The Meridian 2022-2023

The Meridian

2022-2023

Table of Contents

The best part of putting together this publication every year is getting to see all the fantastic work KUAstudents create. This year’s Meridian has art from a range of mediums, from photography to ceramics to paintings, and writing inspired by everything from the lives of students to Broadway shows. I hope there is something in here for everyone and that you enjoy the talents of some of our students just as much as I have!

And of course, the biggest of thank yous to all those who contributed.This wouldn’t be possible without your willingness to share these pieces of yourself.

Happy reading,

Liza Wolf Editor

Mother Dearest

ByAnonymous

She has taught me what I know

She has made me forget what I thought

I hear her voice in the retail store

I see her name on the sizes

I remember her words through the number on the scale

I feel her in the jeans that pinch my thighs

I hear her when I pick up the fork

I see her in the mirror

I remember her flinch when I lift my shirt

I feel her through every bite

I feel her in my ribs when I cry

I feel her in my fingers, down my throat

I love her

I hate her

Art byAlice

With Bad Comes Good

By Lulu ‘24

“I believe deep what they say about the Lord giveth and the lord taketh away” (Woodson 99). I never really thought I would have to believe in this. Nothing had ever left a void in my life and I never expected anything would. My papa was the opposite of a void, he filled every crack of life within me and was as sweet as his favorite wine. My papa symbolized theAmerican Dream, coming from nothing he built his own life in the Bronx. From working many low-wage jobs for multiple hours in order to support his family, he fell nothing short of the most hard-working and strongest person I have ever known. Being with my papa felt like the safest place on earth, and even the worst possible thing couldn’t happen to me when my hand was intertwined with his. Even fifteen hundred miles away, him in the warmth, me in the cold, his voice over the phone was a soft blanket. Soon that same voice I had always known grew as scratchy as dry hands. Soon, eating was a force, moving was not a given, and that one vacation we had planned was unattainable for him. Soon, I lost my Papa.

Art by Elliot ‘26

I was there, the moment she was delivered, and the moment those blue eyes locked with mine, I knew I would never forget them. From the moment her small, soft hands wrapped around mine I never wanted to let go. However, the years moved by quickly. One moment three with a princess birthday cake, the next eight with clowns at her birthday, and soon enough, eleven standing over my hospital bed. Here I was, lying in the hospital, failing to lend my hand to my grandaughter who just wanted to hold it. Once I was a superhero, battling and never losing, but now I was lost. Lost not because I wasn’t battling, but lost because I couldn’t battle. I couldn’t let my family see me like this, so many great memories, and this couldn’t be the last one with me. I fought, begged, and prayed, and as I saw those tears streaming down her face, I wanted to wipe every single one away, but I was too far. I knew I was my grandaughter’s person, the one she loved to cuddle, the one she loved to call, and the one who made fifteen hundred miles feel like nothing. How could I possibly leave this world with her still in it? I held on hard to the life that was being ripped out of me by cancer, and when I finally heard those last words of hers, I let go.

My daddy was the best person I had ever known, started from scratch and built a great life for my brothers and me, all while dealing with my mom. He was a saint. He never failed to give me anything I asked for. Growing up, many moves, many homes, and many new beginnings, but he was always the same.The same sweet, loving, caring, and best daddy. He never stopped parenting and even helped me raise my beautiful daughter, who would soon learn that my daddy, her papa was the best person ever. He held her with the most delicate hands like she was a porcelain doll.The relationship they

created was greater than one can imagine and the smile on her face never left when they were together.That could be said until there my daddy was, failing to reach my daughter’s hand, and I never knew if that same smile would return. It hurt. It hurt really bad watching my daddy go, but it hurt, even more, watching my daughter lose her best friend, watching her cope with a pain that was new.

