself to cry for the man who had lived in her heart for most of her life. -Kathleen M. Ebert

Buildings They stand there waiting for the hope that has not come. They stand there waiting for the carpenter. The glassless windows cannot keep out the cold. Bricks are not housing anyone. They stand there waiting for the carpenter. He promised to bring them light. They believe he is coming to fix the shelter. They want to escape the night. -JaniceJakubowitcz

You For too long Philosophers tried to prove You Atheists tried to deny You Religious tried to follow You People tried to deceive You I just love You -Jennifer Kramny 23

Runaway Train "All aboard!" As the conductor's voice echoed across the railroad station, Jimmy put his hand in his brown wool coat pocket and pulled out his ticket. He stared at it intensely for a few seconds as if in disbelief, and then he frowned. He wanted to crumble it up and throw it away, but deep down he knew what he had to do. The shrill sound of the conductor's warning interrupted his thoughts. Jimmy picked up his brown cloth bag from the ground and flung it over his shoulders. He walked up to the train and handed the conductor his ticket. Before boarding, he turned around and gave the station one last look. He looked at the sky above, the surrounding trees, and the masses of people standing or walking to and fro; this scene would be his last memory of Cedarville. After a few seconds, Jimmy boarded the train and proceeded to the rear of the car. He placed his bag in the overhead compartment and then sat in the comer seat next to the window. He hoped that no one would sit next to him. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small metal frame. Holding the frame with his two hands, he looked at the black and white picture. It brought a smile to his face and tears to his eyes. He pressed the picture against his chest and then looked out the window. He let his mind wander as he watched the blurr of trees pass by, n,jle after mile after mile. "Is this seat taken?" Jimmy slowly turned around and looked up at the older heavyset man who had just spoken to him. "Excuse me, sir. Is this seat next ta ya taken?" the man asked again. "No, it's not," Jimmy said, still entertaining thoughts about the picture. The man stuffed his bag in the compartment above and then sat down next to Jimmy. Jimmy looked out the window again. "So," said the man, "what's yar name?" Jimmy felt like fire was burning inside of him. He didn't want to be social, but he knew he couldn't be rude. He turned around and said, ''Charles." "Well, hello, Charlie! It's nice to meet ya. My name is Stanley-Stan." He put out his hand, which was calloused and wrinkled like a prune. Jimmy took Stanley's hand and shook it. Alright, he thought, I've been polite. Now leave me alone. But Stanley continued, "So, Charlie boy, where yar headin' ?" "West," Jimmy replied, looking straight ahead. 24

"Well, son, so am I. Where, uh, exactly out West?" "California," Jimmy answered. "Ah, California. Yar lookin' for some work, ain't yar? Shoulda figÂ ured. All ya young men, that's whar thar headin' ." Jimmy turned away from the man and looked out the window. He hoped that the man would take the hint. A few minutes later, the man started up agam. "So, Charlie boy, what's that thar yar holdin'?" Jimmy felt like disappearing. Why did he have to ask that question? he thought. Can't he just mind his own business. Jimmy hesitated for a few seconds and then hastily answered, "Ah, well, it's a picture of my sister, I mean, um, my sister-in-law. See, my brother went to California about six months ago, and while he was there, he got married. And l never seen his wife yet. And, well, she's picking me up at the train station there. This picture will help me find her in the crowd." Stanley took the picture from Jimmy's hand. As he stared at the picture, a huge grin covered his face. "If ya don't mind my sayin' so, she's a real beaut alright. Yar brother's a fine lucky man." Stanley gave the picture back to Jimmy, who was disgusted. Yes, he did mind. Stanley's eyes weren't worthy enough to look upon her like that. Yes, she was beautiful. Beautiful in ways that he could never know. With total anger and resentment for the man, Jimmy turned his body towards the window and looked out. Fifteen minutes of silence had passed, when Stanley finally said, "Well, Charles, I'm a goin' get somethin' to eat. Ya want somethin'?" Jimmy, without looking, coldly replied, "No." W hen the old man departed, a feeling of relief overcame Jimmy. He was finally alone. Alone with his picture in hand and his memories in his heart and in his mind. -Dalva Marra

Silence It echoes nothing while saying too much It screams aloud while utteri1ig a whisper It tells a secret that you can't hear and demands to be heard and demands to be heard. -Candace Adams

Summer Afternoon on the Delaware On the porch of the Black Bass we dreamily recouped. As rafters glided past we tasted cantaloupe soup. The river below us flowed in green sheets. In spirit we plunged and emerged replete with guietude---expunged. Two women in time-tangled stress on the porch of the old hotel stopped time, had peace redress with river-beauty spell. -Cecelia Johnson

