The Meridian - Spring 2014

THE MERIDIAN

SPRING 2014

KIMBALL UNION ACADEMY’S LITERARY MAGAZINE

THE MERIDIAN

EDITORIAL BOARD: Poetry: Hannah Madden ’14 Eleanor Harrigan ’14 Anna Hadlock Prose: Charlton Mulhari ’14 Christopher Mell ’14 Gary Guo ’14 Art: Maxwell Davis ’14 Ross Goldfarb ’14 Duby Maduegbunam ’14 Joyce He ’14 Advisor: Jennifer Blue Cover Photo: Ben Sheehan ’00 Publishing Advisor: Julia Brennan Design/Layout: Jessica Miller

TABLE OF CONTENTS “The Thing Is”..................................................................................Elizabeth (Gray) Harrison ’17 “Seeing Beneath”...............................................................................................Sofia DiAntonio ’17 “Just for a Voice”..............................................................................................Rachel Litchman ’17 “Starfish”............................................................................................................John Custer (faculty) “Blue Shutters”...........................................................................................................Julia Denny ’17 “Guitar” ...............................................................................................................Amanda Hilton ’14 “Bullshit Stew”...........................................................................................................Jim Herbert ’14 “Sailing Ships”........................................................................................................Amelia Larkin ’17 “Moon”..................................................................................................................Emma Haynes ’17 “Elegy”............................................................................................................Catherine Sensenig ’17 “Hourglass”............................................................................................................Danielle Lewis ’15 “20/20”..................................................................................................................Ray Webb (faculty) “Om Mani Padme Om”..............................................................................................Chris Mell ’14 “If Walls Could Speak”....................................................................................Hannah Madden ’14 “Kim Kardashian”.....................................................................................................Lexi Uryase ’16 “Riding in a Car”.......................................................................................Dalton Winslow (faculty) “On Turning Ten”.............................................................................................Jonathan Grigull ’17 “Forest”.................................................................................................................Amanda Hilton ’14 “On Aging Gracefully”.........................................................................Michael Cloutman (faculty) “Starry Night”........................................................................................................Rayna Solbeck ’15 “Daydreamer”...................................................................................................Eleanor Harrigan ’14 “Ferris Wheel”.......................................................................................................Ross Goldfarb ’14 “The Dream”........................................................................................................Lingna Horton ’15 “Untitled”...............................................................................................................Maxwell Davis ’14 “Leaving Home”.............................................................................................Charlton Muhlauri ’14 “I am from”..............................................................................................................Erica Megnia ’15 “Untitled”.......................................................................................................................Gary Guo ’14 “Ceramic Tea Pot”..........................................................................................................Joyce He ’14 “An Angel in the Low Country”..........................................................................Victoria Pipas ’14 “Mandala”...................................................................................................Duby Maduegbunam ’14 “I Fell Asleep”..............................................................................................................Jaime Hier ’15 “Autumn Tree”......................................................................................................Ross Goldfarb ’14 “Sea of Light”......................................................................................................Stephanie Pipas ’17 “Cockle-Doodle-Doo Communications”..........................................................Anna Hadlock ’14 “What it Means to Wear a Cape”..........................................................................Ethan Levine ’15 “I Loved You”...........................................................................................................Alexis Wyatt ’14 “Their Eyes”.......................................................................................................Robbin Hood (staff) “Ode to Spring Worms”...........................................................................................Grace Cahill ’16 “Ceramic Pot”...............................................................................................Amelia Landenberger ’14 “Proof That There Exist Infinitely Many Primes”.....Cherry Cheng ’X, Amanda Hilton ’14, Louise Zhang ’X

THE THING IS - G R AY H A R R I S O N ’ 1 7 You know when the whole world seems against you and You’re so frustrated by what everybody’s doing because They’re so immature and blind to reality and The meaningful things in life and They don’t appreciate the little things and There is so much superficiality around you that you can hardly stand it and You just don’t know how the world can ever understand you and love you and You’re just so sick of people wasting their lives away, Talking about things that don’t matter, like Are they going to get asked to prom and Where did she get that scarf and Why isn’t he talking to me and You want them to get it for once and Start focusing on things like saving the planet and Helping the weak and being honorable?

You know when you just want to go outside and Escape it all and Get out of your stupid high school and Go to college already and Have intellectual conversations with people who can understand The higher meaning of things and Appreciate literature and science and nature and so much more?

You know when you want to Go sit by the spring brook outside your house forever and Just listen to the beautiful sound of something natural and True that won’t ever change and hurt people and You need to rejuvenate from the strenuous pain of living your daily life?

Well, the thing is, you need to remember that everyone has a story, And everyone deserves to be loved, And everyone does everything for a reason, And everyone is fighting their own secret battle.

The thing is, The only way to be happy is to love everyone for who they are, Because if you keep searching for this ideal reality that doesn’t exist, You won’t be happy.

You need to just take a few deep breaths, taking in the clear air, And say to yourself, “I love everyone and everyone is beautiful and everyone deserves to be appreciated.”

People change, and it won’t always hurt you so deeply as it does now, But you just need to remember that the only way to heal a wound is with love.

You can’t heal a wound with anger and hate.

It just doesn’t work like that.

That’s the thing.

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SEEING BENEATH -SOFIA DI ANTONIO ’17

Only then Would the scars heal, The nightmares stop, And everyone would be free.

To have themThe worldKneel down, crouch low, cup their ears, Just to hear me.

And watch their faces, Watch them change.

I would watch as words reached them, Watch As the barbed wire barriers of their mind Wilted and sagged, Rusted and shriveled, Eroded and stooped.

And watch their mouths, Watch them close.

I would watch as their lips pressed And parted, As their breath Puffed and poured.

I would watch as Their wordless winds Ceased to tousle, As their frost-bitten forms Succumbed to warmth.

STARFISH

by John Custer, Faculty Photography

JUST FOR A VOICE

If only you would stand up, And others would be inspired.

If only the insecure gained confidence, The ones afraid became courageous.

To speak againTo speak again and be heard It is my only wish.

-RACHEL LITCHMAN ’17

If only You could see beneath All of their glamour, Their facade, the fake.

If only you could see them For who they really are, The haters, the bullies.

And just to believe meJust for Ears to hear, Temperament to trust Minds to unbind Hearts to heal.

Just for that I would Die for.

SPRING 2014 | 5

BLUE SHUTTERS JULIA DENNY ’17 We live in a house. I hear blue shutters that rattle against the front side fighting against the current of air streaming off of the ocean. When I was younger, I would tell them to be quiet and stamp my feet trying to convince the shutters to stop moving. But a few years ago, I started to like to listen to the familiar snap of them hitting the house. The rhythm never changed. But now they irritate me. I don’t like how the sound is the same outside of the house, but everything inside is so different. They bang at the same time every morning at 7 am to wake me up, but now my mother is not there to tell me to go back to sleep. The blue noisemakers that sit right outside my window are picking a fight with the wrong person, on the wrong day. I haven’t slept in four days and I want to go back to sleep. So I will.