But life went on. It had to, with or without my daddy here.And as I had this gaping hole in my heart, it started to fill, healing was being done with the help of someone. Not long after my daddy left this earth, Chris came into my life. Not only was this new to me, but it was also new to my daughter. I knew her papa leaving was a change and a bad one, but I hoped Chris would be a good change. It didn’t take much time for Chris to integrate into our daily life, from playing catch with my daughter, to meeting his cat, to having family dinners with him, I saw that same smile that she had left in the hospital room, quickly reappear on her face when he was around.

I was nervous. Emotion filled the empty car space as I drove toT’s house to meet Lu for the first time. What was I gonna say? What was she gonna say? How would she react? Many questions circled my head, and as I look back now, they shouldn’t have. Seeing Lu merged into a part of my daily life, when I sawT, I saw Lu and that became the norm. I knew about Pat’s recent absence inTand Lu’s life, but it didn’t seem to have an impact on Lu because whenever I saw her, she never failed to smile. Lu and I quickly grew an unbreakable bond.Time spent with Lu was easy, like I wasn’t trying hard and everything just flowed.After spending many years with Lu, I can see why Pat

loved spending time with her. She was open, fun, and always smiling.

My papa was a big part of my life, one of the biggest, and losing his hand to hold was like the first time on a bike without training wheels. But Chris, Chris didn’t put the training wheels back on but he guided me, and showed me the way. Chris was the helping hand I needed. When my papa left, he wasn’t going to leave me without direction and no training wheels.The Lord may have taken my papa’s hand away from mine but he put it right into Chris’s.

Art by Elliot ‘26

Trespass

By Isabel ‘24

Stepping free from your sheets and Trespassing on your sleek black floors They betray my dry bare feet. Clinging to my smooth soles, I stick across the gleaming floor, Through the glass walls, My ghost prints vanishing in the pale, cloud-stained sun.

Vanishing to any eye but yours. Why is it

That where there was never any print but yours - spotlessThese walls forget so soon?

Spotless, print-less far too soon. You are everywhere as always, In all the places that you should have been, In all the places that I never wanted you, In all the places that belonged to you. But you’re already gone. Your perfume, scent, and soap

Cling to your clothes and Clutter your empty shelves, Drip from your walls, But in the dark,

I know how long it’s been since you stood here: It was that entire lifetime ago Of a few months

That you stood here.

There is a calm here that could not exist before, Though I am an unfaithful creature to name it

I do not know what loyalty or love I owe you, but

This place is not better for your absence. I am still the welcome trespasser here.

Art by Sylvie ‘25

People, People everywhere

They judge you

For how you

Look Walk Speak

Smile Learn Dress.

Judgemental Nature

ByAnonymous

They look at you with hatred and disgust, Even the things that don't matter, Music taste

Color of your shirt

Hair

Favorite pastime, They judge.

Why, why does it matter if someone wears a blue shirt and not gray? Or likes to listen to jazz, not rap

Or rather read a book than look at a screen.

From the moment when they first lay their judging eyes on you, There is a picture forming in their head, A picture of you

A picture that might not be who you are, But it is what they see.

At the end of the day, why does it matter?

Why were those nasty looks thrown at you in the first place?

In a while, will you still remember me?

Or just forget that I exist

So why dwell on those things if they don't matter?

Why throw those piercing glances?

If it won’t matter in 100 years.

Near Flight

By Luchik ‘24

Part I

I imagine you searched the sky, Bifocals traded for binoculars, Nearing the pine tree, crackling needles texture The whispered murmur of a sun-scorched forest. Kyiv boils in summertime, And the little cemetery of cross-beamed stakes impales its loamy hill. While a red-ringed smokestack belches dim exhaust into a cyanide sky.

Concrete slabs course through the matted brush. Hungry weeds lap up the ruin. Soviet or Scythian, The forest forgets in equal measure. You enter the copse, break brittle carpet with lonesome intrusion, Like any serf stealing away from the plow within the last millennium. That peasant sees a flock of sparrows break upwards from a low-beamed fence, panting wings churning the molasses heat.

