Mom's Garden

My family has always had a garden, and a good portion of my summer was spent in that garden, picking vegetables, and then washing and eating them. I have always had a great relationship with my mom, and I enjoyed spending time with her, but I was also a very private child who never spoke about the most important things on my mind. I always found it hard to start meaningful conversations, even with the people I was closest to. There is a comfort from just being in the same room as my mother, doing a shared activity without the obligation of talking. As an adult, I am learning how to be more open with my family about sharing my life with them. However, I am also getting better at just appreciating all of the time (even the little moments) I get to spend with my family.

blast off
from the yellow rubber swing set
Mom glances out the window

Alissa Kanturek

Grandma's Bypass Surgery

When I was in the third grade, my maternal grandma had to have a quintuple bypass surgery while she and my grandfather were wintering in Phoenix, Arizona. We had been planning to go down to visit them about a week after we got the news that she had gone into the Emergency Room for chest pain, and then rushed into the cardiac department at Mayo Clinic Scottsdale. Our travel plans instantly changed and we rushed down so that we could be with her. I remember that my third-grade teacher was actually upset that we were leaving earlier than expected because she had to rush to get all of the extra assignments I would be missing by the end of the school day. So, we made the journey from Rochester, MN (home of the original Mayo Clinic campus), down to the Arizona one the day that my grandma went into surgery. We landed just as she left my grandfather and the rest of our family that had already made it down for the Operating Room. We waited all day for her to get out, and, to this day, I have never experienced a longer day, even when compared to waiting for acceptance letters from colleges. We filled the entire waiting room—my grandparents had four kids, each of which brought their spouses and families of at least one child, in most cases two (except for my bachelor uncle).

We tried to distract ourselves as best we could, I think I did about three 100-piece puzzles that day, but our thoughts always wandered back to wondering when she would get out of surgery. We were all getting antsy and short with each other because we were all scared. Finally, she did get out, and we were able to go and visit her. It may be a cliche, but she has never looked as small and frail as she did that day hooked up to all of the monitors and breathing tubes and I.V.s in the Intensive Care Unit. We were only allowed to go in a couple at a time, but we were all deadly silent as we walked in to see her, especially my grandpa. They had been married for over 50 years at that point, and this is the only time I have ever seen my grandfather get weepy. But she made it through, and fully recovered, and that was the first time I visited Arizona.

jigsaw almost complete
missing piece found crumpled
I flatten and return it to its family

Daria Koon

Looking In

I remember a class field trip in elementary school where we went to the Memphis Zoo. We were eating in the Cat Cafe for lunch, and I was eating a hamburger. My classmates and I were all spread out at multiple tables, but I was near a table by the window. The window backed up right next to a monkey exhibit, so we were able to eat our lunch while looking out at the monkeys. Suddenly, there was a thud, and gasps of excitement broke out. One of the monkeys had climbed over to the windowsill in front of my table. He was looking in at us, and I was enchanted with him. He was black and white, and he seemed interested in the humans eating in front of him. He moved his arms and followed our hands with his eyes. Behind him all the way back in the exhibit were monkeys content with scratching themselves and staying in one place. These animals would rather play with a round ball and a rope than with humans. Yet, here was this one special ape curious about the world before him and the strange creatures looking back at him through the mirror. Why was he staring, and could he really understand me if I waved? How amazing!

In a way, I had something in common with this monkey. My friends and I in elementary school were closer to acquaintances than actual friends. If anyone was my best friend, it was my mom. I felt special and different, but I enjoyed my uniqueness. I liked other things compared to my classmates, and I loved every day I got to go to school and learn something new. I was mature for my age, and I would rather sit with a group of adults discussing grown-up matters than with children discussing cooties. This monkey was more intriguing to me than my classmates, which is why I can only remember the monkey and nothing else about the field trip. I may have been sitting down with classmates, but I was really sitting apart from them. This monkey and I were not so different after all.