I am awoken at 10 am to the gentle knock of my sister’s small fist. She opens the door and crawls into bed, telling me that our father is sleeping on the couch and won’t make her breakfast. I am not surprised because he has been not much of a father ever since he has been on his own. He doesn’t know how to make French toast or where to buy school supplies. I don’t like him very much for how he volunteered me to take his job.

The blue shutters encourage me to climb out of bed by smacking the side of the house. I tell them to shut up and I climb out of bed. My sister was right about my father. He is not awake and looks unshaven and dirty. I spray the air around him with disinfectant and I open the sliding door to let in fresh air. Then I step on his foot “accidently” for emphasis.

I tell my sister to take four granola bars from the cupboard and two juice boxes from the fridge. I pack a bag for a day away and I wait on the back steps. She comes out with a cut on her foot saying 6 | THE MERIDIAN

that she stepped on something sharp. I clean and dress the wound, cursing my father in my head for leaving a broken glass on the kitchen tile. I don’t like my father very much for how he has hurt my sister. I tell my sister that we are going to have a day of fun and she won’t need to worry at all. I take the two facemasks out of my bag that my eccentric aunt Beverly gave me, whispering in my ear, “For when you need to escape.” I tried them on last spring and dove into the clear water. I could breathe. I stayed underwater for half of a day and when I came back up, my fingers were not wrinkly like how they get if I am in the pool for two long.

I attach the facemask behind her ears and then attach mine. I tell my sister to jump into the water and breathe.

After an hour of coaxing my sister into the water, which she has always been afraid of, she reluctantly puts her head under. The look of sheer amazement in her eyes was enough to make me smile for the first time in two months. She kicks her legs and swims to the bottom of the sea floor. She feels the sand and tosses it through the water for effect. She laughs as schools of small fish swim by and she swats at them playfully. We swim farther out and she grins with glee as sea urchins dance past her and I can almost hear her thoughts of the Little Mermaid.

She reminds me of Ariel because of the way her strawberry hair reflects the sun, even underwater. I haven’t seen her this happy in a while and I feel slightly hopeful for a few seconds. She spots the almost neon orange coral and she flips through the water with curiosity. I follow her to it pointing out all the different shades of pink and red.

We have been underwater for a few hours when she tells me she is hungry. I tell her that we will swim to the surface and eat

a few granola bars. After she is satisfied, my sister sprints to the water and dives in, tossing previous terror aside. We practice our dolphin kicks with a pair of dolphins, find seashells on the sea floor and we watch the seaweed dance with the current. She falls in love with a group of sea turtles that we follow for a few hours. While she examines a jumble of shiny rocks, I close my eyes and lie on my back, rocking side to side. I think of my mother and the last words she said to me.

I remember the slam of door and the last time I saw her face. I remember the crushing blow I felt when I was told that she had left us. Forever. I could almost hear my father’s heart break. I can almost hear him now calling out to me now, like a stranded sailor calling to a passing boat.

The sound of his voice is getting louder now and clearer. I feel like he is yelling in my ear. I open my eyes and look around.

He is not here and my sister is trying to move the rocks that weigh more than her.

I fall back again into my thoughts.

I think of my father, lying on the couch.

I remember how if my heart hurts this bad, how bad does his hurt? He loved her more, knew her better. I know for certain that he calling out to me. He loves my sister and I not only because we are a direct connection to our mother, but also because we are the only things he has. I swim to my sister telling her to return to the surface. I tell her that it is time to go home and that our father is waiting for us. She smiles at me with a knowing look like she had been waiting for me to have this realization all along.

When my head breaks the surface I see my father standing on the back porch with his hands cupped around his mouth yelling my name. I pick up my bag and return to the house with the irritating blue shutters and fall into my father’s embrace.

GUITAR

by Amanda Hilton ’14 Pencil

And I can see how they fooled you.

What with all their fancy food and expensive garnish on bullshit stew, But I hate to think I’m getting hungry and might take a drink.

So why can’t we give them a chance?

I’d love to say it was the fault of some, Certain someone with a life that has nothing to do with mine.

But the truth is we all have a part in creating this social paradigm.

We feel the need to interfere, So as to protect the values we hold dear.

Time and time again we tell them it’s wrong under the illusion of being a good, Friend.

The trouble is it makes no difference in the end.

-JIM HERBERT ’14

I can’t stand the image of an 18-year-old man and his statutory bride Being forced to hide what doesn’t coincide with this wild ride, Being brought, in time, to suicide.

Now I thought that what we are taught ought not to be sought, But given the chance to show itself through nature, pain, and romance.

BULLSHIT STEW

I’m beginning to understand why people drag their feet, Shuffling them slowly towards an early sleep.

I can’t blame them when all I see Is a world where ideas, rhymes, and chimes Are thrown together, Taught together, And told to grow old Only to find that being treated like sheep Leaves a thick crust of mold On the bread you wanted to eat but you’re already too full from the formula you were told that the bread couldn’t beat.

They can move forward in one of two ways; Either spend their days together not daring to let their voices raise, Or pray that starving themselves may save their depraved souls.

In the end it seems they have to choose between two unset goals.

SPRING 2014 | 7

SAILING SHIPS -AMELIA LARKIN ’17 Ships have always been a fascination of mine. I began sailing as a small child. The oceans were intriguing. There were different types of animals and it was an aquatic dimension. Crystal clear ocean was the only thing around.

The contradicting feeling of being in a cozy world of royal blue while being connected to every person, animal, and plant by ocean currents.

My bed at home felt like a ship built just for me. I realized that my ship could float and sail anywhere. I started by floating into the next room over the gray ocean of carpet to pet the cat.

The next night, I became more courageous and visited my best friend and had a sleep over.

One evening after reading book about Pompeii, I decided to visit. I traveled through time on my ship. I sailed across the world and watched the volcano pour across the people in the city. The lava continued to run towards my ship and though I tried to flee, I was succumbed by it. I felt the ship floating over the ocean towards the gray smoke above the volcano. I could no longer control my ship built for me.

As the ship climbed higher into the sea of gray, I grew to feel alone. I no longer connected to objects, just a longing for human connection. Even though it was painful being burned by lava, I liked experiencing instead of watching from the outside.

I screamed out for help, for someone to discover me. I took my last few breaths, and I felt my voice becoming lost in a sea of darkness. Breathing was painful for the lack of oxygen, but I was calm. I imagined that I was drowning in the ocean, a place of wonder.

Just as I was going into a dark coma that I knew I would never return from, I heard a voice. It was someone coming through the

MOON

by Emma Haynes ’17 Photography

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mist in the clouds. He looked familiar though I couldn’t remember why. He began to peel the layer of rock and ash away from my body, and we began to talk. I could now see that behind Him was the gate to Heaven.

