Hope is the Sound of Water by Literary Arts

HOPE IS THE SOUND OF WATER 2011-2012 WITS Digital Anthology

Hope Is The Sound of Water 2011-2012 WITS Digital Anthology

Contents Writers in the Schools Dear Reader Hope Is Holidays

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Fresh Paint Savage

Mary Rechner, WITS Program Director

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Mayra Chavarria, Roosevelt High School

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Jessica Carmona, Benson High School

Elizabeth Corvi, Wilson High School

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• Sierra Newby, Madison High School

The Phone

• Amelia Carroll, Madison High School

Enemy

Randall Tshionyi-O’Brien, Jefferson High School

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The Prototype Rock ‘n’ Roll

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Don’t Pick Up Dear Alice

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Kurt Cobain

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Matthew Forsland, Lincoln High School

Amelia Eichler, Madison High School

Adam Eichacker, Grant High School

Kate Nootenboom, Lincoln High School

Abby O’Brien, Franklin High School

Sin Sentimiento/ Without Feelings

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Raquel Dunkeld, Wilson High School

Writers in the Schools Writers-in-Residence Angela Allen, Lorraine Bahr, Carmen Bernier-Grand, Elyse Fenton, Nicole Georges, Amanda Gersh, Cindy Williams GutieĚ rrez, Emily Harris, Hunt Holman, John Isaacson, Sara Jaffe, Amy Minato, S. Renee Mitchell, Laura Moulton, Alexis Nelson, Mark Pomeroy, Ismet Prcic, Donna Prinzmetal, Katie Schneider, Devan Schwartz, Arnold Seong, Matthew B. Zrebski Visiting Authors Chimamanda Adichie,Tom Brokaw, Heidi Durrow, J. Hill, Anis Mojgani, Abraham Verghese Participating Teachers Barbara Berger, Matt Boyer, Gene Brunak, Annelise Bulow, Mike Cullerton, Jaque Dixon, Stephanie Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Cruz, Anne Dierker, Jerry Eaton, Bianca Espinosa, Stefanie Goldbloom, Kelly Gomes, David Hillis, Cindy Irby, Melinda Johnston, Paige Knight, Tom Kane, Andy Kulak, Stephen Lambert, Dylan Leeman, Dave Mylet, Steve Naganuma, Marie Pearson, Arlie Peyton, Karen Polis, Michelle Potestio, Mary Rodeback, Alicia Smith, Kris Spurlock, Henise Telles-Ferriera, Erin Tillery, Dana Vigner, Virginia Warfield, Alice Weinstein, Amy Wright, Tracey Wyatt WITS Liaisons Dave Mylet, Eric Levine, Brady Bennon, Linda Campillo, Sandra Childs, Mary Rodeback, Mike Cullerton, Tracey Wyatt, Matt Boyer, Paige Knight Participating Principals Sue Brent, Petra Callin, Margaret Calvert, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Paul Cook, Shay James, Andrew Mason, A. J. Morrison, Vivian Orlen, Macarre Traynham, Charlene Williams District Liaison Melissa Goff 4

Dear Reader, Like many of the adolescents we serve, Literary Arts’ Writers in the Schools (WITS) program is changing rapidly. Our core residency program, begun in 1996 at Grant High School, continues to provide Portland public high schools with semesterlong writing workshops taught by professional writers: poets, playwrights, journalists, fiction writers, memoirists, and graphic novelists who model the disciplined passion of a creative life and reinforce the importance of the writing process: creating new work, revising, editing, and publication. Each residency culminates in a celebratory student reading at independent bookstores, libraries, galleries, and cafes. To help teens connect the importance of strong writing and creative thinking to the “real world,” we coordinate school visits by local and touring professional authors (Abraham Verghese, Chimamanda Adiche, and Tom Brokaw). Hundreds of students attend our lecture series over the course of the season and are provided free tickets, books, and transportation. At each lecture, 2,500 adults model a passion for reading and appreciating new ideas in an intergenerational environment. Literary Arts brings The Moth, a popular storytelling troupe, to lead a weeklong school-based MothSHOP, which culminates in students telling stories to their peers. WITS collaborates with school librarians to host a city-wide teen poetry slam, “Verselandia!” WITS also offers one-day college writing workshops at several schools, pairing volunteer writing mentors with students to help them develop their college admissions essays. WITS provides extensive logistical support for all of these activities, as underfunded schools do not otherwise have the administrative capacity to take advantage of these opportunities. If you would like to join this team that makes our work with youth so successful, please make a donation to Writers in the Schools at http://www.literary-arts.org/ product/donate/.

