Category: Creative Nonfiction

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Things

Mackenzie Dick

Romany people do not collect things. It is not this old blanket that I need to keep, I tell myself as I sit and debate, examining the worn and tattered flowers on the fabric. It is not any of these possessions I’ve so professionally stuffed in every shelf and cupboard of my house. It is neither that old blanket, the train set, the boxes and boxes and boxes of decorations in my  garage, the paintings, the tea set on my shelf, or the old dishes. None of these things can be what I need right now. 

I sit, leaning over a box marked in fat black marker “donate”. I ponder that word, what it means to me. What it used to mean to her. She used to tell me that when I had extra I should build a longer table, not a taller wall. I debate with myself which of these I am doing now. Am I building a longer table by donating these things, these meaningless things, or am I building a wall; protecting myself from the pain now associated with all of these things? Walling the things out of my mind. Forgetting these things. No, not the things, the memories, I remind myself. 

Those cold mornings in the fall and winter that I spent wrapped in this blanket that she gave me on the floor of my mother’s bathroom, soaking up the heat from her shower, because we could not afford to heat the whole house. She always knew how to help without interfering too much, a skill I have not inherited with my family yet.  The train set that never made it out of the box for her classroom, but had to be used in mine.The one thing we had in common, our one shared passion. Our one similarity, the reminder that I may one day be as good a woman as she was. The decorations I helped put up that last christmas before my grandfather died. That cold afternoon spent arguing with my short temper and what I swore was the worst tree stand and the sharpest ornament hooks on planet earth. Her comment that they did things better in the 50’s. The ones that she decided I should take after that with the note on the ornament box from her mother, the last time we were all happy in that house. The half done paintings that hang everywhere, the ones my family said to toss. The ones where time stands still and the work is forever unfinished, the artist’s hand forever stilled. The tea set from her mother, the story she told about her mother’s only selfish act. Another reminder of another great woman I would be lucky to take after. The midnight cereal dates with these bowls with my grandfather when neither of us could sleep. When we would meet  in the dim farmhouse kitchen, trying so hard not to hit the windchime that hung from the kitchen lantern so as not to wake her. The kindness in his gesture when he’d give the leftover milk to the cats. That lantern that isn’t there now. Neither are the windchimes. Nor the cats. I remind myself that that place doesn’t exist anymore, but it does. Like her, it’s not gone yet, just not the same place now. Cancer is nasty like that. 

All of these things that don’t offer me comfort right now that my mother says eventually will. I sit and debate putting each thing in that box, closing them off from my mind entirely, and wonder if my mother’s  “eventually” is the same one that was said when these paintings were put away; that “eventually” never came. Decisions, like this box, plague my mind now. Am I putting these things in the box out of anger that she didn’t make these choices herself? That she left such a mess in my home and my family without actually leaving at all? Am I angry that she didn’t leave yet or that she is leaving at all? Maybe those questions belong in the box instead of these useless things. Maybe that’s how I’m meant to build a longer table for her. 

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The Log Slide

Faith Cole

Everyone knows that running down hills is a very foolish thing to do. This hill even had a sign. My sister Vi and I walk up to it. We glance quickly over words — “caution, 300 vertical feet, drop-offs you can’t see” — and my favorite phrase: “going down only takes a few seconds, while coming up may take an hour or more”. We had made it to the Grand Marais Log Slide. 

Just over the next sand dune, we would be able to see where loggers used to slide huge, stripped trees down this perilous drop and into the pristine waters of Lake Superior. (Don’t worry, my youngest sister had thought it was where you slid down the hill in hollowed out logs, too.) Vi and I had fallen behind the rest of the family, and so, following the sign’s directions, we walked through the last little bit of sandy woods to the very peak of the hill. The skyline burst into view without warning. The sand flowed over the edge like a Saharan giant plunging down into an endless oasis. Staring out over the drop, breathless, mouth gaping, fingertips tingling, everything seeming stripped away by the intensity of the view — I looked almost straight down to the line where the sand kissed  the water below. Most of the troupe had already conquered the journey and were  splashing in the water below. They were  willing me down to meet them, even though every instinct told me to stay rooted to the spot. 