My Beloved My Beloved, In visions frequent I glimpse your shining helm Far away in that savage land; Under war-dark foreign skies Do you dream of me? The long days I pass at my loom And my wheel, spinning. Never could I spin a thread Long enough to reach you In the midst of that holy clash Of sword and cross, and wind You back to my hearth. Tonight, behind thick stone walls I labor at the frame Weaving a garden, the two of us Inside, where never is heard The call to arms. -Christine Duffy

The Perfect Sister The desolate hallway seemed a hundred miles long. By the time Nicole had reached the waiting room, she was practically running. Finally, she saw her parents speaking with Dr. Lewis across the waiting room. "Danielle's condition has stabilized," the doctor informed them, espyÂ ing the worry in their eyes. Danielle was Nicole's older sister, and someone to whom Nicole had always looked up...until now. 'Tm sorry it took me so long to give you this news, but I was delayed in surgery." "Danny's gonna be all right," Nicole's mother said, crying and laughing at the same time. "Thank goodness!" "That's wonderful news! Thank you, Doctor. Thank you," Nicole's father echoed. He lifted his glasses off of his nose to wipe the tears from his eyes. Nicole burst into tears of joy and relief. They had always been so close. Danny was a perfect sister-beautiful, smart and popular. Nicole had wanted to be just like her. "She's a lucky girl. Her condition could have gone either way. You can see her now if you'd like, but please make it brief," Dr. Lewis informed the family. He continued speaking with Nicole's father. "You know, Danielle will need to be here for a while. She'll need a lot of treatment.'.' He shook Nicole's father's hand as he left the room. Nicole wanted to see her sister. She remembered the fun they used to have. Trips to the mall, shopping, movies, vacations. She remembered the good times. But, as she entered Danny's room, shock overcame her. She was not prepared for what she found behind the door. Unable to move, she stared at the flashing lights on the monitors, while jagged lines slithered across the screen. The beeping sound of the monitor became almost unbearÂ able. Wires hung from tubes lined up around the bed. Nicole then looked at Danny. Her eyes were closed, and there were bruises on her face. She looked dead. "Why?" Nicole questioned under her breath, "Why?" She wanted to hug Danny, to let her know it would be O.K., but she felt too afraid. Afraid of her own sister. Danny opened her eyes slowly and looked to her parents who stood behind Nicole. 'Tm. ..so...sorry," she mumbled. "Please..forgive...me?" Nicole's mother took Danny's hand. "Oh, Danny, don't talk now. Just rest," she said, almost in tears. "Nicole?" Danny reached for her sister's hand, but Nicole quickly turned away. Nicole had not expected to feel that way. Her tears flowed freely. She wanted to tell Danny her feelings, how angry and betrayed she felt, but she could not. She looked to her mother for

support. Nicole's father bent down to hug Danny. "I thought ...! could take care...of myself," Danny sobbed. "I thought I could. I tried...! tried to stop doing drugs...but I couldn't." For the first time, Nicole realized her sister's problem was real. She had not wanted to believe it before. "Let's not talk about this now," Nicole's father said. "We have time." But Danny kept talking. "I tried to stay away. Really. I just... I just had to have them. I couldn't stop." Nicole turned her back again. She remembered the nights when Danny would lock herself in the bathroom. She remembered the horrible remarksÂ "You're a lousy sister," and "I wish I didn't have a sister." And then the threats-"If you tell, I'll kill you." That line kept repeating itself in Nicole's memory. Could life ever return to the way it was? A nurse appeared in the doorway. "It's time to go," she urged coldly. Nicole failed to realize how fast the time had gone. As her parents said their goodbyes, Nicole asked the nurse for more time. "Please," she cried, "it's very important. I won't stay long. I promÂ ise." The nurse hesitated and then reluctantly agreed. "We'll be outside, Nicole," her father said. "We'll wait for you." Nicole smiled as her mother and father left the room. Before the nurse left, she checked the monitors, and adjusted the IV's. Nicole turned to face Danny. She remembered the fun-loving sister she once had. "I have to tell you something," Nicole began. "I'm sorry. Ifl had only known..." she stopped. "I should have known what to do, how to help you. You are my sister, and I love you. But you let me down. You've changed. I thought you hated me," she blurted out all at once. "I am going to help you. We all will." Danny did not speak. The tears in her eyes said it all. The door opened once again. 'Tm sorry, but it really is time to go now," the nurse insisted. Nicole looked at Danny, and for the first time in months, she saw her sister. "I'll be back," she smiled and turned to walk away. "I love you, Nicole. I'm so sorry," Danny cried, as Nicole left the room. They were the only words Nicole needed to hear. -Christine Welch