a glass window
separates
kindred spirits

Emily Sullins

Bowling Party

I remember a summer night when I was about nine or ten years old. I used to be absolutely terrified of thunderstorms, and there was a storm brewing on the horizon. The lightning was lighting up sky, and the thunder was rumbling in the distance. We were getting ready to leave a cookout at my mom’s friend’s house, and I was freaking out. My parents were trying to calm me down because I was sobbing from fear. My mom kept telling me not to worry because the thunder and lightning were just the angels in heaven having a bowling party. She told me that the lightning was the flashes from the angels’ cameras as they were taking pictures. The thunder was supposedly whenever an angel bowled and hit some pins. I tried as hard as I could to believe her that the storm was not scary, but I was still terrified. As I have gotten older, I have grown out of my “scared of thunderstorms” phase, and now I love thunderstorms (as long as they are during the day). Every time there is a significant amount of thunder and lightning, I still stop and think about the time my mom told me it was because of angels throwing a party in heaven.

scared of storms
my mom tries
to calm me down

Haley Vemmer

Neighboring Planets

Every year my family goes to Colorado. We either go hiking in the summer or skiing in the winter. I remember the first time I summited Long's Peak with my dad when I was 12 years old. We left at 4am and the first few hours was just hiking through forests and it was beyond beautiful. It was like walking through Mirkwood (which is a forest from The Lord of the Rings). I could hear the leaves ruffling and the distant chirping of birds and waterfalls and creeks in the background. When you’re climbing a mountain, you still see the peak in the distance as if you’re on a neighboring planet unsure of how you’re ever going to get to the summit. It was a daunting to attempt a 12-14 hour hike as a 12 year old, but adventures were everything to me and still are. Seeing the world from a new perspective is what I live for and being on top of one of the most well-known 14ers in Colorado was exactly the adventure my 12 year old self wanted to do.

Along the way, we came to a cross roads. We could either go left and venture on to Chasm Lake, which is a glacier lake about 12,000 feet about sea elevation or we could go right and continue on with our summit of Longs Peak. We knew if we decided to stop at Chasm Lake there was a chance afternoon showers would roll in and we wouldn’t have the opportunity to summit Longs Peak, but we did it anyway!

Chasm Lake was a sight more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. The water was viciously deceptive, looking only inches deep, but was truly around 6 feet deep at the “shore”. I was young and hot from a long hike and wanted to jump in, but the thing about glacier lakes is that they are incredibly dangerous to swim in. The water usually doesn’t go above 50 degrees, but I was quite unaware of that and decided to get a little wet. Luckily, I had taken most of my heavy clothes off, but man was I freezing afterward. I thought I was walking into the lake, but no I plummeted and my whole body was submerged. I got out at as fast I could and I remember my dad was bragging to the park ranger about how his brave and adventurous daughter went into the lake and the park ranger got so upset at him for letting me do it because most people fall into a state of hypothermia and I was quite lucky that didn’t happen to me. Once again, I defied the odds without necessarily trying to.

Wihtout my dad’s grace and willingness to hike with me and go on these crazy adventures from a young age, I never would have fallen in love with the mountains the same way I have today. Every time we go to Colorado in the summertime we attempt to summit a new mountain. We do so many activities outside together and this poem just brings me back to my childhood of playing outside with my siblings and my mom watching and laughing and having drinks ready for us if we got thirsty. From the cupped hands of my parents, I have been able to taste and see and feel experiences in a way that wouldn’t have been imaginable without them providing me with the opportunities in the first place.

the mountains call
my name
afternoon showers

Hannah Haedike

Peeking Through Chicago Fog

I have a vivid memory of my childhood. I would play in front of my house after school, sometimes with friends, sometimes with my brother, other times just by myself. I'd run around, jumping over the one crack in the sidewalk that was a little bit bigger than all the rest. I was a little bit of a lonesome kid. I spent lots of time playing pretend games with myself, making up worlds as the leaves twirled down around me. One specific memory I have is sitting on my roof with my two best friends. It was one of our favorite things to do, we would take the blankets off of my bed and crawl out the window of my room to the black gravelly roof that looked over my backyard and the rest of the neighborhood. It was summertime and we'd lay on our backs and try to point out any stars that were peeking through the Chicago smog. Usually they were airplanes leaving nearby O'Hare but we tried. Miranda would usually play music quietly in the background and I would look up thought-provoking questions on my phone and we would discuss. Our friendship was usually pretty surface-level, mostly joking and talking about how school was going, but once in a while we'd get to have these moments of seriousness and we always left feeling closer. We'd watch my neighbor's porchlight go on and off as their big fluffy dog ran past it. We'd reveal our insecurities that we typically had only thought about alone to each other and provide insight that the others hadn't considered. If we were lucky, we'd get a cool breeze to relieve us from the humid Chicago heat. They seemed like small insignificant moments, but we all felt completely comfortable and at ease and had a new perspective not only on our neighborhood but also our problems.

