Yhdessä Kanssasi

• Nan Besse

| The Depot |

There is a familiar place that secretly everyone knows. A place where the lost come to mourn their dead and the nearly-dead come when they’re no longer sure where to go. You can’t find this place on a map, because it’s the inside of your head.

The train is late again. You check your watch in the dim glow of the neon signs and realize with dread that your fingers have lost their feeling while clutching your umbrella. You decide then that it would’ve been better to walk. But as the air warps beneath your nose, your memories begin to flicker. It seems as if time has finally caught up. And you can’t help but think of that place. You smile as your eyes drift shut and when you awake you are standing in a lustrous city square. You are eight years old again, and you feel as if the air has been sucked from your lungs.

| The Market Square |

The warm summer air is laced with the strange, yet pleasant scent of molten sugar and fresh seafood that seems to pool on your tongue, only to melt within seconds. The white boats and their even whiter sails which line the harbor resemble soldiers crowding around an evening campfire. The restless waves crash gently against their metal hulls, creating a lull similar to that of a subway line. Market Square is Finland’s equivalent to Central Park. The towering white arches of the Presidential Palace and Helsinki City Hall overlook the harbor where the HSL line departs to Suomenlinna across the Baltic Sea. I remember the Market Square. It’s located near the eastern end of Esplanadi, and Katajanokka and it’s one of the most prominent locations for tourists and hungry seagulls in Helsinki.

It’s morning in the square, and the trolley rattles by as the church rings nine o’clock and drops off several people, who instantly bustle away across the cement, clacking their polished black shoes against the brick streets. As women begin flocking the nearest fruit stands, men stand by talking on their cellphones, drinking steaming cups of coffee, or listening with rapt attention as the nearby pigeon and seagull have their morning debate about the weather.

My older sister and I clutch small paper bags brimming with sweets to our chests as my mom’s cousin, Johanna, takes us by our hands and guides us under metal awnings and across trolley ties that run the length of the shaded roads. We stop frequently to stick our noses against the polished windows to admire the Marimekko dresses, but I quickly feel myself fall behind. The air around me is so unlike home that it makes me dizzy.

| Juvenescence |

My grandmother, Tuula Itkonen, was born in Helsinki, Finland on December 2nd, 1935. She grew up with her three siblings during WWII, something that she brings up often during quiet conversations. One story she tells a lot is that on her and her twin sister’s birthdays, their mother would make them birthday cupcakes using rye flour rations.

She tells other stories too though. About how the children back then were afraid of being spotted by enemy planes while walking to school, or how she and her siblings would stay awake listening to the sound of bombs falling all around them.

| Remembrance |

My sister and I spent three weeks in Finland by ourselves when I was eight and she was twelve. Even though the trip was over eight years ago, I remember almost every little detail about the people and the places there. I remember...I remember the airplane and the old sandbox in the shady courtyard of Johanna’s apartment. I remember reading Judy Blume’s Double Fudge every night to Johanna and my doll, Es- ther. I remember the black 1920s Otis inner elevator gate, the sauna club, and the awkward Denny’s waiter who had accidentally dropped a pizza on me. During mid-July, We celebrated Summer’s Solstice by the sea in Alhainen. I remember eating a strawberry nut cake (which strangely resembled a burrito), and lemon-salmon. But as much as I love these places and activities, the true thing that made Finland so special to me were the people.

• Lucy Benson

There were so many faces, but I remember each one. I remember Annie from Sweden, Oiva Toikka (the now-deceased Finnish glassblower), Satu from the Market Square, Annu-Tati from Suomenlinna, Johanna, and my second cousin Ella, with whom I could only communicate with through a series of broken hand gestures.

| Forgotten |

It’s strange. How a place that was so wonderful when you’re young can turn so easily into a place of unprecedented sorrow. The people, the places, the connections that you make become parts of yourself that you won’t ever lose, even long after forgetting them. And as much as you love Helsinki, it’s no longer the place you remember.

| Letters |

We got the phone call from Finland during mid-September. My grandmother’s twin sister, Pierrko-Tati, had fallen from her apartment window and passed away during the previous night, most likely in a state of confusion.

I remember the shock on everyone’s faces as we learned the details of the horrific story. I remember the feeling of wanting to cry, but not remembering how to. Pierrko-Tati, like so many other people in Finland, radiated this aura of love that I can’t quite describe without feeling as if I’m discrediting her. It’s been a tough month since her death. No one in my family wants to go back. Because deep down, we know that the seaside won’t ever look the same again.

| The Train |

Your eyes reopen for the first time and you’re back on the empty platform. You strain your eyes for any sign of light coming from down the track. You feel a tear run down your cheek, but before you can brush it away, it falls to the ground. The earth suddenly feels uneven.

You want to close your eyes again and relieve that memory, but you’re not quite sure if you’re ready. So you keep your eyes staring straight ahead and sit down beside the platform and wait.

You wait for a train that you aren’t sure will ever come.