Mary Rechner Writers in the Schools Program Director 5

Hope Is

Mayra Chavarria, Roosevelt High School

Hope is the sunset That makes me sit and think. Hope is getting lost in the clouds, Finding different shapes And laughing. Hope is seeing the sunset; It transports me To another time. Hope is the sound of water, The birds singing, Walking barefoot And remembering all the good times That will never come back.

Holidays

Jessica Carmona, Benson High School

Holidays used to be my favorite part of the year, a time where the whole family got together to eat, tell stories, and laugh. I still remember that feeling I got when we all sat around the fire and shared stories while the turkey was cooking. Seeing the Christmas lights shine on the Christmas tree with all the wrapped presents underneath never failed to bring a smile to my face. We spent most major holidays at my grandma’s house. It’s too bad that’s all over.

Now that some of my family has passed, holidays haven’t been the same. For a few years, we didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Mother’s Day. It was hard because most kids love holidays, as I did, but we still hadn’t really coped. We always had Christmas and Thanksgiving at my grandma’s with my mom, dad, and sister and both grandparents. Now I have no grandparents or mother. So it was just my sister, dad, and I. My sister is now engaged, so we celebrate with her fiancé’s family. She says it’s because she wants us to get comfortable with his family before the wedding and become a big happy family. My sister and I are still adapting to the new holidays but they don’t feel the same to me. I miss the old days but I’m ready for the new ones.

Fresh Paint

Elizabeth Corvi, Wilson High School SETTING: The front of a paint store is on stage right, a simply furnished bathroom on stage left. A sink and a mirror frame stand at center stage, dividing the two sides. The paint store is dully-colored in gray and faded colors. The bathroom takes on a color scheme of blue and white: white walls and sink, blue accent tiles on the floor match a blue rug in front of the sink, blue towels and shower curtain. The pattern of the floor tiles is constant across the entire stage, but where the tiles are blue in the bathroom they are gray in the paint store. CHARACTERS: EMILY: A woman in her early thirties. She is struggling to recover from her husband’s suicide that occurred about six months earlier. She decides that painting the house will help her to recover faster. She is dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted button-up shirt. Her only accessory is a simple silver watch. PAINT STORE CLERK: A young man in his twenties. A figment of Emily’s imagination. The CLERK stands in the store, facing away from EMILY. He doesn’t move. The lights go on over the bathroom. EMILY enters from stage left while buttoning up her blouse, toothbrush in mouth. She stops in from of the mirror and finishes buttoning the blouse and brushing her teeth. She appears to be tired, although not exhausted, confidence is not evident in her posture. She looks at herself in the mirror and smoothes her blouse, then 8

rolls up one sleeve and begins rolling up the other but sees the scars on her arm and pauses for a second before hastily pushing both of them back down to her wrists. She looks back at her reflection and takes a deep breath. EMILY: (Speaking to the mirror) Alright, I can do this. Lights go up over the paint store and the Clerk resumes organizing items on the shelf. He turns and notices Emily as though she just entered. CLERK: Hi, can I help you? EMILY: Yes. That would be wonderful. I’m not quite sure what I need. CLERK: Well what color would you like? EMILY: Um, I would like something uplifting. CLERK: (Sarcastically) How great! We just received the new line of colors for the depressed and emotionally damaged. Follow me, I bet we have the perfect color to help you out of your tough spot. Emily slams down hand on the edge of the sink; the clerk freezes. EMILY: Well that’s just great, Em. What a perfect little world you’re in, they have exactly what you’re looking for! Did ya hear? They figured out how to harness the joy from kittens and puppies and unicorns and are adding it to their paint so anyone who uses it can live happily ever after. Whoop-dee-do. 9