I had traveled high into the sky, so I assumed that I was destined for Heaven. As we talked I realized that Heaven was not the path I was taking. He decided that I needed to experience more in this life and form many more connections with people. He was returning me to Earth.

My ship began to fall towards the ocean below. I was sad to leave, for I felt that I finally had a real friend. I knew this wouldn’t be that last time we would meet. I landed softly into the ocean and the North Star was shining brightly. I sailed back over mountains to my house, and anchored next to my bed.

When I looked outside, I found that it was still dark.

My clock showed that it was an hour before dawn, and several more before my parents would awake. I settled into a restful sleep with odd dreams. It seemed that about a year later my parents came into my room, and told me that my great-grandfather had died the previous night.

Every day that I have lived, I have experienced new things and made connections with new people. I never lost the intrigue that I originally had with ships, but now I watch them sail around the harbor sitting on my porch. After that night, I never took my ship out. I know that within the next few days I will meet Him again.

An old man sits in the same chair he has been in for years.

His wrinkles, like prunes, are time telling folds.

When he places his two fingers on his temples and pulls, his skin stretches and from each wrinkle, a story unfolds.

A first love which still tiptoes through his mind.

A first death from which he is reborn.

A shoulder on which he wept acidic tears, burning slight holes through the heart of his one and only.

A joyous laugh pushed through gapped teeth and plump lips.

This old man is, in fact, a timeline of uncharted history, points plotted out until “death do us part.”

His chair is now empty, a cold seat and within its splintered wood hides his story.

I’m outside on a breezy mid summer day the wind blows around me as if I don’t exist as I look around to see children at play the wind leaves and then comes a soft mist

-DANIELLE LEWIS ’15

-CATHERINE SENSENIG ’17

HOURGLASS

ELEGY children run inside as the sun subsides I’m alone and met with familiar bliss my favorite time has always been high tide as the waves roll, the sunset and the water kiss I’m spending minutes as if they’re hours and treating days as if they are my very last looking off into the ocean I glower as I slowly start to realize the ocean’s vast the sand forever here but my life is ending and I know this night will be my last attending.

20/20 - R AY W E B B, FAC U LT Y

Oh wind oh tide do thou eternal conflict take us under or chart the pathway for our souls?

The atoms that bind the waves and vent are those of us as well Yet our worldly eyes blind us from this truth Oh but the bodies of the heavens do portion the sinew of life?

Still in wonder we look but not see the threads that fly between us “Yes”, they are not us Oh sight why hast thou failed me in this search for me?

The sight I pursue is deeper, a masked primeval spot; scentless, unseen, unfelt Yin, but not the yang Oh grains speak to me from the quandary that binds me to the slurry of life Push through me so that I may feel, I may know even when I can’t see Yea, a star turns to the bleat of its limb and the rumble is heard—JOY

SPRING 2014 | 9

OM MANI PADME OM

by Chris Mell ’14 Painting

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SPRING 2014 | 11

IF WALLS COULD SPEAK -HANNAH MADDEN ’14 I wake up to the sight of Kraft macaroni and cheese. An ear-to-ear smile spreads across my face as my eyes adjust to the bright orange walls around me. The loud, rhythmic snores of my closest friends echo throughout the playroom. They’re still sleeping?! I jump to my feet, and pull homemade quilts and Afghans off of the girls as they lie sprawled across futons and air mattresses. The sound of snoring has been replaced by my high-pitched voice screeching “happy birthday to me,” as only the humblest of nine year olds would. My favorite place in the world becomes my personal five star restaurant for the day – as we break the “no eating in the playroom” rule for a special birthday treat. My friends and I shove the warm, greasy breakfast feast down our throats, amidst the laughter and shrieks that never cease to erupt from the playroom’s walls.

From restaurant, to jail cell, to sanctuary, the stained carpet and orange, dented walls hold the intimate details of the room’s – and my own – history.

I was exiled to the playroom on many occasions. Typically the reason was some form of fighting with Brian, my younger brother, over who got to sit where at the dinner table. To me, it was a fight of status and leadership, and to this day we still have to have assigned seats for family meals. Even surrounded by my favorite toys, I would fail to be entertained until my sentence in the playroom was over.

I was expected to sit there and not play and somehow realize what I did

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wrong. To my parents’ dismay, it never quite went like that. I would usually sit and play and talk to myself until I was finally released back into the real world.

matured and now gets along well with her parents, she still comes to the playroom, even when I’m away at school, to relax and hang out whenever she wants.

But the playroom wasn’t just my jail cell. Playing ice hockey throughout our childhoods, my brother and I and watched our February vacations fill up before our eyes. I was always expected to make the practices and games over the course of the so-called break, and so the playroom became my vacationland. Off the ice, the last week of February consisted of Lifetime movies, forbidden hoards of chocolate chip cookies, and almost spilled hot chocolate in the playroom, accompanied by friends who had failed to convince their parents to bask in the sun as far away from snowy New Hampshire as possible. Playing in the snow wasn’t “cool” enough for twelve year old girls, and we passed those seven blissful days in my playroom paradise gossiping about whatever and whoever we wanted, while watching endless marathons of whatever we wished (PG-13, of course).

Thinking of my playroom now, I feel peace and joy. I look forward to the days and nights that I anticipate spending there, doing absolutely nothing, when I am home from boarding school. But the playroom has grown with all of us, and the petty fights that Brian and I used to have over toys have been replaced with gutless pingpong tournaments. Moving forward in my life, through both hardships and simple maturation, my playroom continues to be my peaceful escape from the outside world. I appreciate the serenity and privacy I know I will always find there.

The playroom was not always a place of blissful paradise. As we grew older, it served as a place of refuge for my best friend, Megan, who didn’t always see eye-to-eye with her parents. The playroom was Megan’s security blanket from eighth grade through tenth grade, and my entire family came to recognize it as her room whenever she slept over. Although Megan has

I look forward to reunions with my playroom as I move farther away from home to go to college next year. My playroom will continue to be a hangout space when my friends and I come home. Over time, the playroom has lost its role of jail cell but maintained all other positive functions. It remains my favorite place at home, the space where I can be myself, and enjoy whatever I please – however simple or outlandish it may be.

- D A L T O N W I N S L O W, F A C U L T Y, 9 / 1 7 / 8 0

RIDING IN A CAR

KIM KARDASHIAN

Riding in a car Somewhere

The dusty radio complained: “Survivors of Amerika

the new aesthetic refugees in all-nite diners huddle, non-politicos of the new apathy,

to find a place and get small” The carburetor coughs to an Unlistening red light I saw an old man on a bicycle there

Bewhiskered, leering toothless

At the sun on the bridge The drear of four-day white beard bristle squint

And alcoholic spittle stench “Welcome to the shopping center of the intellect.”

The light releases me,

The old man fades out of my mirror With his flags

And Jesus Saves plate “…get a new lifestyle…”

a dead dog on the road ahead old man’s comfort and companion—lost.