The moment of indecision lasts only that, a moment. The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I started  off just ahead of Vi, waving at her to follow. The hill (at the top) was like a giant sand box. The start was just level enough that, with a little speed, I could jump forward and then let gravity take me down the slope. It felt like walking on the moon — something I, of course, had  a great deal of experience doing. Adrenaline and dopamine started flooding into my brain. Suddenly, the “this is getting really dangerous” hormone (you know, the one teenagers seem to lack almost as much as good social skills) shut off completely. Each leap down the steep slope made me feel more and more like a Marvel superhero bounding across rooftops. I was also vaguely aware that I was experiencing something that inevitably comes with free fall — acceleration. Each leap became more and more thrilling. With an extra burst of exuberance, I jumped down the slope, looking a fraction of a second too late at a large rock now rushing up towards me. I twisted my body in what could only be described as a pure feat of dodge-ball and martial arts muscle memory and rolled over my shoulder into the sand — just past the brutal, potentially bone-shattering obstacle. There was no time for rejoicing however, because once I started rolling, oh baby, there was no stopping me. 

Doing my best impression of a sock in a tumble dryer (a tumble dryer filled with sand and newly discovered baseball sized rocks), I careened down the slide. I realized at about roll number three, when I was just at “protect the face from the rocks” level of grace, that there was a drop coming up, and I couldn’t see how far down it went. But that wasn’t the worst of it. There was a person sitting at the edge of the cliff, back turned to me, right in my path. “AAAHHHHH”, was all I was able to shout out in warning before I flew into the air — just above the unfortunately placed traveler’s head — and over the side of the drop. Just like falling in a dream, that’s what the next few moments were like, before I, no, my open mouth got reacquainted with an ex that it would rather just be done with at this point, the sand. Oh yes, this hill had a few more rolls in store for me. Finally, from a slight leveling on part of the slope and a solid land on my backside, I came to a stop. 

Laughter immediately erupted from my lips. It was more than just nervous laughter to replace reassuring words I couldn’t find for everyone watching at the bottom. It was a hearty, deep-felt expression of joy. I was alive! 

Picking myself up, I finished the last 100 feet or so of the descent with an only somewhat tempered zeal. Plunging into pleasantly chilly Lake Superior washed away both the sand and the residual fluttering of my heart. The others greeted me with recreations of their reactions to my less than graceful plummet down the hill. I laughed at their good-natured teasing. I had done it though. Falling a third of the way still counts, right? Of course it does, nobody ever said you had to go down in a way that didn’t threaten your bodily safety. I don’t know if I actually could have died, but it sure felt like it during that fall. I was oddly alright with that. Enthusiasm comes with a price tag, but what I had just purchased was the thrill of being alive.

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The Rage

Katie Davis

The screaming, blaming, throwing, hitting, it always seemed to come out of nowhere. Some days we were happy; some days we could barely be under the same roof. It was always my fault. Somehow everything that happened: things breaking, chores undone, house unclean, unsaid tasks ignored.

I never knew why, but Mom was always angry, I knew that. I started to draw my own conclusions the older I got: there was —resentment, I stood for her failed marriage, she always wanted a perfect kid, I reminded her of herself and him, and oh how she hated herself and him. The anger always came at night—after a long day’s work, after my laziness—sometimes she was only angry, and my mom disappeared into the rage.

So much of my childhood was lost to the fire that consumed my mother in these moments, so much I’ve willed myself to forget—if I clung to these moments I would resent her the same way she always resented me; I won’t allow that for myself; I can’t resent both parents. If I resented both of them, I would be too much of an artist cliché. My life has been a senseless mural, splashes of color from different things, but most of these, moments of rage, a streak of black, like that painter tried to cover whatever mistake was there. 