Emily takes a moment to calm down, then faces the mirror. CLERK: Hi, can I help you? EMILY: Yes, I’m looking for a color that can cover well. CLERK: What are you trying to cover up? EMILY: Excuse me? CLERK: What color do you want to cover? EMILY: Oh. Um. Red. CLERK: Can do. How splattered is it? EMILY: What? CLERK: How even was the previous paint job? EMILY: Oh, um, it was pretty messy. CLERK: Did your husband do it? EMILY: (Eyes open wide, uncomfortable) Uh, uhhm. CLERK: Sorry, bad joke. Men are typically convinced that they are capable of painting, and really don’t know what they are doing. Especially with dark colors like red. EMILY: Oh. Hah. 10

CLERK: Pull yourself together, Em. You look like an idiot. Remember I don’t know what you’ve been through; I’m not trying to stir you up. I’m just asking the same questions that I ask everybody else. It’s my job. Emily braces herself on the sink and gazes into the mirror. Her breathing is unsteady; she is on the verge of tears. EMILY: I have to do this. I just have to go to the store and buy some goddamn paint. CLERK: What color would you like? EMILY: I don’t know what color I want. I just want it to go away. CLERK: Why don’t you just wash it off? The clerk freezes. EMILY: (Spoken with harsh frustration) I’ve tried to wash it off! I’ve tried and tried and tried but no matter how much bleach I use, or how hard I scrub, or how excruciating a headache I get from the fumes—no matter how many shrinks I see or how much I meditate or how often I remind myself that it’s all over now, that I’m safe, I can’t walk into the living room without seeing blood, red, red blood dripping down the walls. (She breaks into a painful sob, bracing herself on the sink to catch her breath.) I just can’t do it anymore. (To her reflection) What color would you like? 11

(Laughs to herself) Hah, what color? The color that doesn’t provoke memories. The color that lets me walk through a room like a normal person, simply pass through. That hides fear. The color that lets me forget. The color that erases the memory of blood spattered across the walls after my disturbed husband overdosed on ketamine, attacked me with a kitchen knife, and blew his brains out. Yes, that is the color I would like. CLERK: (Unfreezing) I’m sorry, but we don’t carry that color. EMILY: I know. Lights down.

Savage

Sierra Newby, Madison High School

Savage is she who walks among the trees, Ripping and tearing with her teeth, Can you hear her screaming? Can you see those green eyes beaming? No because Savage am I who makes small children cry, Hidden to all those who seek, I may be quiet but trust me Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m anything but meek, Savage is daring and far from caring, No hopes nor desires, No time for worthless liars, Sierra by day, Savage by night, Consider yourself lucky when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re out of sight, I deserve to rot in a cage for all my wrongdoings, And rage, So beware late at night, For Savage is coming to give you a fright.

The Phone

Amelia Carroll, Madison High School

Enemy

Randall Tshionyi-O’Brien, Jefferson High School

You weren’t a good friend. Untrustworthy, always thinking about yourself. Talking about me behind my back. You think you know me, but you really don’t. I never told you any of my secrets or anything important. You get mad at me when you do something wrong and expect me to apologize. That is not how it works. That’s why I turned my back on you, that’s why I ignore you. That is why you are my enemy. I was your best friend, until you hung out with that other girl. She came between us. You left me when you two had sex, but I know that never happened, that’s just what I tell people. I know everything about you and if you start to talk bad about me I will tell the whole school in sticky notes. Me pretending not to care about you is my way of dealing. You turned your back on me, you ignore me, I don’t want you as my enemy. 15

The Prototype

Matthew Forsland, Lincoln High School

Mental Diary Subject 332 May 10 They implanted a mind-reader chip in my skull. I saw an ad in the paper about a month ago looking for people. It promised a payment of €500,000 for any participants. They only revealed that they were testing a teleporter, and they took the time to get us settled in at a facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, I think northern Ukraine. It’s been awfully boring, without a diary to occupy myself, but I can just feel the money. It will be enough to pay off all my debts, and perhaps I’ll have enough left over to move to America. May 21 They finally revealed their plans on how to go about teleporting us. I never knew high levels of radiation could sound so ludicrous. Several people backed out. I guess they don’t need money. I’ve been getting to know another of the subjects, a Frenchman. May 29 Today they showed us the rooms we’ll be kept in after the experiment. It’s happening tomorrow. After that, I’ll be free of debts. 16