His neck awry and tongue loose Black and white fur dirtied still

Obediently attending his tragic master.

-LEXI URYASE ’16

So. This star with studded shoes, and white smile Came from the depths, from under a cloche of invisibility A father of steel, standing strong in his beliefs began Something larger than him alone Three daughters and a son, stuck in the spotlight The bunch became a broadcast People with nothing better to do swoon over something silly Adulthood forced upon the new star Privacy, pulled out from under her Tension rises, the green rolls in, no going back now Give in to the ways, and feed the hungry spectators Sharks in the water, with work to do Business rises, bad publicity rolls in, as the past fades, a future begins More money, more fame, doing whatever possible to hold on A lavish life, with little work Music, bags, clothes, appearances, and fragrance, for the name Marriage makes trouble, a stressful time to reflect Blessed with a gift, bringing a baby into the world Sisters stand by her side through it all Together a name burned into the minds of young and old Death to her dad, leaves mom to manage the family Bold blindness leads this family farther down a path A dead-end for sure, for now smile and wave, Sell some secrets It’s all she has left, in this life in the spotlight

SPRING 2014 | 13

You tell me to grow up, That a plain white shirt somehow trumps my superman onesie.

That my scarlet red cape doesn’t let me fly away, And that I don’t shoot lasers out of my eyes.

As if.

-JONATHAN GRIGULL ’17

ON TURNING TEN

The whole idea of it makes me feel like I’m moving in slow motion.

Everyone around me, Just a blur, As I slowly make my way through the world.

FOREST -AMANDA HILTON ’14 I’ve heard that if you walk deep enough into the woods behind the yard (at least past the 52nd tree in from the right) the trees begin to whisper the answers to questions that you’re too ashamed to ask, and they exchange tales of tragedy older than their shriveled roots entangled in the dehydrated soil and wiser than your ancient hands that have known the extent to which the world can be cruel

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But now I am lost, Taught to see the wonder in the world, But considered immature when I point it out.

Caught in a tornado sucking up anyone who dares To attempt to soften the blunt edge of the world.

This is the beginning, Of a world without color.

I could almost feel the light in my eyes, Fading behind a foggy glass wall, Attempting to break free, Then sinking to the bottom of my mind.

It seems like only yesterday I used to lock myself in my pillow fort.

But now those walls have been broken, Shattered into rubble, And swept under the sofa as if they had never happened.

But it is still there, Waiting for an intrigued mind to unearth the pieces.

ON AGING GRACEFULLY -MICHAEL CLOUTMAN, FACULTY with apologies to Billy Collins The whole idea of it makes me feel like I’ve quenched my thirst in the fountain of youth, the water of life, a gift, a promise, a covenant or the irrepressible hope of eternity --a kind of oath, a sacred vow, an indescribable testament to callow youth.

You tell me I’m off my rocker and living in the past, but that is because you have forgotten the feeling of being young and the ecstasy of adolescence.

I sit in repose, dwelling in the reverie of unbridled puberty.

At fourteen I was a quarterback.

I could scramble and dodge defenders, avoiding defeat, a Walter Mitty who saved the world.

At sixteen I was a sage, at nineteen a savant.

But now I am usually up all hours awaiting the day’s first rays of light.

Back then the morning exploded into my window and shattered the darkness, and my model cars and ships sat silently on the bookshelf gathering dust, while gobs of glue saturate all the promise of speed and extinguish the flames of glory.

This is the sorry beginning of my membership in AARP, I say to myself, knowing that discounts for “seniors” will do little to ease the moments of insecurity.

As I reach for the bristling toothbrush and fumble with the floss, I realize that it is time to live in the now; the older I get, the better I was.

It seems like only yesterday I used to run with the wolves, but now I am a sheep milling about in slippers and a robe, playing pinochle in the game room with aging hippies and veterans of the 60’s.

STARRY NIGHT

by Rayna Solbeck ’15 Ceramic

SPRING 2014 | 15

She doesn’t remember seeing this before But suddenly she lay atop a cushioned floor, It smelled of grass and pine And she said to herself that this place is mine She opened her eyes and there she lies, Below the willow tree with the sun’s rays The wind softly blows the leaves And it is here where she feels free

DAYDREAMER

Seeping down into the cool, damp ground Below the willow’s roots where it feels safe and sound She dropped into a wooden boat Where it led her through the clear blue ocean to a written note,

-ELLIE HARRIGAN ’14

The golden rays touched upon her face She lay under the willow tree with her dress made of lace Faintly she slipped into her imaginary world Where everything’s twisted and twirled

FERRIS WHEEL

by Ross Goldfarb ’14 Photography

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THE DREAM -LINGNA HORTON ’15 Dirt flew through the air. The warm, clean, Kentucky air had turned acrid and stale, and it choked me as the pain bloomed through my chest. The ground shook with a vicious thunder and all I could hear was my heart racing in my ears. My left foot had slipped.

The sunlight filtered through the dust and past the mobile forms of those graceful, relentless creatures. I was left behind in their wake, bleeding and broken. Their riders cared about victory. I cared about victory—but I fell.

My horse had been so promising- a young stallion, just three years old. I had been breaking away, trying to capture a lead, when the jockey next to me, number eight, I think, had rammed into my side. He pulled away, and I pitched, off balance, desperately trying to get my foot back into the iron. I reached down, grabbing at the stirrup, hoping that I still had a chance. I needed this victory. Everything balanced on this cusp of victory and defeat.

I was falling. I grasped, desperate just to stay on. I hadn’t processed the idea of falling except that I couldn’t, because it meant I wouldn’t win. I couldn’t stay on though. I fell.

I hit the dirt.

I lay on the ground, devastated, but only for half a moment. The weight of defeat was crushing, and I was destroyed by it. This race had been my last chance, and I had lost it. Failure was heavy, but not as heavy as the hooves that followed in its wake. Crashing, searing pain tore through me, ripping me apart. I was suffocated by sand sprayed out from the hooves, and those same hooves broke me. The mindless race warranted no consideration for me. I was collateral damage. I was the fated loser so that there would be a winner. I was not my father. My father had given me this last chance to live up to his legacy, but I was pushing fate’s generosity. I couldn’t live up to the winner because I was the loser. I was the price of victory, not victory itself.

The pain was unimaginable. I was broken. The thundering hooves moved away, and the dust settled over me as the rescuers came to try and save me, but I couldn’t be saved.

I had already lost everything that mattered. My bones were broken, my skin was bleeding, and my vision was dimming.

All that was left to drain away was my spirit, and that had been ground into the track. It trickled out, and I gave up.

My dream was shattered, and so was my body. I was a loser, and I would die on this track, with my dream, by my dream, and for my dream. This was my end. Everything faded to black, and the last thing I saw was the winner’s horse, number eight, galloping across the finish line.