The first moment of the rage that isn’t a black streak was when I was almost 3 years old, my infant sister can’t be placed in this moment, I like to pretend the one-month-old was sleeping soundly on the second floor, while I cowered in the bathroom downstairs, tucked between the toilet and the bathtub. “I’m leaving. You can deal with this on your own.” The words echoed inside me, my first recognizable moment of fear, glowing buttons of a phone blurred through the tears, shaky fingers dialing 911, a fear of what would happen to the baby if the fingers hit call. What power would a two-year-old have to protect the baby if mom was gone too? The police would separate-us. Dad was already gone. Protect, protect,wait. The waiting felt like forever, the tears never stopped falling, the hands never stopped shaking, the baby–miraculously–must have never stopped sleeping. Eventually Mom had to have come back home. 

The streaks of black become thicker after that, no real memories of my sister growing up, of my grandma before she passed, of my father when-when he came to see us of my friends, of myself. The streaks are thick and heavy on my life. Only glimpses of things exist for most of it. A shaky hand holding a knife for protection, taunted to use it. A shaky voice yelling they’ll call CPS, taunted they won’t be believed. A shaky teenager pumping with teenage anger, pulled by-my hair underneath the Christmas tree. All of the shaking was mine, but I don’t remember the spark to the rage, or the resolution. It’s always what the rage does or says that sticks, never what I did to cause it, never what I did to run from it. 

Another moment exists with clarity, the longest one besides the time she threatened to leave me with a newborn. My mom loomed over me on the porch, her tongue hurling senseless insults, her screams cutting through my heart-, hand clenching an unseen plate, legs shaking with rage, face turning red, blaming me once again. 

The orange plate exploded in front of me, exposing their unpainted ceramic insides—it was like a new world created by malice-laced action, the whites of the inside- danced like the stars against the dark evening ground, and I stood there while another plate exploded, this one white. The second one created more stars, while the waters of their new worlds seemed to pour down my cheeks. The shaky breaths I drew would be their winds, the dirt from the sidewalk they lay on their ground, the flinching their earthquakes, the screams from the rage their thunder. Only our porch light was on, it was a populated street, the neighbors always prying, but when a teenager had plates pitched at them as a fear tactic, not a single eye or ear could see what occurred. 

Instead it was me, alone, who had to face the rage. I had to stand there, my cheek burning in the shape of her hand, the familiar prayer that it would bruise just once—then I wouldn’t have to tell people, they would just see and help. It becomes black again, I must have been allowed inside, it must have not bruised.  My heart aches every time I think of my moments with the rage, even when survival instinct is activated, when all I could dream about was my own death to free me. But I couldn’t leave. At risk of something happening to the sweet little one-year-old that was always tucked away somewhere. At risk of the rage hunting me down. I had to stay, make sure the baby grew up safely, make sure I grew up. Now here I am, my mural finally in color again. There isn’t anything coated in black anymore. I exist in a way that is continually making sure I’m not another home to the rage. Make sure I don’t sling hurtful things at people I care about thoughtlessly. Keeping my anger inside — handling it, seeing if it’s real or just a misplaced emotion. It’s hard, but I won’t subject anyone else to the rage. 

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When the Days Change

Dylan Wyatt

The first day of spring always comes out of nowhere. It awakens a dormant part of me. It reminds me of childhood joy. After months of cold winter days, dreary skies full of gray clouds, cars covered in a sheen of frost, the sudden warmth and sunny sky delivers a shock to my system. Out of the blue, with little premonition beforehand, one day just feels different.

The first day of spring. I am not necessarily referring to the day marked on calendars, underneath a picture of a breathtaking landscape or beagle puppies playing on a farm. The position of the earth, moon, and stars predestines that day. The idea of spring can’t be decided. It appears in the moment. Everyone experiences it a little differently, at a different time, for a different reason. Even after years of cycling the seasons, that first feeling of spring still returns to me every year, like a dog after it escapes and rambles around a little, like waking up on a Saturday morning, giving me renewed strength and hope, reminding me of fond memories of days gone by, blinked away, and lost to time.