You–a Jew with eyes thrown higher than the stakes between two grainfields, yearn for a greater bird.

To dive, slice through the air, Outpacing the immolation

Of your childhood, Branded with two smoldering stars: yellow / red a six-legged insect drowned

In raspberry kompot

So you climbed the ashy limbs

Of the only telephone pole predatingTsar Nicholas, swaying in the free Dnieper breeze, to the hawk perched there near flight.

Part II

Did you imagine then, before you fell, crumbs caking every crevice, stained plastic cutlery scenting the seats, quarters and nickels glued down with spilled juiceAll this in your graying Honda?

That too-large too-thick coat like a big black beetle brimming with trifles. Or twenty-dollar breakfasts at IHOP: très leches on kids’menus.

On the freeway home: the full-bellied sloth, Sun pressing a palm against the cold windows of your Honda And a fidgety boy fingering theAC, draped in downy coat

Because he forgot his at home, And you aren’t cold anyway. From atop the pine,

From the dawn of your prime, Audubon aubade craning toward The hawk’s nest, near flight.

Grandpa Sasha

By Luchik ‘24

My grandpa is a fist over anvil glowing red. Grandpa hammered from the earth, Adacha cast of lead.

My grandpa is Joshua, Crumpling Iron Curtains in his hand. My grandpa is old Moses, Boiling theAtlantic in a pan.

Grandfather eats Fascists for dinner And Communists for lunch, Chess Grandmasters for breakfast, And bureaucrats with brunch. My grandpa married dynamite, Who’d shattered mountains in her spite, And reared two generations With borscht and warm insight.

My grandpa is a helpless boy Thrown onto a train. They blacked out all the windows And hid from fiery rain.

While trumpets screamed above, And sirens moaned below, Aworld billowed up in ash To horns of Jericho.

My grandfather is never wrongIt’s their fault they won’t listen. Grandpa is an atom bomb, Thanksgiving dinner- fission. My grandpa split the earth apart, Clenched palms worn and marred, He stormed the Reichstag fifty times and planted maple in our yard.

Art by Mica ‘23

TheTwo Passengers

By Jasper ‘26

Thecoachmanhadalwaysliked thefog.Itkepthimawake,ashisjob required.Thefoggavethesensethat allwasquiet,thateveryonewasalone andthereforehadnoreasontofear. Thelanternsilluminatedthecarriage depotsignbarelyreachedhiseyes. BigBenstruck12times,andmidnight hadfallenuponhim.

Hishorsesnortedinfrontofthe carriage,stompingthegroundwithher hoof.Anewpassengerwasaboutto arrive.Thepassengerwasatallfigure, cladinblackrobesandalargehood thatnearlycoveredhisentireface, withjusthispalechinbeingvisible. Theycarriedalargetomeathisside, thoughitdidnotunbalancehimashe walked.Theirfootstepswerenearly silentasheapproachedthecarriage, theirlongrobescoveringhisfeet givingtheimpressionthathewas floating.Thefigurereachedintothe manylayersofhiscloaktofinda pouchofjinglingcoins,whichwas tossedtothecoachmanasthefigure boardedthecarriage.Thecoachman heardtheflippingofpagesbeforethe figurespoke,inavoicereminiscentof acreakingdoor,“BucksRow.”Bucks

Rowwasalongridefromthedepot,buttheheavy pouchofcoinsconvincedthecoachmanotherwise. Thehorse'srootsechoedthroughthesilent city,matchingthesoundofwheelshittingthe cobblestone.Thefigure'svoicesmoothlyslipped intothecoachman’searswiththesimplewords, “Stophere.”Assoonashefinishedhissentence,a faintscreamcamefromanearbyalley.Heleftthe carriage,andasbegantomoveawaythey murmured,“I’llbeback.”Thebidenttalismanon thetomeshinedforamomentbeforethefigurewas fullyobscuredinthefog. Thecoachmandidnothavetowaitlong beforethefigurereturned.Thehorsedidnotrespond asthefiguremovedby,withhislargetomenow open,

writinganotewithanelaboratepen madefromarooksfeather.Thisfigure wasnotsmart,thecoachmanobserved, astheinkwouldnotdryinsuchwet conditions.Thatreasoningclearlydid notmattertothefigure,astheyclosed thegreatbookastheysteppedupinto thecarriage.Thefigureaskedagain,in thatcreakingvoice,“GototheRoyal LondonHospital.”