June 2 I can’t believe I let myself step into the prototype. I knew it was a bad idea. Scientists honestly thought that by blasting someone with high levels of radiation in a cylinder with a reflective interior surface, they could be teleported to a similar cylinder. Well, technically they were right, but they said it should be PERFECTLY safe, no side effects whatsoever. They forgot to mention the development of hard skin – and I don’t mean hard as in like thick, I mean hard like a shell – dense fur, greatly reduced posture, and just a whole bunch of my innards completely messed up. I was the first one. Nine others, Lord knows what they look like, were put into pretty much the exact same chamber. Well, some may have yet to, since they probably tried to fix it. I am still fully capable of thought, with the exact same hearing, but almost no oral capacity. At least in the human sense. The only bits of information I can get are from anyone who wants to poke, prod, or get a sample of who knows what from me. Another thing, my arms, well, they aren’t exactly arms anymore. I have had to be careful walking around, since my feet are more like a bug’s pointy little feet. But I’ve been getting better. They’ve been feeding me all sorts of stuff, just to see what exactly I am, carnivore, herbivore, or omnivore. I want to eat the fruits I recognize, but then I get something akin to diarrhea. The meat goes down fine though. Fungus, too, who knows why? It’s just all madness. June 6 It’s been a week. Well, I think it’s been a week. They never really turn the lights off in this place. I guess they want to document what happens to us in broad daylight. They’re probably scared to 17

see what happens at night, or what would be night. But I digress; it has been what I can think has been a week in complete isolation, aside from my visitors, who are few and far between. Oh yeah, another big difference, my eyesight. It’s the complete opposite of colorblind. One of the things that they decided to show us before the test was where they would keep us after the test, so as to determine any side-effects. I can see through my one window a street, except I don’t think it is, I just have a feeling. When you see a street, you see a black flat surface with two yellow lines down the middle. I don’t. I see all sorts of funky colors now. I guess my vision is like this one kind of shrimp I heard about, which has like 12 cones in its eyes, and it can see all sorts of ultraviolet spectrums and stuff. June 9 My strength, as far as I can tell, has been returning. I’ve discovered I can climb up walls. So what, does that make me a spider-man? As far as I can tell, it’s almost literally ‘yes.’ Except I’m not really a ‘man’ now, anymore. I don’t know what I am. The only things I’m sure of is that I can only really eat meat and fungus, and I can’t make speech in the human sense. Hell, I don’t think I AM human anymore. And I can climb walls now, too. June 14 I’ve been climbing the walls for what I think has been a few days. They shut the curtains on the exterior of the window at what seems to be random intervals. I’m pretty sure that’s just to confuse me. I’ve been getting visitors a bit more regularly. They’re still in Hazmat suits, but at least they’re there. I noticed a vent just the 18

other day. Thinking about having a little adventure. They decided to pair up a couple of the test subjects a few days ago to see what happens. The one I got stuck with looked more like a bird or something, I don’t know. There was a bit of dust on the ground, I tried scratching out the message, “WE HAVE TO ESCAPE,” but I don’t think it really understood my message. June 16 I know they are going to do something soon. I have no idea what, as they have been acting rather secretively lately around me. It’s that same clandestine air that tells me something is going to happen. I know my only chances are in the ventilation, to which I have access from the ceiling of my cell. That’s actually how I have always viewed it—as a cell, rather than a suite or room—because now they aren’t testing me for side effects; they’re trying to keep me in, so that no one finds out. June 17 – 4:17 PM I have decided to attempt my escape tonight in a short while. For now, I must get plenty of rest. I heard the loud, sharp sound of what I can only presume was a firearm earlier. That’s all I needed to know. I have to act soon. But soon… soon, I will be free. I know that I’ll have to scavenge, but I can live off mushrooms while I learn to ambush prey. June 17 – 11:54 PM I’m going in the ducts. That’s a start. They have to have 19