When I think of a spring day—fluffy clouds floating in a sky of blue like stars stitched on Old Glory—tall oak trees swaying in the cooling breeze—dandelion puffs flying by in the air—I remember being a little kid and playing baseball in the backyard with my dad. 

When I turned eight, my dad bought me a Rawlings mitt from the local sporting goods store. While other parents saved money by going to Walmart or a garage sale, my dad insisted on paying the extra money for a brand new, higher quality piece of equipment. It was one of the few instances my frugally-minded father opted for the more expensive item. He took baseball seriously. It was more than a game. It was his life.

Growing up, my dad spent all his free time playing ball, set state records in Little League, and dreamed of playing in the Major Leagues. He was talented enough to make it. As a kid, I idolized him. He was Superman. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was George Washington. I aspired to be half the man he was.

As soon as he put that first glove on my hand in the store, I dreamed of following in the family tradition. I imagined making diving catches. I fantasized about slowly rounding the bases while the opposing pitcher looked down at the ground, disappointed in himself, and the other players waited for me to reach home plate. When I went home that night, I told my dad, “I’m not taking this off, ever.” I left it on all day, and when I woke up the next morning, it was still on my hand.

The next day, I waited patiently for my dad to come home from work. All I wanted to do was play catch, break-in my new glove, and start my journey to becoming just like my dad. All day, my mom said he would probably be too tired when he got home. He walked in the door wearing a sweat-drenched t-shirt; his face looked worn and tired from a long, labored day. I asked anyway, expecting to be turned down. He looked at me with his droopy, bloodshot eyes and said, to my gawking surprise, “Sure, buddy. Grab your glove.”

A few weeks later, I stepped foot on a baseball diamond for the first time. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was a blisteringly warm April day. The air smelled crisper than usual, saturated with humidity. The grass sparkled with dew in the early morning light. In the bright blue sky, the sun already beamed down with ferocious intensity. We walked to the batter’s box, my dad carrying my equipment bag on his shoulder. I already had my glove on.

When we got to home plate, he looked at me and said, “We’re going to practice ground balls. Go out to the baseline and I’ll hit it to you.” I jogged out to the dusty, brown dirt between first and second base. My legs wobbled uncontrollably with excitement and nervousness. I had been daydreaming about this moment for weeks, but now, standing there, waiting for a ball to come my way, I had no idea what was going to happen. The ball could bounce over my outstretched hand; I might make the catch but throw the ball in the ground. I worried about embarrassing myself, but as soon as I looked at the big, wide smile on my dad’s face as he spun a ball around in his hand, all my fears vanished.

Every year, when I walk outside for the first taste of fresh air on a day in March or April, I wait to see if those old familiar feelings return. I let the air sit in my senses for a little while, searching for the right smells and tastes. I look up at the sky to see if the clouds have lost their dark gloom. I sit down on the grass and wait for childhood memories to flood my mind. Only then do I know with certainty that Spring has arrived.

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Default: Quiet

Kali Henke

Can’t you speak?

My roommate smashes little buttons on a controller, the sound seeming to echo throughout the small dorm. Outside our door, our suitemates laugh loudly at some poor joke one of them made. Underneath the crescendo of voices, I can hear the small hum of the radiator heating our shared space. Outside rain gently taps our windows, and cars drive past, their engines the music of the street. Even in the quiet library, you can hear little taps of keyboards, and stifled laughter from the whispering students. No matter where you look or where you turn, there is no place where you can find absolute silence.

What? Did you say something? Talk.