Everything is green again No dark cold to fill the days Time to clean out the boxes Of last years memories and sustained rage To look at life differently Taking it one step at a time And reshape priorities Towards something sublime

UNTITLED - M A X W E L L D AV I S ’ 1 4

SPRING 2014 | 17

LEAVING HOME -CHARLTON MUHLAURI ’14 Charlton Muhlauri Seat 13A Flight 4167, Section 1, Boarding time 5:30am July 2nd, 2010 Harare Zimbabwe Arrival time 2:40 pm July 3rd, 2010 Boston Massachusetts, USA My flight ticket, right in front of me, was piled on top of four other tickets belonging to my three brothers and my mom.

After waiting for three years, my dad had finally sent us our flight tickets to the United States. The tickets that were taking us to the Western world, the perfect place, where the trees are green throughout the summers, the houses are circled with small white wooden fences, and the Christmases are all white; basically the place where everyone perseveres to find happiness.

Wow, all of a sudden everything became real. After everyone said goodbye, we turned around and started walking to the gate. That was probably the most painful moment of my life; I could not dare to look back. Tears started coming out of my eyes. I could not look back and give them the last wave. Each step took me farther and farther away. I felt my body shiver, more like melting into a small cup of guilt. I could not give Munashe the last look. Have you ever felt like you’re losing everything? Have you ever felt really, really guilty? My face was getting wet with tears. It was hitting me harder and harder knowing that for every step I took, the further away I was getting. I made it to the gate without looking back; I know I should have looked back and waved at him for the last time, but knowing Munashe, he probably went the opposite way without looking back at me either.

I am from a long coastline, from Spanky’s Clam Shack and Clam Chowder.

I am from the warmer winters and cooler summers.

I am from the bright blue ocean the warm sand surrounded by salty air

-ERIC MEGNIA ’15

I AM FROM

Geez right, this was supposed to be the happiest moment in my life. I was just sitting there on my bed, not knowing what to feel ― my right eye had tears of joy coming out and my left eye had tears of sorrow strolling down. My life was taking a turn, for in about 36 hours I would be seeing my dad for the first time in three years, and in about six hours I would be leaving the only place I had known since birth. Everything was meant to go this way anyway, so I guess I had to smile and be happy about it.

I did not sleep that night. I spent the night talking about the moments that my best friend, Munashe, and I had. At about four am, all three cars were packed with some family and friends. Of course, the whole ride to the airport I sat next to Munashe. At 5:30 am a loud voice coming from the speakers announced, “Boarding…Section 1 Flight 4167 to Boston.”

I am from the backyard bonfires and Europe, from Megnia and Moisao.

I am from the fighting, the screaming and yelling From where you can be anything you want when you’re old and “no bouncing the ball in the house.”

I am from the white church at the end of Plum St, where I have been maybe once in my life.

I’m from Brigham and Woman’s Hospital, Chicken Parm and Bacon From the fat little boy, the chubby cheeks, and the army men I am from the yellow bedroom on the third floor, in the closet, in a clear bucket.

18 | THE MERIDIAN

UNTITLED -GARY GUO ’14 This speech was made by the author at an All School Meeting on Thursday, Nov. 1st, 2012, in order to raise public awareness of the 130th year anniversary of Chinese Exclusion Act, the first law published by the Western countries to discriminate against the Asians.

Good morning everyone, my name is Gary Guo. A man walks up to a counter in a fast food restaurant. (Highpitch) “May I take your order please?” The clerk smiles at him.

(Low-pitch) “Yes.” He replies in a heavy accent. (Watch pronunciation) The clerk’s smile fades as she sees the man’s East Asian face. (Heavy accent) “I want a chicken hamburger.” (Quickly) “Okay, but which chicken sandwich do you want exactly?”

(Slowly) “What?” (Slow, loud) “I SAID, WHICH CHICKEN SANDWICH DO YOU WANT?” (Hesitant) “Um, a spicy one?” (Quickly) “Small, medium or large?” (Unclearly) “Um, smalledium?” (Clearly, slow) “It’s med-ium.” But of course, the Asian man does not understand what she is saying.

(One Breath) This modern situation represents a common scene in the United States before the infamous Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 was repealed. This act nearly banned all immigration to the U.S. from China. Though this act was repealed during World War II, discrimination against Asians was prevalent (pause) and pronounced (pause) and would see no decline until the 1970s. (Watch where the sentence ends) During this time, Asians were excluded from American society, while many Chinatowns were looted and burned periodically.

(End of a sentence) Asian actors were only given small roles and could only play antagonists. Slurs (Pause) were also created during this period, including: (pause) “yellow scare,” (pause) “yellow peril,” and the most common (pause, long) “Chink”.

As an aside, this racist term may originate as a reference to the small, slanted eyes, characteristic of East Asians. Even though Asians now have equal legal status and protection, hate crimes occur from time to time. One notable case was when Vincent Chin, a Chinese-American from Michigan, was beaten to death by a baseball bat in 1982, exactly 100 years after the Chinese Exclusion Act. The two Anglo-Saxon murderers, with connections to Chrysler, thought their job losses were due to Japanese auto manufacturers’ expansion into the US market.

Both were only charged with second-degree murder and, after a plea bargain, served no time in prison. (Pause) Another example is Dr. Wen-Ho Lee, a Taiwanese-American who worked in the Los Alamos National Laboratory. In 1999 he was charged as

a Chinese spy though no evidence to support the charge was found by the US government. A naturalized US citizen since 1974, Dr. Lee was arrested, with 59 counts indicated, and was jailed without bail for 278 days until the government finally offered a plea bargain to drop the other 58 charges with time served. Later during a talk show, Dr. Lee said through tears that he had not betrayed his country in any way and the only reason he was charged was because of his Asian origin. (Pause) One of the ways we see this played out a KUA is when many students regard Asians as “nerds” who are good at math.

We also bear the reputation of not being good at sports, though there are a number of Asians who play on the JV soccer team, and a few will be playing on basketball teams this winter.

While this year marks the 130th anniversary of the Chinese Exclusion Act, it is worth noting that prejudice between races has yet to be eliminated. In order to stop discrimination, we should all acknowledge that no race is better than another, and everyone deserves the same rights. Although eliminating discrimination is a long process, it will surely make our world a better place and benefit everyone. Thank you.

CERAMIC TEA POT

by Joyce He ’14 Ceramic

SPRING 2014 | 19

AN ANGEL IN THE LOW COUNTRY - V I C T O R I A P I PA S ’ 1 4 She was a hard worker. She worked as a nurse in the intensive care unit of the Medical University of South Carolina, and she worked hard. Six days a week of patient visits, three twelve-hour night shifts at the VA hospital, eleven months a year. That didn’t include the house calls she made on Sundays, if you could call them houses. Most of the time they were creek-side lean-tos north of Broad Street.

Her pay was good; if she wanted to, she could have taken more generous vacations, and to more exotic places.

