To the Little Girl with Paige Toomer Optimistic Blues

To the Little Girl with Optimistic Blues

Paige Toomer

I remember you and your big blue eyes viewing the world innocently through optimistic lenses. Do you think about me? Do you wonder how I am or who I will be? I think of you almost every day of the week. I miss you and the innocence you held. The wonder that was experienced in your view. I miss feeling the warmth that you held inside you. The smile you displayed every day without delay.

I wonder if you still exist today. Does the innocence in your eyes lie steady, or did I interrupt it? Do your blue eyes shine the way they used to? Or are they dimmed by new blurred lenses? Did the future disappoint you, or do you appreciate the new view? Do I disappoint you? Do you hate me almost as much as I miss you? I miss you. Do you miss me the same way too? Don’t, even if you do. The world no longer shines the way it used to. Believe me, I’ve seen what offers it has for you. The sun is dimmer these days than your big blues. Fourteen years later, and the world is completely different than what you viewed. There are problems we didn’t see before that we do now. There is war, bad people, and abuse. The world is dirtier than your tiny skinned knees. Stress, depression, and illness are prevalent too. Sometimes I wish you never had to see this view. The one with the problems you weren’t equipped to do. I miss us and our innocent big blues. Where we only worried about if mom was going to make chicken nuggets or nasty beef stew. Where our world consisted of what we game we decided to play the next day, house or Scooby Doo?

Listen well to the advice I give to you. Enjoy the warmth of being held by your mother after crying with your big blues. Don’t be impatient to grow up fast. Be unapologetically you and don’t overlook the view. Run fast and free. Play both house and Scooby Doo. Live in those optimistic blues for as long as your heart can possibly give. Feel the world for both me and you. Run with the feeling of soft grass beneath you. Smell the homecooked food and touch all the animals you want to. Yell loud enough to be heard. Play with your brothers and sister too. It goes away fast as the clock continues to tick away from you. They will one day no longer play or be there with you. So, live in the feeling of being young and do it for me. For you.

Don’t come chasing after me because I will unfortunately be here waiting for you. Let yourself be oblivious and keep the innocence close until it disappears from your big blues. Don’t let the words of people affect you the way they will in the future you. Keep the memories and playdates as close as possible too for both me and you. Do all of this because one day you will grow up and you will miss it the same way I miss you. Be my five-year-old you.

I Remember Clare Heinrich

I remember... I remember the sunset red and pink I remember driving past huge, white wind turbines Why don’t people like them? I remember pulling up to Nana and Poppy’s house hiking up the hill through piles of red and orange leaves I remember the scratchiness of their carpet orange and brown swirls adorning the floor

I remember clinging to the tree, ten feet in the air too afraid to climb higher or climb back down I remember Dad making peanut butter and surprise sandwiches the ones with chocolate inside were my favorite I remember racing across the yard to leap into the giant pile of leaves my cousins hot on my tail I remember the aches in my chest from laughter running back to the house for dinner

I remember listening to “Dancing Queen” on the ride home drifting off to sleep I remember... I remember

Trains Charles Uthe

My love of trains started with my grandpa Fred. He collected, built, and even painted his own model trains. His grandchildren were never allowed in my grandparents’ basement, for that’s where he kept his collection. He was always worried that we would wreck his pride and joy, his trains.

I only saw that basement two times. The first was when my grandfather specifically brought us down there to show his grandchildren his collection of model trains. When I saw it that first time, his collection was massive. There were model trains EVERYWHERE, as far as the eye could see. He introduced us to the different kinds of trains and models. Each time he introduced a new model, he described it in enormous detail. He would explain to us the different kinds of wheels and different kinds of engines. As he would demonstrate how fast the trains could go on his track, you could see the passion in his curious smile and his lighthearted eyes as he shared with us his life-long hobby, the hobby he dedicated his life to.

The second time I saw the basement was after my grandfather had passed and I was helping my grandmother clean it out so that she could sell the house. When I walked down those stairs as I had only once before, I was in complete awe of the empty space I saw in front of me. The abundant collection of model trains had been replaced by an empty abyss of carpet and dark wood that grazed the walls. The passion that I had seen in this space was gone but not forgotten, for my grandfather’s legacy would continue in other forms: through my father, through my siblings, and through me,

even though I wouldn’t recognize its existence until after he passed. The model trains that had collected dust in my grandparents’ basement were separated and given to my father and my three aunts. So, even as the trains that occupied this space were now gone, they were moved to a location where they would not be neglected.

All the drawings he made in his final years remind me of his strength as he held onto his last breath. He was placed into a rehab center because his dementia was far too severe to stay in a nursing home. Every time my family and I would go visit him, he would always have several new drawings hung up around his room each with a different brightly colored train. My father would have my siblings, especially my younger brother who loves to draw, color various coloringbook pages (usually of trains!) to give to our grandfather whenever we went to visit him. Our grandfather would trade his drawings for theirs, and he would have the biggest smile on his face when he would see the drawings my brother would give him. I miss that bright, beautiful smile that would spread in just a moment, so much so that I’ll never be able to forget it.

I remember my grandfather’s funeral—it was mid-summer and the rain pounded on the roof like wounded soldiers crying out for help. We had reached the final stage of the burial: we brought my grandfather’s casket to the memorial hall. Veteran soldiers marched in through the entrance as the employees from the funeral home carried my grandfather’s casket and placed it onto the stone block in the middle of the cold, stone room. I watched as several of the veterans slowly folded up the flag and placed it into my grandmother’s hand.

“For Fred, may he rest in peace.”

The veteran soldiers all marched one-by-one outside and began their twenty-one-gun salute to my grandfather.

One of the lieutenants ordered the soldiers to fire all at once, piercing the gentle, quiet sky with their bullets to remember my grandfather and the service he completed for his country.

“Ready… FIRE! Ready… FIRE! Ready… FIRE!”

Each gunshot pierced through my ears like a tiny drill digging through my eardrums, and each one of those gunshots dug further into my tear ducts. By the time they had gotten to five-gun shots, I was bawling. Tears streamed down my face, and I quickly brought my hands to my face to try to hold the tears in, but they just wouldn’t stop. They just kept coming with no sign of stopping.

When the veteran soldiers finished their salute, my father stepped up to my grandfather’s casket and placed his left hand onto the hard, metal casket. In his right hand, he held my grandfather’s favorite train whistle, the train whistle that several times I had taken and played with during my visits to my grandparent’s house. My father put the train whistle up to his chapped lips and blew, creating a booming echo throughout the stone building. The train whistle echoed and simmered for several seconds, and I watched as my father burst into tears. Several seconds later, I was crying once again. The sound of the train whistle brought back all the memories of seeing my grandpa Fred, even as he started forgetting me in his last few days. I remembered my mother telling me that my grandpa didn’t have much time left and that we should go see him. Or at least, that’s what my father wanted to do. He wanted to see his dad one last time…

I remember walking into the hospital room on the sunny summer afternoon expecting him to have forgotten all of us there. The doctor had told us that his dementia was at an all-time high, so much so that he hadn’t remembered most of his visitors the day before. Yet, without fail, my

grandfather recognized his three grandchildren when we asked him who we were.

“Yes, you’re Charlie. You’re in college, right?” I nodded with a large smile across my face. “You make me so proud.” Of course, I burst into tears then and there. That was the last time I saw my grandfather alive and even though his dementia was at an all-time high, he remembered exactly who I was.

I see my grandfather’s legacy and determination in my father. I see my grandfather’s legacy every time I see a train pass by through town, and I see his face as the carts scroll past my face, reminding me of the time I spent with him before he died. Here one minute and gone the next.