Haven I sink in purple crystalline depths, All sound soothing, hushed swaddled songs, My heart's blood as the ocean, Wave after wave beating... The pulsing pleasure breaking... Against the shore of my soul. I settle in silk enfolding arms, All caresses comforting, blue streaking strokes, Held in forever arms... Edge after edge melting... Ragged ridges pebble polished... Against the ebb and flow of the tide. I fall in effervescent emerald warm, All breathing beckoning, ambrosial tempting touch, The elemental trace confirmed... Taste after taste desiring... Supreme passion hovering... Against my submerged ultimate peace. I float in gossamer turquoise oceans, All sensations rippling, a purr under water wavering, To be all things as one... Peak after peak shimmering... Ascending origins trembling alive... Against my life... my heart...my days.. . -Elizabeth Hoffmann 31

Leaners, Workers, and Drinkers The bartenders that I work with can be categorized into three types leaners, workers, and drinkers. All three types can be identified in any res taurant or bar. The style of bartender that a person prefers depends on the role that he plays in the restaurant or bar. I have been working in the restau rant business for thirteen years and have seen many different styles of bar tending. The vantage point of a waitress is different from anyone else who observes a bartender because as a waitress she looks for quick and accurate service. A leaner stands with one leg propped on the draft beer ledge or simply rests on the bar. In this posture, the leaner is either talking to a customer or watching the television. When a leaner is engaged in one of these two activi ties, he never pays attention to the service bar. His well-trained ear can hear any useless banter going on around him, but he can never hear a waitress calling for a drink order. A worker never stands in the same spot for very long. He is stocking shelves that have been left empty by a leaner, pouring drinks for a bar cus tomer, or filling the orders of the wait staff. The worker often seems uptight and annoyed at his co-workers, but he never ignores our calls for service. Workers do just what their title implies-they work. A drinker often starts out as a worker, and the more alcohol a drinker consumes the closer he gets to drinker status. He is not a lazy breed by nature but often becomes forgetful because of the amount of alcohol that he has consumed. The drinker is always pleasant to the wait staff and cannot understand why they seem fmstrated with the service that they receive. The problem with all three types of bartenders is that they affect the bartenders with whom they work. A leaner or a drinker can drive a worker to become a drinker, but unfortunately, a worker does not have the same influence on the other two types. There isn't much that a waitress can do to change the bartender's style. But one thing that I do is to make sure that I am scheduled to work with a worker. -Sandra R. Young 32

Born Free As I stepped outside to retrieve the morning paper, there he was, tossed from his fallen nest, during the severe storm that had swept through our neighborhood overnight, the baby robin that would become known as "Mohawk." Carefully I picked him up, feeling instinctively protective of this small, fragile creature. After all, I had watched his mother build her nest, twig by twig. The closeness of the nest and the birch tree to my front door allowed me to check the two blue speckled eggs daily. I would stand quietly by the door and watch this little robin's mother bring food continu ously to him and his sibling. Now his brother was lying lifeless on the con crete, not far from him. Mom was nowhere in sight, so I intervened. Once in the house, I placed him gently into an old cage we had in our basement. It measured three feet high, deep, and wide. Roughly framed and covered with chicken wire, it would suffice. Shocked and surely shaken, he huddled in the comer where I had made a nest for him out of shredded newspaper. I left him to rest and hoped that he would soon perk up. Well, it didn't take him long to decide he was hungry. Soon he was peeping and sitting with his mouth open, waiting for his adopted mother to drop a morsel of food into it. Not expecting a feathered guest for breakfast, all I had to give him was bread. In time, I introduced him to worms and found myself making several trips a week to the bait store for "his grocer ies." As he grew, his pin feathers appeared. The top of his head began to sprout tufts of fuzz, straight down the center, from his forehead to the back of his neck, hence the name Mohawk. There was no doubt about it: Mohawk was developing into a fine look ing robin, as robins go. We did have to make one journey to old Doc Terry, the neighborhood veterinarian. Mohawk had developed a huge bubble-like pouch on one of his back legs. It turned out to be merely an infected air pocket, easily cured by applying Vaseline several times a day. My story about Mohawk amused Doc. He laughed when I told him we had to take Mohawk on vacation because no one would robin sit for us. (Few people are willing to chop up worms into little pieces and, while they are still wiggling, deposit them into a bird's mouth.) Before I left his office, Doc cautioned me not to let him go in a populated area. He had become so attached to us and so trusting of humans that he might trust the wrong person. Mohawk continued to grow. I began putting him caged, of course, out side everyday to acclimate him to the out-of-doors. He needed to watch other birds, chirp with them, and get used to weather conditions beyond our 33