11pm
the neighbor's tv
loops cartoons full blast

Hannah Ottenfeld

The Golden Rule

My dad passed away from cancer when I was five. Because of this, I have held on to several, very specific memories with him. My dad was a cardiologist and founded the cardiology fellowship program at the Mayo Clinic. He was fluent in eight languages and had license to practice medicine in four countries. In his obituary, he was described as an example of selfless love and what it truly means to live by the Golden Rule. From what I’ve been told by my mom and my dad’s old friends, he was incredible at practically everything he did. He was a 5’4,” Syrian, Muslim, coffee addict with a 5 o’clock shadow at 9AM. He was wonderful.

My father was an early riser. Regardless of work or day-off, he would get up at 5am to swim. When the rest of us awoke, there would be coffee and bagels for the family. We would claim to have been visited by the “Bagel Fairy.” While he was a fiercely kind and intelligent man, my father was not a cook. He could make scrambled eggs, and that’s about it. It’s the weekend and I come out of my room to see him because I know he’s home. Instead of pancakes, I see my father opening the brown paper bag that I know contains five bagels. His and my brothers are everything bagels, my sister and I have plain, and my mom has sesame seeds. He is cutting them and spreading the cream cheese exactly how he knows we like it. He grew up mainly in Belgium and therefore adopted a very European sense of style. He is wearing his pink shirt. It’s my favorite of his. He is drinking the double shot of espresso that he gets every morning from the same Starbucks with his name lovingly written on the cup. I go to him and get up on the chair near the counter to watch him. He asks me if the chapter of Harry Potter that he read us last night was too scary, or if it was all right. I, of course, tell him it was great! He sneaks me a sip of his coffee as my mom walks into the kitchen with wet hair from her shower.

smells like
coffee and bread and
eau sauvage

Isabella Loutfi

Barefoot

When I was around the age of six years old, I lived in a house on top of a hill. Our backyard went down in, what seemed like at the time, a very steep grassy slope. At the bottom of the hill, there were tall trees with long branches of bright green leaves. Running between these trees was a shallow creek that was bedded with large rocks. The creek ran through a very short tunnel, too short for me to wiggle in, on the right side of my house. On the left side of my house, however, the creek was never ending, as far I was concerned.

Every day after school, my brother and I would go in the backyard down the grassy hill. Often times, other kids from the neighborhood would join us. I would wear this cheap waterproof pair of flip flops that my mom bought me at Old Navy to walk down there, but I would secretly discard them immediately once I reached the creek. I loved the feeling of submerging my feet into the cold water as it rushed towards the short tunnel. The creek was shallow right behind my house, so the water only reached about three fingers above my ankles. However, the further you went to the left, the deeper the water got. Often times, my brother and his friends would venture to the left with our red plastic bucket to catch crawdads. However, I was very content sitting on my favorite rock on the edge of the creek while rubbing the pads of my toes across the soft surface of the mossy wet rocks. Sometimes my friends and I would build little cities out of the smaller rocks. Other times, we would prance around the surrounding trees with muddy feet and pull at tall green stems that faded down into the color white in hopes of finding wild onions.

However, there was one day that I was alone in my favorite spot after my friend left and I heard the excited chatter of my brother and his friends coming from the left. I saw them approach with an empty bucket wearing the clothes they left in, however, these clothes now appeared to be saturated in mud and creek water. They beamed to me about how they had gone further today than they ever had before. Their eyes seemed to brighten as they spoke of a deep section in the creek where they went swimming. My brother tugged at my hand, begging me to come back with them. I hesitantly followed, looking back at the rock and my lonely flip flops.