She worked overtime, but it wasn’t for the money- she had plenty of that. Her many nieces and nephews in Charleston encouraged her to take off Fridays and Saturdays, visit Hawaii, and buy them iPads. The latter two of these she did, and although she did enjoy Hawaii, it wasn’t without an ounce of discomfort that she sat in her beach chair thinking about patients in their white hospital beds who weren’t being administered their medications.

It was about the patients. Most of them were black and all of them were poor. Some of her patients were in the hospitals, but many were home-visits, and she was a home-nurse, so she cared for them. These patients weren’t sick enough to be in the hospital, but neither they nor their family could manage their IV medications or draw blood.

She would drive south to James Island, past the waterfront mansions that lined Charleston Harbor. She couldn’t always 20 | THE MERIDIAN

understand the Gullah that they spoke, but they understood her when she promised to be there the next day again at the same time. Diabetics whose legs had failed, whose eyes had failed, whose skin was breaking down, smiled when she walked though the doorframe. They smiled at her when the diabetes robbed them of their toes and she rewrapped their feet. “Bad blood” was what they had, and she would nod her head as she injected them with the insulin shots they could not see.

It wasn’t just the medicine that she brought. Many times she had picked up a large tub of fried chicken from Piggly Wiggly, along with toothbrushes and toothpaste that she had noticed were lacking in her patients’ bathrooms. When she walked into the small dwellings and placed the large tub on the table, a dark mass of children would quickly surround her and reach their hands towards the browned chicken still dripping with hot oil.

There was one hovel along the creek that she had been visiting for five years.

Its inhabitants were one grandmother, one teenage daughter, and a baby girl.

Angel. That was the baby’s name. The nurse loved the baby. Angel was round and bright, with three tiny white teeth and pink gums. She was nearly sixteen months old, and the daughter of the teenage girl. The girl was an alcoholic, and on most of the nurse’s visits she was not present.

“Gone to school,” the old woman would say, but the nurse knew better.

The old woman was the primary caretaker of the baby. She was leathery and brown, and her back hunched over from years of bending over a shrimp net. The nurse suspected that, despite hundreds of wrinkles in the woman’s face, hands, and arms, she was not much older than the nurse herself. On some occasions when the nurse arrived midday, the house was empty and the baby was sleeping on the floor on a pile of clothes. She secretly relished these times to pick up the beautiful Angel and wash her in the sink with warm water and Johnson’s baby shampoo that she had left at the house. She would pat the baby dry with a dishtowel and then powder her gently with baby powder.

Then she would wrap on a new disposable diaper (a package of which she always brought on her visits). Finally, the nurse would take out a new pink onesie, or a white dress, bought in downtown Charleston. She would remove the tags and slide the baby’s fat brown arms and legs through the holes. The baby glowed when the nurse rubbed her pink palms and kissed the pink soles of her feet.

On a fall morning, the nurse woke up at six and drove to her first house visit.

All morning and afternoon she tested blood, gave insulin shots, removed ben pans, and fed patients soft food. At one house where she knew there would be children, she arrived with several crinkling, plastic grocery bags and cooked

a large plate of scrambled eggs with sliced white bread. At another house, she scolded a recovering cancer patient whom she found smoking.

“Here’s what you need to do: throw that pack of cigarettes in the trash, and don’t be buyin’ no more. And don’t be tellin’ me you can’t do it.”

It was dark by the time that she was driving down the long gravel road to trailer where Angel lived. On the seat next to her was a brown paper bag, and inside was a yellow dress covered in tiny embroidered butterflies. The saleswoman had even found a lace hairband that matched, and both the dress and the hairband were wrapped in pink tissue paper. She smiled at the thought of Angel’s head of black, kinky hair encircled with the yellow ribbon.

When she pulled up next to the trailer, though, she felt something drop out of her stomach. The flimsy screen on the door had been ripped down the middle, and the door was open. It swayed back and forth, hitting the paint-chipped railing with a metallic click. The nurse turned off the ignition and shoved her car door open, leaving the brown paper package on the front seat.

She took the three front steps in one stride, and in another stride was in the center of the one-room trailer. She scanned the room, and then turned to the small kitchenette with a counter and sink. The teenage girl was leaning against the counter, both hands gripping dark bottles. She grinned when she saw the nurse, and saliva foamed from her lips. The girl’s voice gurgled with alcohol. She cackled.

“She’s gone swimming! Swimming with the shrimps in the creek! She love swimmin’, my baby.”

“Where is she? Where is Angel?”

The nurse grabbed the girl’s arm and gripped it tight. The teenager was in a frenzy now, shaking the bottles in her hands, her head rolling around on her

neck. Suddenly she tensed, shuddered, and collapsed to the floor. The nurse let go of her arm. The bottle shattered and brown liquid seeped across the floor and into the girl’s clothes.

The nurse turned and with three steps she was back on the gravel driveway. She circled the house and ran down to the edge of the muddy creek, where reeds and cattails clogged the banks. She stepped into the mud and pushed through the cattails. It was too dark at first to see the black shape floating in the black water, but when her eyes had adjusted, she could see that the moonlight reflected off the baby’s wet skin.

The nurse waded deeper, up to her waist, and gently slid her hands under the baby’s chest. She was still wearing the striped onesie that the nurse had dressed her in the day before, but now it was plastered to her round belly. She lifted the heavy baby, and the dark head and limbs hung limp.

She turned the baby so that her perfect head faced towards the sky, and slowly she rocked the baby side to side.

“I’ve got you, my baby. My Angel.”

Post-script: While this is a fictional piece, elements of it are non-fictional.

The character of the nurse is based on a real nurse who still lives and breathes Charleston, South Carolina with the same dedication, work ethic, and love.

Additionally, conversations with the patients are based on real conversations that my parents— who both completed their medical residencies at MUSC in Charleston—had with patients there.

While my experience with Gullah dialect may be limited, the phrases that I used in this story are direct quotes from my parents and are not simply formulated as a reflection of stereotypes.

MANDALA

by Duby Maduegbunam ’14 Painting

I FELL ASLEEP

AUTUMN TREE

by Ross Goldfarb ’14 Photography

22 | THE MERIDIAN

- S T E P H A N I E P I PA S ’ 1 7

I fell asleep In the shower this morning.

Maybe it was because I was tired.

But maybe it was because I love The feeling of the water against my back.

And the water droplets that form around my Lips Maybe it was because I love The weight of my wet hair And the feeling that I could stay inside Those four walls Forever.

I fell asleep In the shower this morning.

I sat cross-legged on the floor And let the sharp, hot pellets Pound my back Until it was numb and The steam coated my skin With a layer of protection.

The warm air filled my lungs with stillness And I closed my eyes, and I fell asleep In the shower this morning.

Maybe it was the result of too many late nights And too many early mornings But maybe It was because you can’t feel yourself cry In the shower Because the water on your face Mixes with the tears.

And the heat of sobs gets Washed away too.

I fell asleep In the shower this morning.

Because it’s there.

And I know the water won’t stop running.