heard the vent cover hit the floor; that’s inevitable. My only hope now is to run, and avoid any other openings. I know it’s very dark, but I can still see fine from the ambient light from the rooms. I have no way of knowing where to go, except on instinct. That’s all I’ve ever had since I took that last step as a human being. June 18 – 12:01 AM They must be trying to gas me out. I’ve run into some kind of fog, which is probably poisonous to humans. Except that they forgot that I’m not human anymore. It’s just fog to me. I’ve run into a few cans that looked like spray-paint cans, so I do believe they think they will force me out with gas. Oddly enough, I think the mutation improved my eyesight. I can still see fine enough, except I know that there is next to no light getting to where I am in this fog. June 18 – 2:00 AM It’s night. Or maybe it’s morning. I can’t tell. It’s dark out, and I can see the moon. I escaped, and that’s what’s important. I wound up falling down something of a shaft onto some back lot. One advantage of my reduced size is that it’s much easier to hide from security cameras. All these big trailers help too. I can’t see very far, but I can see a tree line. And that’s my goal. Once I get there, I should be safe. At least from the guards, that is. Fresh, cool air feels so much better than the sterile stuff they feed through to us in the facility. I can’t even call it air. It’s more like smog, only clean.

June 18 – 4:00 AM There. I made it. I doubt the guards saw me. Oh, scratch that, I can see a lot of moving figures coming out of a couple of doors. Oh well, they’d practically have to step on me to find me here. I’m free now. But not safe. I’ll never be safe. If not the guards, then wildlife, or farmers, or who knows what else. I just have to keep running. The farther away I am, the safer I am. Safe. At last…

ERROR: DEVICE TRANSMITTER OUT OF RANGE

Terminating Device

Rock ‘n’ Roll

Amelia Eichler, Madison High School

I breathe Rock ‘n’ Roll music When I hear the song begin to play I feel the words, the rhythm seeps into my soul It’s a feeling that’s out of this world I breathe Rock ‘n’ Roll music As I listen I am taken for a ride My emotions run high As I play that Rock ‘n’ Roll music As Buddy Holly’s edgy voice booms As Jerry Lee Lewis pounds on his piano As Elvis’ rockabilly voice fills the room And as the Beatles’ voices fill your heart My heart begins to pound My mouth traces the rebellious words My eyes begin to fill with emotion As I listen to that Rock ‘n’ Roll music

Don’t Pick Up

Adam Eichacker, Grant High School The phone on Sam’s desk rang. He set his pen down and slowly rolled his glazed, vacant eyes upward to look at the ringing telephone. He thought of every single time that phone had rang on his desk, and the voice on the other end had only made him less happy, less fulfilled. So he let it ring. He could not justify his action, but it felt good, so he let it happen. He heard all of his coworkers, all adding to a collective buzz by talking to the needy voices in their phones. Sam would not contribute. Sam had always been told that he was on the right track, ever since he brought home his first high school report card. Straight As. He was told to keep it up. Sam said okay. He was happy in high school, slipping under the social radar. The right track seemed to be unrolling in front of him, according to his teachers, parents. Sam was told that engineering was lucrative. So he applied to have it as his college major at the school he was told would prepare him for life as well as any other. So he moved away to the school, chasing the right track. He found himself becoming less happy. He wasn’t sure of what to do with himself, so he just kept studying. Years flew by and soon enough he was wearing a cap and gown, jaywalking straight down the yellow line in the middle of the right track. Within weeks a manufacturing firm was congratulating him on his new position in the corporation. He was told he would have his very own cubicle; he said okay. “Okay,” he said out loud again, six years later. The cubicle had felt smaller and smaller every day, squeezing effort out of

him like water from a sponge. But as the phone’s ringing came to an end, he felt himself go dry. His hands wouldn’t let him type, his ears wouldn’t let him listen, and his mind became something he could hardly recognize as his own. He no longer thought only of what others told him, or when the right track might turn. He could suddenly only think of what would make him happy. He stood up and let his eyes wander: they scanned the fourth-story office space, and then stopped at a red-orange ray of early-evening sunlight that was slicing its way into the building. Sam felt something arise in him. It was a feeling of beauty and contentment that he hadn’t felt since he was thirteen. Before high school. Before the right track. He wanted to follow that rushing feeling. Sam reached into his desk drawer, grabbing his keys. He then walked, smiling, past all of his coworkers towards his manager’s corner office. He took off his name tag and pocket protector, set them in front of the door, gave a gentle knock, and then continued towards the exit. He could feel his tires squeal as he veered off of the right track. He then got in his car and began to drive, pointing only towards the setting sun. The feeling of youth and contentment grew and grew inside of him as he got further and further away from his office. For the first time in fourteen years Sam felt incredible about himself and the situation that he was in. He rolled the windows down, turned the radio up, and set himself free. He was finally on the right track.

