Your Beautiful Sounds are Like No Other

Bridget McTear

Your beautiful sounds are like no other. You give life to everything I know. You remind me always of my mother. Of her warm embrace I never let go. You open my eyes and speak to my heart. I love your words and sharing them with you. Your unique stories are what set you apart. With you, there is nothing I couldn’t do. I hear you in the car and in my home. Running, working, or lying on my bed, You are my friend when I feel most alone. I can never get you out of my head.

Music fulfills me and makes me smile. Come with me and listen for a while.

Energía

Anna Diederich

Mi café es tan frío como el hielo. Me encanta mi café, me despierta.

Cuando tomo un sorbo de mi café, mis ojos abren. El caramelo se arremolina como un tornado.

Mi mejor amiga es mi café. Es mi única mañana felicidad. La leche, de avena, es deliciosa.

Mi café no me deja nerviosa.

Me gusta más azúcar el lunes.

Mi café es mi mejor regalo de la mañana.

Energy

My coffee is as cold as ice. I love my coffee, it wakes me up.

When I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes open. The caramel swirls like a tornado. My best friend is my coffee. It is my only morning happiness. The milk, oatmilk, is delicious. My coffee does not leave me nervous. I like more sugar on Monday. My coffee is the best gift in the morning.

Incoming

Lindsay McBride

composed from the eyewitness testimony of Olga Kovacs the mailbox had an unusual weight that day a postcard, from a Russian officer to his family his tone was upbeat: “we are systematically exterminating the Jews.” notes from abroad usually sting for other reasons — we miss their company, we crave their matzah, we want them home. but there is no longing, nor hoping, nor any right kinds of celebrations for that kind of cause. the officer did not have family in Hungary. at least, not biologically — his new recruits for the Einsatzgruppen now related by the blood of locals. the postcard did reunite with its original sender, although memory fails for the means. (should it really ever belong to anyone?) the mailbox still feels heavy when it meets her gaze. some things remain unsent