Itdidnottakelongtoarrive.The hospitalalwaysgavethecoachmanthe creeps,andtheonce-comfortingfog certainlydidn’thelp.Thefigure seeminglyfloatedoutofthecarriageas theyapproachedthehospital,leaving anotherpouchofcoinsontheedgeof thecarriageastheyleft.Thecoachman begrudginglygotuptoretrieveit,tying thehorse’sreinsontheedgeofthe driver'sseat.Asthecoachmanstepped totheground,hisshoegotcaughton oneofthespokesofthewheelandhit thegroundbeforeherealizedwhat happened.Everythingwhenblack. Thecoachmanwokeuptothe figurerubbinghisforeheadwithamoist cloth.Thefigurehadrolledhimtohis sideandofferedtheirhandtohelpthe coachmanstandup.Hetookit graciouslyandstartedapologizing profusely.Thefigureignoredthe apologiesandwentbackintothe carriage,openingtheirtome.The coachman,confused,climbedbackinto thedriver'sseat.Thefigurespokeagain, inthateerievoice,“Thegraveyard.”

Thecoachmanlookedbackwiththe intentionofaskingwhichgraveyard, butitdidnottakelongforhimto realize.Thecoachmanturnedback totheroad,twobagsofcoins jinglinginhispocket,andordered thehorsetomoveforward.They movedtothesoundofthefigure writinginhistome.

Thegraveyardwasalwaysthe foggiestpartofthecity.Itmadethe airfeelheavyinthecoachman's lungs,boggingdownhisevery

thoughtandmovement.Thefigureexitedthecarriagebutdidnotpassthegatesintothe graveyard.Hewalkedinfrontofthecarriageandpointedtheopeningofthehoodtothe coachmanexpectantly,theirfacenowcompletelycoveredinshadow.Hereachedacloaked armtothecoachman,andashespokethegatesofthegraveyardflewopen,“Thereins?”The figure'stonewasalmostkind,butitdidnotstopthesuddenfearthatenteredthecoachman’s body.

“Idon’twanttogo,you,you,mademecomewithyou.Ifellbecauseofyou!I’mhere becauseofyou!”thecoachmangasped,makinghimselfassmallaspossibleinhisseat.The figureraiseditshandagain,simplysaying

“Ihavebeenyourpassengerformuchlongerthanthat.”Thecoachman,nowa passenger,lookedtowardsthegraveyard,seeingafamiliarname.Thepassengerhandedthe figurethereinsandmovedtoenterthecarriage.

Art byAnonymous

Iloveyou.

Threewords

Eightletters

Endlesswaystosayit.

Beforeeverygoodbye

Andaftereveryhello Iloveyou.

Drivesafe,Iloveyou.

Haveagoodday,Iloveyou.

Talktoyoulater,Iloveyou.

Awaytoresolveafight,

Areasontofightforsomeone.

Allbecause

Iloveyou.

Playhard,Iloveyou.

Seeyousoon,Iloveyou.

Besafe,Iloveyou.

Tomorrowisneverguaranteed.

Neitheris20minutesdowntheroad.

Soalwayssayit.

Threewords

Eightletters

Iloveyou.

I’mhereforyou,Ilove you.

I’llberightback,Ilove you.

I’myourbiggestfan,Ilove you.

Onewrongturn

Onedrunkdriver

Onelastbreath

AnyIloveyoucouldbethe last

Soalwayssayit.