Dear Alice

Kate Nootenboom, Lincoln High School June 13th, 1942

My Dear Alice, I am uncertain whether or not you will ever even read this letter, for my confidence in myself is dropping with every word I write. Indeed, it is more likely that these words will end up in the fireplace than in your hands, but I could not simply sit idly by and allow you to be taken from me forever, as you will be in just a few short hours. And so it is with trembling hands and an aching heart that I write you these sentiments, and hope pray that you will one day forgive me. Do you remember the day we met? It is a memory imprinted with such clarity in my mind, like a scar left by a deep gash, that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think I am capable of forgetting it, as much as I sometimes wish to. You were wearing that little red plaid dress, the one that fell just below your knees and had buttons up the front, and your legs were bare because of the heat. Your mother thought this exposure of skin was quite a scandal, but I, a hormonal young boy of seventeen, thoroughly approved. You were sixteen at the time, back when you wore your hair down, letting it bounce and sway just beneath your ears, sweeping the tips of your shoulders. When I think of you, even now, it is this picture my mind conjures: loose hair, lips stained red from a cherry ice pop, and that silly little red dress. I thought you were the most beautiful thing in that dress, though you told me years later you thought it was childish, foolish. I guess thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 25

what I loved most about it, and what I love most about you. I wonder if you ever knew, ever suspected. All those days we spent eating ice cream in the drugstore and laughing at the old ladies with their lavish hats, did you ever know how much I cherished those moments? Could you possibly have known that every time you smiled, a shiver would sweep through my veins, and every time you said my name, my stomach had the most peculiar sensation of simply melting away? No, I guess not, for I never said a word to you about it. I fervently regret this now, but it is too late anyway. Even writing this down, finally declaring my feelings after so many years of just being your friend, seems futile. But the truth is inescapable, and I cannot bear the thought of another day passing in which I keep it hidden from you, as I have all these years. I love you, Alice, and I have ever since that day at the County Fair when you bought cotton candy from my stand. I don’t suppose you remember that, as I do, for it is a memory that still haunts me. What could’ve happened, if the circumstances had been right... The officers told us to bring a few tokens to remind us of home while we are in Germany, and I am bringing only one thing. It is your picture, and I hope you don’t mind. Please remember me fondly, as a dear friend, and I will try to do the same for you. Yours Sincerely, James P.S I’m so sorry I cannot make it to the wedding tomorrow, but I will use this opportunity to wish you all the happiness in the world. I deeply regret missing the sight of you in your wedding dress. I’m sure you’ll be breathtaking.

Kurt Cobain

Abby O’Brien, Franklin High School I’m sorry that it had to end this way That you have the father who couldn’t stay To see you to your first day of school To punish you for your first broken rule Creating Nirvana, fame wasn’t our goal We wanted to create music with integrity and soul Alternative, grunge, indie rock pioneers Thinking about it brings me to tears The scrutinizing spotlight I was constantly under Searching to highlight my every blunder I hated what I saw every day in the mirror And somehow the drugs and booze made my head clearer They eased the pain I was plagued with every day Both of mind and body, I just must say I love you Frances Bean Though it’s not easily seen I felt so alone then, death my only relief As my only daughter I need you to believe If I could go back and undo it I would Tell myself I’m not alone and that I should Never believe what I was sure to be true That the person who most benefited from me being gone was you

Officially diagnosed as bipolar and depressed I would appear as though I had regressed Back to the days of my childhood when I had no home I was sure that I would always be alone When I picked up that shotgun all I was thinking was bad My drug-addled brain forgot what it meant to be a dad To be there when I’m needed no matter how hard it gets To make you your breakfast, to care for your pets If I could go back and take the gun out of my hands Slap myself sober and lay down new plans I’d give up the music when it was bringing me down And become the kind of father who was always around I’d walk you to school and take you out to play I’d help with your homework and tuck you in after a long day But before I kissed you and whispered goodnight I’d be sure to tell you before I turned out the light You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen I love you forever and always, my dearest Frances Bean.

Sin Sentimiento/ Without Feelings Raquel Dunkeld, Wilson High School

El peso del coraz贸n se puede decir sin palabras. Lo que no se puede decir con palabras se muestra con emoci贸n.

The burden of the heart Can be said without words What cannot be said in words is shown with emotion

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