Bodies move against one another as I stand close to the wall. Music thrums loudly, my heart replicating the thunderous beat. Cheeks flushed and slight heavy breathing, I stand with a water bottle tightly clutched in my hands. The boy who tried to talk to me earlier standing a few feet away from me sending me strange glances. I avoided his eyes the best I could, trying to rid the sour taste from my mouth that the conversation left. The loud music caused a throbbing pain in the back of my head, but I ignored it. I swallowed my pain and moved to the rhythm of the music side to side. My tongue filled with heavy lead. The room around me screaming, but I was silent.

Don’t you have a voice?

A group of girls stared at me wide-eyed, their heads tilted slightly in question. Anxiously, I tug my sweatshirt sleeves down over my hands and keep my eyes on the ground as they start to fire off questions. Boom, boom, boom, one after the other, the bullet-like questions lodged themselves into my head but my lips remained shut. My tired tongue remained still as the air was heavy with anticipation, as I subconsciously gnawed on my lip.  The girls shared a glance. The silence was the only thing we shared as I waited for them to leave— they did.

Do you not have vocal cords?

I have never seen a bird not sing or an artist not doodle on a sheet. I have never watched an actor not cry on command or a slow-fingered pianist. Each thing in this world has a place, on a stage, in a notebook, or inside someone’s memory. But where does silence belong? Tongue heavy and anxiety-ridden habits force my lips shut, silence seeping from me. An anomaly, a voiceless stranger who wants nothing more than to scream but her heartbeat quickens threatening a heart attack. The sound of my heart like a drum, be-be-beating ever so quickly, my lips hanging slightly opening, but nothing coming out. Silence. Where do I belong? Too quiet for a stage, too plain for a notebook, and too forgettable for a memory. I’m an apology with no meaning, a fading tart taste on a tongue that stings but quickly fades. I fade too quickly to be remembered, not there long enough to even be forgotten, just ignored.

Louder. Use your voice.

I am. I swear, I am. My silence louder than the public’s chorused voices. My silence says everything I can’t, only to those who choose to listen. My eyes, my body language, all tell a story I can’t relate with noise. A safe haven for all things silent. Thoughts, memories, and art. Silence has become a forgotten art form, there. Existing— Belonging. Silence belongs here, surrounding me and my unmoving lips, as my roommate smashes little buttons and laughter fills the room outside my door. Quiet, a choice I made from the moment I could. Silence—my default.

I can’t ever hear you.

From the day we are born, we enter this world screaming. Our throats aching with a type of rawness that seems to never fully heal. As children, we grow into wanting attention that increases into unsatiable cravings. The idea of sitting quietly and alone becoming our worst fear. A voice — their voice becomes a constant reassurance that they exist. Those who choose to be loud, turn to others who replicate their fears, desires, and loudness. They match their laughter and pity those who whisper. For, if you are not heard are you really alive? No one has fully heard my anxious worries or doubts, but I exist, contrary to what others believe. My own throat swallowing the burn, choking back my voice, letting it sit in my stomach—burning into a fire. My fire erupts and flourishes on pages, it becomes burned into the memories of those who take the time to read and understand it. My voice may not fill the world to the brim and I may not contribute to laughs or the whispers but I’m heard. I’m loud in a different way because everyone has a default, everyone has their own way of having their voice heard and that’s okay.

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Numb

Brianna Allen

They speak of all kinds of numb here in the North. The been outside for five hours and the snow has soaked through my layers numb; the wood stove went out again numb; ice fishing all day long in 30 mph winds numb. There are many types of numb we all know, love to hate, and discuss here in the North. No one talks about the emotional numb that we may come across in our lifetime, however. The sitting in silence, not feeling the earth beneath you, staring at the floor numbness. The hole in your chest, static in your brain numb. The numbness of losing a loved one, your best friend, or even yourself. Everyone talks lightly about the harsh winter numbness we all experience, but no one prepares you for the detrimental numbness of your soul that comes with tragedy.