Threewords

Eightletters

Iloveyou.

What am I to you?

ByAnonymous

What am I to you without my hugs?

What am I to you without my ears?

What am I to my friends but free therapy?

What am I to my parents besides a report card?

What am I to boys besides a body?

What am I to my mirror?

What am I to myself?

Do I even like who I've become?

Do I even care?

I want to be liked.

I need to be loved.

But I am nothing to myself without being something to someone else.

What am I to you?

Art byAri ‘23

This year, ninth-graders were asked to write poems about where they are from based on the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.They used this poem as an outline for their own experiences.The following pages few are the final products of this assignment from a variety of our students.

Track and Field

Wisdom ‘26

Iamfromagenerationofsofterhands

Iamfrom,usingFabulosoinhomesthatWEoccupied Iamfromyoudon’tknowpain,sowipeyourcrocodiletears

Iamfrom,Mr.CleanMagicEraserusedtocleanthestainsonthewallsfrom, negligence

Thenegligenceof fatherswhowereneverhome, andmothers workinghardbutnothardenough Iamfrompeopleputtingtheirallintomeand,Andsacrificingit too

Iamfromlovingsweetpotatopiebutlovingmyuncle,applepieevenmore

IAMFROM,TOUGHLOVE

Gritsograiny,mysandpaperwordspolishandscrape butmysisterknowsshe’llcomeoutshinierintheend Better,stronger,andsturdier,likethehousesmyunclehelped build

Notoffering,TELLINGhisworkerswhathadtobepolished, andwhathadtobescrapedandscrapped

Thewhen,andthewhy’s…

WhyIandHarmonyhadtoworkharder,be fastertogetoutofBoston

ToBeBetter andnevercomebackforgood

Iamfromsevenyearsandthensome,trackshoesandshotput, Ofbeingtheslowestontheteam

Keepingmyeyesontheprizeevenwithmybadvision

Keepingmypace,consistent

Evenwheneverysinglekidonmyteamranoffcourse,Burntoutandtired

ForTHEYhadavision

TheywantedustosucceedsoIdid ForIamfrom Amothernotreadyfortheworld, Andaworldnotreadyforthechildthatmotherbore Iamfromsacrificeandcrocodiletears Iamfromsweetpotatopie,aswellasapple IamfromFabuloso,Andsteammops

Illnessinthemind

Butnotmindingthevoicesinyourhead whentheywhisperbigsomethings andleadyoudownatrackofnoreturn

Whetheritbealongdistance orsprints

I’llkeepmyeyesontheprize

ForIcanignorethem,thosevoices

Thosevoicessosimilartomyfamily’sconstantnagging

Onhow…

IamfromgenerationsofConquerers AndFailures, Mistakes, Andpeoplewhoclawedtheirwaytosuccess, Insteadofanormal long-distancerace,somepeopleinmyfamily Hadnochoice

ButtocompeteintheSteeplechase

So,ImakesureIamontherighttrack, I’llcontinuetoruninmylaneuntilIreachthefinishline forbeinguselessservesnorealpurpose Andthebubblyfeelingsinside Likedawndishsoap Popanddisappearsoeasily Whensomethinghurts

Soevenwhenmyjointscreaklikedoorhingesafterarace EvenwhenIgetthirdorsecondbyaslimmargin BeforeeverytimeIhavetorunfullspeedtowardthefinishline

CanIhaveamomentofsilencebeforeIstartmyraces Mysilentbattles

Forallthosewhohavegiven ForallthosewhogavewhatIreceived Forallwhohaverandistances,Ican'tevencomprehend AllwhohavelostsomuchmorethanwhatI havegained

CanIhaveamomentofsilenceforthewomeninmyfamily?