basement. His breast was now a beautilful speckled red, his feathers fully grown in, and he was rather handsome. He ate on his own now and could fly well. He escaped briefly one day and caused me great anguish for several hours. I felt as if one of my children had run away from home. But, when it was dinner time, I looked up at the tree by his cage, and there he was, sitting and looking at me. I called to him and opened his cage. In he flew. There was no doubt about it; the time to free Mohawk was near. Like people, he needed a life of his own. He appeared so majestic and happy sitting in the tree, yet, in his cage again, he seemed sad and robbed of the freedom that was rightfully his. All things taken into consideration, includÂ mg the fact that he was now eating a dollar's worth of worms a day, I decided to set Mohawk free. Sunday after church, I packed a picnic lunch, and the family headed off to Playwicki Park in Bucks County, with Mohawk packed in his box one last time. We walked and walked until we came to a gently flowing creek. The banks of the creek were lined with trees; the area was quiet and away from people. Yes, this spot was the perfect place to say good-bye to Mohawk. We opened the box. He flew out and perched himself on a nearby tree. He stared at us briefly as if to say good-bye, and then with the boldness of an eagle, he flew across the creek and landed upon a tall oak tree. He was perched at the top of his new world. And then he flew into the woods and disappeared. Never a spring goes by, that I do not wonder and ask, when I see that first robin, "Is that you, Mohawk?" -Linda Lewis

Silkie There was a lass who coursed the bayside summer, swam tidal rivers, shoals, estuaries warmed by rockstrewn shore; her wake would shudder solo, lucent, form plunged in reverie.... Once golden locks like Clare's famed faery-woman too soon gone ashen; her buoyant smile wanes, a shadow on her brow-that comely mein all furrows now, rich tillage skeined with age. Though time's a thief and ravages ensue of mind and memory, a glimpse returns: the beauty-burdened silkie that was you -elusive now, out of her elementÂ forsaken since by one who never learned such self-possession, nor the wave's lament. -Michael P. Toner

Antichronos somewhere just beyond the realm of imagination there lies a patch of space where time is irrelevant where now ends and forever begins in a dimension where the past and the future are one and the dreamer and the dream exist as separate entities i am a phantasm a confused and confusing anachronism a denizen of a world that is not my own a world in which everywhere is nowhere and even minor flaws in this new continuum cause disastrous repercussions that echo for all of eternity to hear but even time in its purest form cannot measure forever or foresee things to come because as yesterday's future becomes tomorrow's past the hands of time spin out of control and torche.s fueled by forgotten dreams light my way on the distant road to nowhere where time is irrelevant... -Freda M. Terrell

Folio 22 - Contributors

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Candace Adams is a Nursing student and junior at Holy Family College. She is a Folio staff editor and the newsletter editor for the Student Nurses Association at Holy Family. Candace's poetry had appeared in Anterior Poetry Monthly (1994), Amateur Writers Journal (1995), and The National Library ofPoetry Anthology (1995). Chris Bidlingmaier, a former student at Holy Family, is currently attending Villanova University. Christine Duffy Morris is an English Literature Concentrator and senior at Holy Family College. Her work appeared in Folio 21. Kathleen Ebert graduated Holy Family College in i992 with a degree in Special Education. Keith Groff began teaching at Holy Family in 1994. He is Writing Coordina tor. Elizabeth Hoffmann is an English Communications Concentrator and senior at Holy Family College. Janice Jakubowitcz graduated from Holy Family in 1994 with a B.A. in El ementary Education. Cecelia Johnson is a former Holy Family student and a past contributor to Folio. In 1993 she published The Watch Fires, a novel about the Civil War. Gloria Kersey-Matusiak is an assistant professor in the Nursing Department. Jennifer Kramny is an English/Secondary Education Major and senior at Holy Family. She is a member of Lambda Iota Tau. Kimberly Laskowski graduated from Holy Family in 1996 with a B.A. in Eng lish. Linda Lewis is an undergraduate student at Holy Family College. Dalva Marra majored in English-Communications and English Secondary Edu cation at Holy Family. Francis Nicoletti, a senior, is a Humanities/History Concentrator and Trea surer of the H.F.C. Humanities Society. Bernadette Silverthorn graduated from Holy Family with a B.A. in Social Work. Freda M. Terrell is a Secondary Education/English concentrator and sopho. more at Holy Family. She is the Secretary of the H.F.C. Humanities Society. Freda's poetry was recently published by the National Library of Poetry. Henry Tokarski is an English Literature Concentrator at Holy Family. His poetry has appeared in Folio 16, Folio 17 and Folio 18. Some of Henry's work will be published by Plowman Ministries in January 1997. Michael P. Toner is a free-lance poet and playwright and a former lecturer in the English Concentration at Holy Family. He has contributed poetry to Folios 16, 17, and 18. Christine Welch graduated from Holy Family in 1996 with a B.A. in English. Nancy M. Werner is a graduate of Holy Family and the Music and Fine Arts instructor at St. Albert the Great School in Philadelphia. Sandra R. Young graduated from Holy Family with a B.A. in Education.