When I was just eight years old, I first experienced this soul withering numbness. My step father was introduced to me when I was three, was diagnosed with cancer when I was six, and was harshly taken from me and my family when I was eight. May 9th, 2006 started as a normal school day for me and my four siblings, until we were all called out of school, told that today was the day we were to go say goodbye to our father and step-father. I will spare the gory details of the two prior years, how we watched this man, who had help raise us, wither away, death knocking on the door he sat in front of, waiting to take him away. When we got to the hospital my mother was sitting on his left side, holding his limp hand, telling us that even though he couldn’t respond, he could hear us, and we should tell him anything that is on our minds and in our hearts. To look at one of your family members as they lay in a bed with tubes coming out of every orifice, is terrifying; but to eight-year old me, this was just the moment my brain stopped working. I gave the half-assed goodbye, telling my comatose step-father that I love him and will miss him. Each one of us went in the room by ourselves, while the others sat in the linked family room through a solid wooden door. I sat in that room for what seemed like days, as each of my siblings said goodbye. That room still comes to me in my dreams sometimes – the pale blue walls with dark wood trim and dark blue stiff, plastic couches. The huge television wardrobe that held a 32” television, wood matching the trim. I sat in that room for hours in silence, eyes fixated on the dark blue carpet with red texture. I sat in that room for hours with ears that did not work, everything sounding like it came from a mile away. I sat in that room in silence for hours, thinking I was going deaf, until the loud screeches of my mother hit my ear, like she was screaming right in my ear.

A numbness hit my chest in this moment, as if my heart had left with my step father’s soul. Minutes, hours, days may have passed. At one point the preacher came in and said a prayer, but, to this day, I’m not sure a single person in that room could have told you what he said. At some point we must have gone home, and some point the day must have turned into the next, which turned into the next, which eventually turned into the day of the funeral. The day of the funeral was dreary. The skies cried cold, early May rain, mimicking my step father’s loved ones as they stood around his six-foot-deep home in the ground. They said their goodbyes in silence, sending their hearts to the sky, as I stood there, paralyzed, unable to feel what the people around me felt.

No one warns you about the numbness that overcomes you when tragedy strikes – how your heart may leave your body for days, months, or even years. Everyone is ready to tell you of the good that will come of it one day – how you will be stronger, wiser, happier even. Everyone hands out advice to look to the future, while only some have the capacity to hold your cold hand through the hurt. It’s hard to see the lighter side of numbness, to laugh at your own temporary inability to feel. I turned a blind eye to the light, letting numbness make a home inside my carcass. Until one day I felt, like the tingling of a foot waking up feels, I felt. I felt all of the pain that had built up for years, and I cried. I cried for six years, until I had let it all out. And then I rose up, tall and strong, like a sunflower fully grown to stand in the light. I grew from my tragedy; I grew strong, happy, and proud of who I am and what raised me. Nobody warns you of the numbness that life can bring to you. We don’t talk about it like the weather. But, just like the winters of the North come and go, so do the seasons of our hearts and grief. June comes around and brings flowers and sunshine, just as life will bring light after a cold, dark winter.

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Five Paces

Jennifer Gauvreau

Step back five paces. That was the rule. I was told as a young girl to stand at least five paces away from paintings, in order to really take them in and enjoy them. My parents were both active members of the arts community, and a result, my exposure to the arts was deeper than that of my peers. It was always my inclination to move very close to a painting. As a youth I really wished to experience art (and all of the things in my world) with all five senses. Of course, this notion is absolutely ludicrous, as it would not be fitting for a little girl to be wandering the halls of the Art Gallery of Algoma licking paintings and running sticky fingers along the ridges of wild oil paint. So, very early in life, five paces away became the rule.

Growing up, I found it to be needlessly inhibiting and contradictory, the five paces rule. The hippies who ran the kids’ art programs in the teaching room were all about freedom and joy, reckless abandon, oddity for inspiration. When we created art, it was of absolute importance that we felt free to do what we wanted, how we wanted. Yet, a few feet away in the gallery, we were to be silent, reverent, and distant.