Fortheyweretheoneswho Ilistenedto, FortheyhavebeendoingtracklongbeforeIhave Running,andrunningagainsttime,sotheycanprovide Fromfoodtoheat,to Timetostopforamomentofsilence,whenIneededthemto, Timetostopand SayawordofWisdomortwo

Where IAm From

Clare ‘26

From debut and from folklore

I’m from the small town of Bristol Rhode island an ocean breeze, and boardwalks. It feels comfortable and old.

I’m from a mirrorball from “every version of yourself” ”shimmering and beautiful”

I’m from the catchphrase games and competitive nature

I’m from the endless laughter and passionate hugs

From justin and from jann and from lila

From the opening arms of the sea, the kind of comfort only one place can bring you where the stars shine a little brighter

I’m from rhode island From dairy and meat “healthy” substitutes

From the sneaking out and crawling back home under the covers at the end of the night because “you missed your bed”.

Where I’m From

Marek ‘26

IamfromburntGhirardelli'sbrownies

FromtheBigAgnestentsandArmadaskis

I’mfromthebasketballhoopintheroad

(Open,beautiful, Scentofrain)

I’mfromBudWerner

Thesnow

Gentlyfallingontheground

I’mfromthehockeygameafterChristmas

Andtheloudlaughs

FromtheAmeliaandMaryann

I’mfromthesarcasm

Andthe“dishbutcan’ttake”

From“Youneedtoeatmore”

And“Youateeverything”

IamfromJesusChristandChurchonSunday

I’mfrommanydifferentheritages

EssadoandFrenchtoast

FromtheGrandmathatgotlostinwoods

Andthefatherthatgrewfromtheconcrete

Grandma’shousewitheverytrinketfromthepast

I’mfromtheGirardfamilyallovertheworld

Argentina,Mexico,NativeLands,WyomingandColorado.

Where IAm From

Spencer ‘26

I am from the cold snap of a can of seltzer water, from Price Chopper, and brachycephalic dogs.

I’m from the green country style 2 story house I call home, many windows, and tall ceilings.

It feels like I’m right where I belong.

I’m from the Maples, the Oaks, Tall and tough, they hold their ground. But I am no oak, nor maple tree standing in hundreds, thousands, millions, all tall and proud I have felt weak, like there was no way I could ever be forgiven.

I’m from sorrow, remorse, regret.

I’m from forgiveness, and empathy, and “I love you”. I’m from the crepes on Thanksgiving, and brown hair. From Caden, and Mom, and Dad.

I’m from Canaan Village Pizza, and watching movies every Sunday.

Where IAm From

Ali ‘26

Iamfromwarmblankets

FromDiorandBalenciaga

Iamfromthelargewalls

Woodfloors,soundroofthatreachesover fromthetrees

Andtheplants

Thebluesandgreens

Withchimesthathangfromthesky

Fromthemumsthatswaybeyondthefrontdoor

Thatflourishinthespring

Andlettingthesmelltricklethroughtheair

IamfromMike,Jess,andCole

Fromloveanddeath

Iamfromnothingnessandfullness

TheworldstretchesinwhichIbelong

IamfromtheConcords,theAsias,andSpains

Iamfromthe loud, thewarm, thenice, themean, theeverythinginbetween,

IamwhoIammeanttobe

The Show Must Go On

ByAnneliese ‘23

By now I know the plays I read the lines made from pen and ink That stains the paper as it bled I knowThe fonts of different voices

And the way the sound resides Every move requires Choices

Like a rising oceanTides

I do not know My final bow

I knowThe lights that blind the stage

As we face the crowd that stares

Who’s eyes light up with such amaze

As if were animals in our cage

I know the blocking that moves the chairs

The way feet move through the maze behind the curtain of props, lights and black shirts

I do not know My final bow

I know the hours of work that goes by

Sitting and waiting to say my line

Just to have my character die

But still having my moment to rise and shine

I know the texture of the costume piece That was sewn carefully by hand

With every detail put into every fleece And feather, and button, no matter how grand

I do not know my final bow

I know the hands that worked on the show

The ones not recognized except in our minds

The ones who build

The ones who put in every cue

Move every spot light to its intended place

Who in the shadows are the backbone to make us grow

Taller than the rest, louder than the rest, brighter than the rest

I would not have my final bow

Untitled

ByAnonymous

Anew horizon is upon us

The frost decays and the winter is beyond us

The pain melts too

the hold I held loosens

The spring is upon us

The warm air taunts us

The end is near for those so dear

Yet for every flower dead a new seed appears

Stuck in a cycle always losing

For those who will leave, leave a bruising

Do I hurt others so when I leave their lives and return to winter snow?