SEA OF LIGHT

-JAIME HIER ’15

If it was dark before Now it is light And the world is our heaven Take it Grab it by both its hands And don’t let go Now It is our time To jump into the sea of light To feel life rushing against our skin Like a sunrise That we know will end But it does not matter Because all we know is now But now is running swiftly away Once we catch it now cannot escape It is yours.

Forever.

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO COMMUNICATIONS -ANNA HADLOCK ’14 “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” I shouted frantically.

No response.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo. Come on Bertha, answer me,” I tried again.

“Cosfndoodoobom.”

“Oh Bertha, is that you? Are you alright?” I ran into the woodshed, following the sound of my rooster’s crow.

I found him half alive and struggling to breathe.

My name is Anna Hadlock and I am a seventeen-year-old girl, born and raised in Plainfield, New Hampshire. I come from a family of six; I have three siblings: two older sisters and one younger bother. We all live together in my parents’ house in the middle of the woods. In my free time I enjoy working out, cooking, crafting, spending time with my relatives, and taking care of my chickens. Yes, we have chickens: six hens and one rooster. I decided to get chickens in the spring of this year, thinking it would be fun to raise baby chicks and collect my own eggs; little did I know I’d become so attached to them. The chickens have become house pets, they snuggle with us on the couch and eat our leftovers; they have truly become a part of the family along with our three dogs, two cats, and a guinnea pig. Our puggle, however, does not approve of our raising chickens as he tries to control the “Hadlock Population” by hunting the chickens. This is why I found my rooster, Bertha (he was named before we knew the gender), injured inside our woodshed one summer morning.

I sprinted over towards Bertha, scared of what I was going to see. When I saw him a rush of adrenaline fueled my body and I knew exactly what to do. Instinctively, I wrapped him up in my arms and rushed inside the house as if I were a paramedic on the scene of a bad accident. Gently, I set Bertha on the table and began examining him: I checked for blood, broken bones and any damage to the wings; luckily, I found only a few cuts and patches of missing feathers. I ran into the bathroom and grabbed Neosporin to put on Bertha’s cuts, without even pausing to think about what I was doing or the fact that I was about to put Neosporin on an animal. My rooster was hurt, and all I cared about was fixing him. Once I finished tending to the wounds, I wrapped Bertha in a towel and rocked him in my arms for almost two hours while talking to him and forcing him to drink water. Later, I brought him back to the chicken coop, making sure he was stable enough to stand up and walk around by himself. I also checked to make sure all the bleeding had ceased. When I set him down his six ladies all greeted him triumphantly.

Now, almost five months later, Bertha is fully recovered and back to being the cocky, aggressive rooster that he was before. When Bertha was injured, I realized that my passion is taking care of people (and occasionally chickens), and helping them transition into a better place in their lives.

I know the perfect career for me, to make my dreams come true, will be one in which I can help people every single day of my life.

SPRING 2014 | 23

WHAT IT MEANS TO WEAR A CAPE -ETHAN LEVINE ’15 I once knew was a man who loved to wear capes. His name was Norm.

Norm believed that a cape was an article of clothing that was simply misunderstood. Most people think that capes are solely for knights. And if there were one exception to that rule in the average person’s mind, it would be kids on Halloween.

But then again, on the surface Norm wasn’t like most other people. Norm was a freak of nature in most people’s eyes and this was not because he often wore a cape. He was a 43-year-old single man who liked to pretend he had a wife and kids. Some nights when he would come home from work he would sit at his kitchen counter and cut vegetables while he pretended to listen to his wife talk about her day. Other nights he might come home late and find that his beloved wife was feeling tired, so he would whip something up for the family to eat. His ‘kids’ were in 2nd and 4th grade at the local elementary school. He loved to occasionally slip away from his job at a textile factory where he and I used to work so he could go to one of his children’s soccer games.

“Go on! Go Lamron! Go Go Go! Shoot Lamron! Shoot it Lam!” Apparently, at that moment, his imaginary child shot and scored.“That’s my son!” Norm screamed.“That’s my son,” he repeated, a little quieter, this time almost to himself.

24 | THE MERIDIAN

But Norm stopped going so often. He found that the other kids’ parents didn’t like him all that much. Sometimes, Norm would cheer his own kids on so loudly and fiercely that he often would drown all else out, including other parents’ cheers. At least, I think that that was the reason he told himself.

Some days he wouldn’t show up to work at the factory. After work on some of those days, my curiosity got the better of me, and I admit to sometimes driving past his suburban home on the way to mine. I passed families on their beautiful grass lawns playing in the fading sunshine with their kids as the evening rolled in. Perhaps there was a cookout across the street from Norm, but of course he wasn’t invited.

Only once on one of these no-showat-work days did I ever manage to spot Norm. I slowed when I passed his overgrown yard. Through his front window I could see him inside his house putting on a cape in front of his front hall mirror. He disappeared suddenly; a second later he burst out onto his porch and for a moment he stood in the golden sunset light ― hands on hips, one foot resting on the seat of a rocking chair, pointing his knee to the sky. His chin tilted up slightly, and his head back, eyes closed.

Although the pose he struck was stunning, the other people around didn’t seem to notice him – I’m guessing it wasn’t the first time they had

seen it. But most the most important detail about that moment that I can recall was his cape: long, torn, and frayed at the end from heavy use. It flowed from his shoulder blades where it was fastened by a classy silver clasp, down his back in all its deep black glory. It billowed in the warm breeze.

Norm was no longer Norm; he had transformed. Cape-man was a pretty damn dramatic character, and when I saw him there on the porch in the late afternoon for my first time, he was downright glorious.

After a few more moments of ‘impressing’ the ‘awe stricken’ townsfolk, Cape-man went 0-60, hopped in and gunned it…mini van style. To this day I have never in my life seen an automobile be driven so poorly.

Clearly an automatic transmission, and yet Norm appeared to be having severe difficulty controlling the car. I followed behind and imagined what was going on in his head while his van swerved back and forth down the street, lurching about. He stopped for a traffic light, where a girl holding a balloon was standing waiting for the light to change so she might cross the street.

5:45pm: As the Honda Odyssey slowly rolled to a stop at a traffic light, our hero notices a small girl crossing the street, holding a balloon. All was still. The cape of our hero billowed slightly in the breeze. It was too quiet…suddenly a furious screech filled the air and the balloon

was torn to shreds. A giant pterodactyl swooped in and snatched the girl by her collar.

The light flashed green. Switches and levers were thrown. Large red buttons were hammered mercilessly. The car surged forward with a force that most human minds couldn’t comprehend. The man of the Cape was off in pursuit of the winged beast. Sparks flew as the tires burned away to just the metal rims. But soon enough it mattered not, because the loss of roadway traction became irrelevant when the automobile took to the air.

The caped crusader conducted a symphony of speed. With all four of the cylinders pumping, going faster and faster, the distance between the hideous beast and our savior waned.