When you move in real close to a painting, you see more than a content image. Go ahead, look closer. Don’t be afraid to look— on the tongues of Medusa’s snakes lie a thousand fables and lessons. Look closer and you’ll find the passion of a painter: brushes blitzing, complexions colliding, oils oozing, tint tenting to form piles of pigment and scraped down valleys. You’ll find the clockwork of colour, and the tempo of tempera. Does this view enhance or diminish the humanity of the painter, the craftsman, bent over his work, trying with every brush stroke to reach across the void?

Now, step back. Make it five paces. Take it all in, allowing your eyes to dance across the canvas. Maybe this is a more comfortable view. Do you understand more, or is it less from here? The painter is now traveling through time and space to touch your very soul. They are creating poetry in paint- humanity on display, essence expressed. Upon meeting your eyes, the craftsman’s reach across the void becomes an artist’s embrace, encircling you with all that it is to be a part of the human condition.

For a long time, I was stuck in the binary viewpoint. I thought I had to choose between openness and inhibition, experience and appreciation, immersion and altitude. The longer I consider point of view, the more sure I become that both ways of experiencing art, and life, are vital to the human experience. Moderation in moderation. Wildness in waves. Five paces be damned.

 

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His Story

Ana Robbins

 

“I’m glad you came over tonight,” said Mike, hitting the 5 ball into a corner pocket.

It was around 1 am, and Mike and I had been enjoying the solitude of his “man cave” basement, away from wives, boyfriends, and mothers. Hanging out with Mike was a rare occurrence, made even more rare by newly shared adulthood. I was trying to cut back on Dex at that point, though I knew I couldn’t go off of it completely without depression overwhelming me. I was mostly sober that night, with only half of a Smirnoff Ice in my system. The other half was going flat lingering in my hand. Mike was on his sixth beer and third shot. He was still beating me at pool, however.

“Hey, it’s good to see you, man, we don’t get together enough,” I said with a smile. I had given up on the game a good ten minutes earlier; it was basically just an excuse to have something to do while we talked. I was not a fan of alcohol for myself, but I was impressed seeing how much my brother could down in just a few short hours and still be coherent and upright. I knew he had practice every night, but I hadn’t realized just how much. One of the few things we had in common, it seemed.

Fermentation made him much more easy-going and loosened his tongue to talk about things he would probably prefer not to think about. It also gave him some monikum of introspection. I always enjoyed him drunk.

“You know,” he said out of nowhere, “I’m gonna tell you a story.”

“…Okay?” I was confused but intrigued. I took a small sip of the tasty, warm beverage in my hand. Mike began to weave his tale.

 

Once upon a time, there was a boy whose mother married a new man after she left his father. The boy was already eleven years old at this time and wasn’t keen on having a new dad. He watched his mom completely change her life and his around this new man: they moved to a new state for his job, Mom sold her car to ride in his nicer one, she gave this man all her attention, and left the boy alone to deal with his five-year-old younger brother. The two adults would often go out to eat together, leaving the boys home to fend for themselves. The older boy learned how to cook fairly quickly after that. When he finally questioned his mom about why he couldn’t go with, she informed him that the new man did not want either of them there since they weren’t “his” kids. The next week, she announced that they were pregnant. The boy was absolutely alone except for his brother, who was basically his child at that point.

What had started out as unease over a new person in his life morphed into resentment and hate. He desperately wanted this man to act like a father and love him, but he would also not let him get that close. He was…hard on the man. A problem step child if ever there was one. He would call him terrible names, say he was not his real father, never listen to him, and just outright ignore that he existed.

 

At this point, Mike’s wife had made her way downstairs and was as enraptured by his story as I was, albeit for different reasons. She looked at me. “Who is this about?” she quietly inquired.

“My father,” I murmured, never taking my eyes off my brother.