No the old must go

In response to Salvage the Bones

By Caroline ‘26

“SkeetahgrabsChinabytheheadandpullsandherbodycomesoutandsheisscrambling. Shefliesclearofhim,twistsintheairtosplashbellyfirstinthewater.Sheisalready swimming,fighting”(Ward235).

IcansmellKatrina.Sheisalmostatangibleperson,herperfumetheseasaltmistand herbreaththewind.Hereyesareburningintomyback,watchingme,waiting.Shewantsto takemySkeetah,Icanfeelitinthebangingofthewindowsandtherattlingofthedoor.Iwill protecthimthough,andIwillnotleavehim.Heismyguardianangel,glowingwhiteagainst theblackofeveryoneelse.

Outside,theanimalsarepreparing,andsomeareevenescaping;anoptionIhaveruled outbecauseofmySkeetah’sinsistencetostayput.Theheavyclumpsoftheelkpadagainst thesoftmud,mixedwiththerhythmofsofter,quickersqueaksoftheprey.Theycreatea melodythatKatrinaswaysto,herlongarmsshifting,herbodyglidingintwirlstocreatea whirlwindthatsucksallofusin.

Thedisturbanceofthestormisalmosttunedoutbythebustlewithinthehouse.Sister andBrotherareallayingtheirworriesbykeepingbusy,andtheLittleOneistaggingalong, likeusual.Thefather’sroomisstill,butdistressisradiatingthroughourdoorinwaves.My Skeetahisinhisownworldwithhiseyesglazed,butheisstillhere.Hisinsistencetocarefor thepuppieshastoneddown,aswehaverealizedthatallofusmaynotsurviveHer.

Ilaymyheadonhislap,andwecomforteachotherinawaythatgoesbeyondwords. Heneednotsaymyname,forhishand,whichrunsdownmyfaceliketheraindropsona window,calm,andsomewhatsad,communicatesenough.Thedayblendsintoanightjustas interchangeablydark,andmyeyesclosetothepoundingofKatrinaatourdoor,demandingto beletin.

WhenmySkeetahwakesupinthemorning,IwalkoutofourroomtoSistercurledup onthecouch,herbodyinafetalpositionwithherwholebeingcurvedaroundherstomach.I amunsurewhethersheistryingtoprotectherbabywiththatpose,orifitismeanttocomfort herselfinstead.WhenshestandstomeetmySkeetah,theeffectofthebabyisprominentin hershouldersandeyes.Itweighsherdown,dragginghertowardstheearth,

hangingheavytoremindheritisthere.Hereyessaythatshehasgivenup,thatshehas acceptedherfateasamother,thatshehastobesomethingshejustlost.

IwatchSistercarefullyassheclimbsontoBrother’sbedwithherstepsjustasmutedas usual.ShecurlsintoherselfagainasKatrinaunfurlsherselfoutside.Sister’sfacebeginstoetch itsworryinlines,paintingaportraitthatcoversupherbeauty.Asthebuzzoftheir conversation continues,herfaceinsteadsmoothsoutintoatranquilityoutlinedbylonging.Theyaretalking aboutthemother.Ionlyrememberglimpsesofherwarmth,butoftenwhenSkeetahwhispersto me,itisabouther.

beggingforhelpinKatrina’sdeathgrip.Oneofmyownisoutthere,inthesamepositionI couldbeinrightnow,lockedawayinthisprisonofsafety.AsmySkeetahcalmsandreassures methatIamnotinadangerIamin,Isenseher.