The heinous beast doubled its efforts to evade Cape-man, but it was no use. The Capemobile was almost upon the demon now, and as he closed in, the car hood ejected, and in its place, rose up a mounted machine gun with 7 formidable barrels and a blisteringly fast firing rate of 7000 rounds per minute. It was then that Cape-man uttered the one-liner that he had been practicing for hours in front of the mirror the night before: “The hunter becomes the hunted!” and with that badass line spoken in a perfectly low and intense tone, he laid on a barrage of bullets.

The pterodactyl was no match for Cape-man’s 21st century weapon technology. The beast, wings laden with bullet holes, fell out of the sky. As the creature dropped, so did the poor girl. With great skill Cape-man steered the car under her as she began to fall, using an open sunroof, he caught her from falling to a certain death below!

5:45pm: Screeching to a stop at a cross walk, I watched through Norm’s rear windshield as he adjusted his tight grip on the wheel. The girl with the red balloon stepped off the crosswalk and onto the sidewalk. The traffic light flickered to green, but the car did not move. Instead, it sputtered for a

moment, and then died altogether. But Cape-man sat in his Honda wrenching the cars transmission from drive to park to neutral and back into drive (it wasn’t a manual transmission car, but I think Norm liked to believe it was – it always was in the action movie car chases).

He was yanking right and left on the steering wheel and column, but the car’s engine had died, so he wasn’t moving.

Norm didn’t seem to notice the state of his vehicle. Or maybe he did, but perhaps it looked differently through his eyes. In his head ― he was flying.

The harsh reality of the situation eventually became apparent to Norm though.

His head leaned out of the window and looked down at the ground only four feet away. Then he looked up at the sky and frowned with disappointment. It seemed to have just dawned on him that he was not, in fact, airborne. He stepped out of the car and looked around. I slumped low in my seat trying to hide but we made eye contact and he smiled and waved before I could clear the dashboard. I looked around to make sure no one was watching us, and I waved back and managed to attach a weak smile too.

Driving away, I reflected on Norm’s bout of what appeared at first to be insanity. I didn’t think Norm was crazy.

Norm’s strangeness was only surface deep. And in a way, looking back on it now, I think Norm was just the same as all of us deep down. He definitely wasn’t any crazier than some other seemingly “normal” people I have come across in my years. He wanted happiness like all of us, only for him, that satisfaction and sense of purpose came in a couple of invented forms: the family he created when he couldn’t start one himself or the caped character he like to play on his self-proclaimed days

off from work. Yes, Norm was certainly not insane, he was sad. He was just very, very sad…and lonely too, I told myself.

For the most part Norm didn’t have anyone but himself, and two days after that afternoon, he was no more.

That was the last time I ever saw Norm, and that fact only makes my fear of being associated with him seem more callous. I immediately felt like a jerk because I cared what other people thought, and after I never made contact with Norm again, the initial embarrassment I had for my own lack of good morals had plenty of time to set in. I regret nothing more in my life than not having been a friend to Norm; not giving him the real human contact that he so obviously desired.

In the end, Norm simply disappeared.

Much like Christopher Creed, he went missing. No note, no nothing left behind. Apparently he walked right out of his house, past his broken down car, and past his neighbors without notice.

And largely, he was forgotten. But I still think about him from time to time.

Sometimes when I’m stopped at a red light, or a crosswalk, Cape-man comes to mind. I think about Norm again, and about what it means to wear a cape.

SPRING 2014 | 25

I LOVED YOU -ALEXIS WYATT ’14 I loved you softly, of unspoken words and forbidden thoughts.

I loved you through awestruck glances, Observing your stubborn chin, the stubble growing upon your chiseled jaw.

I loved you every time I allowed my eyes to pass over the lips that I yearned to press my own to.

I loved you happily, when my lips curled upward at the deep rumble of your laugh.

I loved you quietly, silently enjoying your arms around my waist briefly as we said goodnight.

I loved you immensely, for opening up your ear to the story of my past, though not a fairy tale.

I loved you silently; afraid that you could never love me the way I loved you.

I loved you, before I ever said those three words.

I loved you, yesterday.

I love you, today.

I will love you, tomorrow.

THEIR EYES - R O B B I N H O O D, S TA F F Written for her best friend when her dog had died suddenly

26 | THE MERIDIAN

Their Eyes, Grabbed you at first glance, Your heart had no chance.

For when at you they looked, You knew you were hooked.

Their Eyes, Follow you everywhere you go, Pleasing you is all they know.

Day in and day out, at you they stare, For you they are always there.

Their Eyes, Tell you silently how they feel, For their love for you is very real.

All shiny and full of life and joy, Begging you to toss them a toy.

Their Eyes, Are the first thing you see each day, And the last thing you see as on your bed you lay.

For at you they look into your soul, And all of your secrets are theirs to hold.

Their Eyes, Cheer you when you are sad, Calm you when you are mad.

Make you laugh through your tears, Much joy they give over the years.

Their Eyes, Are what you fondly remember forever and ever, Memories of all the good times you had together.

They watch and look down at you from above, Thanking you for giving them a good life full of your love.

Their Eyes.

Of course, the worms are down below, curled in earthy mounds; They cannot see the sunshine, nor hear the sweet spring sounds.

But still their moist worm skin must feel the seasons turn, The earth grows soft and roots grow down, of tulip, rose, and fern.

The worms, I’m nearly sure of it, enjoy the yielding soil, For it must ease their tunneling, their travels and their toil.

And it must taste much lighter (like a springtime mud soufflé) Than the frozen dirt they nibbled at through every winter day.

It’s true that up above the ground we humans like to sing, But the worms below our feet sing the truest ode to spring When the earth smells of sunshine and the world is green at last, The wriggling worms start to eat, ending their winter fast.

While the robin’s oh so lovely as he calls his mating song, And his little mate croons sweetly as she gamely flaps along, Listen to the sound that your ears can barely hear, It’s the tiny happy gurgles of the worms who chew with cheer.

-GRACE CAHILL ’16

ODE TO SPRING WORMS

I wonder what the worms think when the air begins to warm, When the tiny buds on trees begin, at last, to shift and form, Into leaves of palest green, unfurling in the breeze And suddenly the snow is gone, revealing springtime trees

I think I can imagine how the dirt could be cuisine, For those worms who munch on loam and clay, and always fresh saline.

And the soil in their little homes must smell like spring perfume, As they slide along their silk-smooth tunnels, deftly through the gloom.

So when you put your sandals on and feel the first warm breeze, When you inhale fresh pollen and begin at once to sneeze, Please be happy that it’s springtime, and be joyful for the flowers But be happy, too, for the worms, who love each springtime hour

CERAMIC POT

by Amelia Landenberger ’14 Ceramic SPRING 2014 | 27

THE MERIDIAN A P U B L I C AT I O N O F K IM BA L L U N I ON AC A D E MY

P. O. B OX 1 8 8 MERIDEN, NH 03770 WW W. K U A . OR G