 

The moment things culminated for the boy took place a few months after his mom’s new child was born. He, his mom, his brother, and his new little sister were walking a mile to the neighborhood grocery store. Mom pushed a stroller while holding little Paul’s hand. Mike walked unaided. Suddenly, Mike heard a familiar engine sound coming from behind them. He turned around to see his stepfather’s car rumbling down the road towards them. Mike felt his face flush red. Mom had told him that David wouldn’t drive them to the store because it was “his car.” But here he was, driving down the same road they were walking on! The car slowed down and beeped its horn lightly. Mike assumed David was stopping to pick them up. Instead? He smiled cheerfully from inside the air-conditioned vehicle and waved to them before speeding back up and disappearing. Mom never even acknowledged his presence, staring straight ahead with her chin raised. Mike felt a searing hatred flow through him. A car. Cars were the key to freedom and dignity. At that moment, he vowed to never have to walk anywhere when he grew up. He’d show him.

He’d show them all.

 

“So, that’s why I love my cars so much,” Mike sighed, taking another swig of his beer. “Cadillac in the garage, Civic out back, another Cadillac on its way. Cars were my escape. I was so humiliated that day. I never wanted to be in that kind of position again.” Mike’s wife and I stood in place, silent. It seemed wrong to speak. Mike went over to the mini fridge near the pool table and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself another shot.

“The thing is,” he said, staring into the amber liquid, “it was all for nothing.” He knocked back the shot with the skill of a seasoned drinker. “It wasn’t true. David had offered to drive us that day, but Mom had told him no. She said it was a nice day for a walk and she wanted some alone time with us. So, when he drove by, in his mind, there was nothing wrong. To add to the charade, Mom even gave him the silent treatment the rest of the day. She always seemed to be mad at him for something. I guess that made it easier for me to be, too.” He took a long pause. I looked at the dirt on my shoes for a minute or two.

“I regret it, you know. Being so hard on him.” I looked up, confused. “He was a decent guy trying his best in a shit situation.” For the first time during his entire story, Mike looked up and looked me in the eye. “If I met him today, you can bet I’d be better to him.”

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Dear Dad

Ana Robbins

 

I sat down on a bench just outside of the Administration building, a spot surrounded by flowers and flowering bushes that looked out over the green campus. It was early fall, one of the few times of year when sitting outside comfortably was possible. I took in my surroundings. Yes, this feels right. There were people walking here and there, but none were within twenty feet of me. I pulled my notebook and black gel pen out of my bag, set the paper open on my lap, and began to write.

Dear Dad,

I know it’s been a long time since you’ve seen me. I barely remember you, but I have some memories that will always be in my brain. I’m sure I am probably a piece of your past you’d rather not think about, but I wanted to tell you a few things.

I don’t hate you. I understand why you left. I understand why you never came back. I applaud you for making it with my mother as long as you did. She lied to me about you, but my brothers put some truth bombs into perspective for me. So, I no longer believe anything she ever said about you. I’m sorry you had that life for as long as you did.

Thank you for being there when I was a baby. Babies aren’t easy, and I know I was just a paycheck for her. I don’t know the truth of what happened between you two, and I don’t need to. I hope you have found happiness; I believe you deserve it.

I’m not writing looking for a relationship or to try and kindle any latent connections or love. I know it’s probably been too long for any of that. I’m not here to disrupt your life, or bring back painful memories, or make you doubt yourself. I want to tell you it’s all okay. You were right to leave. I was an unfortunate casualty of her, while being brought to life by her at the same time. I hope you are doing well, and I know you were always a hardworking man. My brothers may have been hard on you as kids, but they’ve told me enough about you to make me realize I take after you in all the important ways. I fight against upbringing, but I like who I am underneath. And underneath all that time, there is a little you.

So thank you.

Your daughter,

Ana

I looked down at the paper, sighed in relief and satisfaction, and promptly tore the letter into tiny pieces. I tossed the pieces into a trash can right by the bench and walked down to the dining hall for lunch.