“What Do We All Cry For?” Eva Balistreri ‘21

The Garden

In the backyard of my home, a building made of soft, white, cedar wood planks, a castle-cottage upon a hill, there is a majestic garden brimming with rich vegetation. Bright, gleaming, saturated colors leak from the variety of sustenance as the sweet scent of sugar mixed with calcium radiates from within. Strands of pure white grapes and tumultuous, navy blueberries protect a small patch of tart, ruby-red strawberries from roasting in the sun. Spherical, fuzzy, firm peaches cling to branches where they sway endlessly in the careening swish of the wind. Nestled in the soil are condensed knobs of orange, burrowing deeper into the ground as their stalks grow tall, wrestling for room with the roots of long, dainty, spindly herbs. The patches of midnight-sky blackberries and hairy, valentine-pink raspberries accumulate mass and mature with the seasons, growing larger and grander every day with only the burnt-chestnut fence to contain them. There, vines crawl along the grain lines and cracks, swallowing the wood and moving to the ground for more. The strings of plants scatter around the yard, clinging to every surface, spreading to each crevice. One would think that the vines would overwhelm the expanse, making it look cramped and unkempt. However, they have the opposite effect, making the garden seem friendlier and picturesque, as if it was a frame frozen from long ago, immortalized in a postcard.

This patch of natural beauty is where I feel the most calm. When life spins out of control, leaving me breathless, wheezing, and gasping as my surroundings swirl into a Van Gogh painting, I find my center sitting there. The sunshine and pervasive aroma of nature’s living specimens diffuse into me, quelling every hurtful word, disappointing action, and general displeasure locked inside my heart.

It is for the security of the garden that I flung myself down there one fateful afternoon, when everything seemed to halt. I felt as if I had been sprinting for years, accelerating on pavement trying to fly, investing in every stride, only to lose at the end, to trip on my face and tumble down. Disapproval pumped through my veins while chaotic fear crept from my toes to my hair. It was almost unbearable to be in the garden, with its pristine composition staring at me while I deteriorated on the ground, my image disintegrating into a sad, lame, boring girl lying alone on the ground.

As I wallowed in my confused and disheveled state, I suddenly felt a strong pull on my ankle. I attempted to sit up and see what dared to arouse me from my sorrow, when I noticed that I was pinned to the ground, held by the vines that brought the backyard together. They tugged on my body like I was their puppet, my motions disjointed and partially strung together. Panic filled my throat as I thrashed against my constraints, but the greenery only pulled me closer to the center of the garden, the plot bursting with gifts from the Earth. I was tangled within the unblemished fruits and untainted vegetables, the newest offering ready to be plucked from the stems. I was molded into the scene, that perfect moment fit for a painter to make their masterpiece.

The garden had given me what I wanted, fused me with perfection. But stuck, surrounded by the variety of shrubbery, I felt as if this was the end, as if I would stay among the plants as they rotted, as they became the disgusting remains of what once was golden, the washed-up bits of a short brush with fame. And it dawned on me that this was the cost, the consequence, the demand of what I sought out: shining adoration for a season or two followed by the end of relevancy, a short life with a sharp rise but a steeper fall, a melancholy, abrupt existence. And I wanted more. I wanted to matter, to change, to hurt, to love, to fight, to break, to build, to grow, to sleep, to laugh, to cry, to be, to spend moments there in the exceptional garden for eternity, not just one more season.

So I rolled over, picked the vines off of my skin, and began to live as I did once long ago. Free of judgment, broken mirrors, unreasonable standards, and persistent doubt, able to flourish anywhere. Life was good, and fewer seasons were spent looking at the garden for reassurance, as I could see myself as it saw me: a zealous girl in her home, right where she belonged.

— Adrienne Lai ‘21

Invisibility

It’s living your life with a pen and paper as your best friend because you have no one else to trust anymore and they have no choice but to hear you. It’s tripping, falling, bumping into people everywhere you go because they see straight through your crystalline skin. And it’s being ok (and sometimes not) with being alone, because that’s the thing you know best. It’s dotting the ‘i’ in isolation with repetition. Invisibility is truly knowing no one, hopelessly trudging through your minutes, hours, days, weeks, lives without saying a word. And maybe it’s our fault. Maybe we push people away from our boarded up and broken down hearts. But we weren’t the ones who broke them in the first place. We never asked to be invisible.

Invisibility is finally finding someone with whom you have an indescribable, kindred-spirit bond and grasping onto them with every ember in your heart because you’re terrified that you’ll never find anything this good again.

Invisibility is constant. It is omnipotent. It is unending. It is hoping for some sparkAny spark will doAnd wondering what concrete happiness is.

— Mimi Shea ‘22

Let Go — Elise Hellmann ‘20

Yes

When I was little, my mom would make me take baths, just like in every hygienic family across America, and just like every wide-eyed, happy, smiling child, I said no. Regardless, my mom would plop me into the soapy, bubbly water, filled with millions of colorful bath toys and rubber ducks. After washing my hair with pink, strawberry soap, my very wet mother would say, “It’s time to get out!” My answer would be the same. No.

Eventually, I ceased my routine protests. I wonder when I started saying yes. Yes to washing the dishes, yes to clearing the table, yes to showing the new kid around, yes to sports, yes to going to parties, yes to clubs, yes to student council, yes to going out on dates, yes to everything. I wonder if I want any of these things. I wonder if it matters.

My parents always say that you should do things for other people and how lucky I am to live the life that I do.

You should be grateful. I work hard for you to be able to do that. It wouldn’t be fair if you said no. You should have thought of that before you left your homework for the last minute. You’re smart. This shouldn’t be hard for you. Stop freaking out, it’s just a test. a song. a conversation. a nice guy.

Get out of your head.

I guess I am lucky, lucky that I don’t have any real problems, that anxiety is treatable, that my parents are better now that they’re apart, that I go to such an amazing school, that I have such great opportunities. I even got a part in the play. Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky.

Now when my mom tells me to go shower, the answer is yes. It doesn’t matter if I washed my hair the day before or if I’m tired beyond caring. I stand under the cold stream of water in a shiny, tiled shower with a glass door, staring at my empty, foggy, bitter ghost of a reflection as the soap swirls down.

— Amber Dunton ‘23