Katrinaishereforus,formySkeetah.Icanhearherwhispersinthefather’sroomacross thehall,threateningthatsheisthereforhim.Shescreams,andtheeffectstartlesmySkeetah andSister.ThedoorisopenedandthefatherissafeformySkeetah,butKatrinahasbeenletin. Wehavetostayinthemainroomwiththerest,butIamwithhim,soalliswell.Withtheglow ofthelamp,helookslikeagod,blessedbyanangel.

Iwaketoanotherdayofdarkness,anditseemstoswallowmewhole,withonlymySkeetah lightingtheway.Myundersideiswet-justalittledampatfirst,butthenitspreads,andI wonderifthedarknesshascometodrownme.Igetuptolook,myfirstinstinctbeingto protecthim,butheholdsmebackandIknowheissafe.Wewalkaroundthelightpuddle,the lightdespairthatweallseemtosinkintoanditstartstospread.Everyoneseemstoloseabit ofhope.ThefatherstartstomakeanoisethatstartlestheLittleOnesomuchthatheclutches BrotherasifhecansavehimfromKatrina.

Iamforcedtowadethroughthecleartrap,andforasecondIthinkofmypuppies,my offspringthatImustloveandnourish.IambroughtbackintotheworldbymySkeetah,who pushesmeupintoacrampedroomfullofage.

WearesoclosetoHernow,toourmothernaturethatisbothourbirthandourdeath. Shecallstousthroughthericketyroof,beggingustojoinheroutside.Shedemandswejoin herdance,andIscreambacktostayawayfrommySkeetahandhisfamily.Katrinamustgo awayorwewillnotlastmuchlonger.MySkeetahtellsmetoquietandIdo,forhisvoice, usuallywhisperingandlovely,isnowlacedwithadesperationthatisaghostofhismother’s birthingcries.

Thedespairofhisvoiceisechoedinthewatercreepingupthroughoursafeplaceback intoourbodies,settlingachillthattellsofwhatistocome.Brotherisforcedtoopentheroof, andKatrinascreechesinvictory,“Finally.”

Herdancepicksupthetempo,onewemustkeepupwithinordertosurvive.My Skeetahwrapsmeinhimself,andforamomentIamsafe,awayfromthisterriblewomanuntil hejumps.Heleapsforward,ajetéthatjoltsmeforwardinhisarmsagainsthischest.Butheis struggling.Heisweigheddownbyholdingme,butmySkeetahwon’tletmego.Itrytotell himthatIcandoit,thatIcanfightthroughher,butheonlyshoutsmynameandholdsme tighter.

IwhipmyheadaroundtoseethefatherglancedownatSister’sstomachindisgust,and pushher.Iknowheknows,andhewantstopunishherforit.Butwhyshouldshebepunished forgettingpregnantifIgotreprimandedifIdidn’t?ButnowKatrinahasherandtriestoget hertodancetoafreneticsong,throwingheraroundtoasalsabeat.MySkeetahlooksatme, gazingatmewithanapologyinhiseyes,butdeterminationinhisbrows.Heletsmego.

Katrinahasme,andiswrappingmeinherlongarmsmadeofourhome.Icanhearmy Skeetah’svoiceinthewind,butIcannottellifitisjustKatrinatorturingmewithhiscall. Theyyell“China! China!”andIcalloutinresponse,butmyscreamismuffledbyKatrina’s melody.

AsIfalldeeperanddeeperintoalull,IfindthatthereisanenchantmentinKatrinathat Iwishtosuccumbto,agraceinherwrath,abeautyinherdestruction.Herswayingarmstry totrapme,trytodrawmeintoherdance,butIcannot.IhavedevotedmyselftomySkeetah andmustnotleavehimforher.Imustgoback.

Art by Lynsdey ‘23