The water began to creep up my legs as walked the left. I nervously asked if there were many crawfish down this way, and the boys boisterously chattered about all of the creature they have found back this way. My brother quietly reassured me that he would make sure I didn’t encounter anything creepy or crawly. All of a sudden, I stretched my foot forward and there was no stone to step on. I gasped as I slipped down into the cold creek water. My brother’s friends began to laugh and rush down into the water next to me. My toes quickly found the rocky surface beneath the water. I began to giggle excitedly as my toes grazed the mossy rocks. My brother and his friends splashed each other while letting out excited yelps. My brother looked back at me and smiled.

kisses
between chipping pink polished toes
and mossy green rocks

Isabella Spiritoso

Listen to the Rain

This story happened with a friend in high school. I will keep his real name anonymous, but for the sake of the story, we will call him Alex and he is 17 years old. He was a dear friend of mine. We have went our separate ways since then, but I hope he is doing well and happy, wherever he is. On to the story. Alex and I were in history class together. I had seen him around the school but never had actually spoken to him before. I always thought he was kind of stand-offish, and thus was a little intimidated by him. He was so quiet but I felt an angry vibe from him.

One day, he didn’t show up to class. I figured he was sick or something, nothing major. He didn’t show up at school the next day, or the one after that. I just thought, hey, maybe it’s one nasty cold. Alex ended up not showing up to school at all the next week. Our teacher asked if anyone knew his number, if we could call him. No one in the class said yes. Confused by this, I went and asked the principal if she knew anything about his continued absence, and she just told me she was not at liberty to talk about another student’s business. I should have known that. I remembered that I used to always see Alex’s little brother playing at a park by my grandmother’s house. My curiosity got the best of me and, that weekend, I went to go see if I could find his brother at the park. Instead, I found Alex. He was playing basketball by himself. He looked rough. There was scratches on his arm and he had a black eye. Even though he played basketball effortlessly, I could tell something was causing him pain. He had a odd gait instead of his usual walk. I sat on a bench across the way. He noticed me there, but kept playing. We were the only two at the park. I decided it was now or never, and asked him if I could play basketball with him. He gave me a smirk like “yeah, right” but passed me the ball anyways. We played basketball for what seemed like hours. I was careful not to brush into him or move to quick. It hurt me to see him wincing every time he went for a shot.

It started to get dark and cloudy. It was maybe 8pm when I felt the first raindrop. I knew that meant he would be going home, but I couldn’t let that happen. I asked him if he wanted to go grab food. He told me he didn't have any money. I asked him if he wanted to go to my house and play video games. He said he just wanted to go home. Feeling defeated, but with one last try, I told him I needed some advice. His eyebrow cocked up, and he asked with what. We got into my car to get out of the rain. And I drove. I drove until we were away from all the city lights and we ended up parked in a field in Harristown.

The rain wasn’t too heavy, but had a relaxing steady pace. He looked at me and asked, “so what’s up?” I told him that I wanted to check on him, that I didn’t really need advice. At first he was angry, but then he opened up to me. Telling me that his mom had been abusing him and his little brother. He told me he was in the hospital for two days with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder blade, and minor internal bleeding because his mom pushed him down a flight of stairs. He told me he he told the hospital he fell. He told me he wanted to come back to school but not until the bruises and scratches were gone. He said he didn’t want to show weakness. Alex and I talked until almost 1 am. And then we sat and listened to the rain as we processed everything we had just told each other. The tapping rain beat on my windshield and helped ease the fact that I just shared some of my deepest secrets with a stranger. I am sure Alex felt this way too.

a mother’s love
painstaking and sharp
her manicure is fresh

Jenesi Moore

Mais Que Nada

This is a memory from a few years before my grandfather passed away. I was at my grandparents’ house--grandpa and I in the kitchen and grandma in the kitchen. It had been years since I had gone through their records, but something called me to go through them that day. At this point in my life I had been more educated in jazz than I was when I went through their records previously. Going through them this time, I was familiar with a lot of the music. Without telling my grandparents, I just put the record on--Mais Que Nada, to be exact. To their surprise, I had chosen something that they knew very well and enjoyed thoroughly. My grandpa started swaying and tapping his hands, while my grandma started dancing in the kitchen. I don’t know why it affected me as much as it did, but it almost made me emotional. To think about the fact that this music had been a part of their lives for so long was nothing I had ever thought about. They had experienced so much life and many memories before I existed, and I knew that listening to this music after so many years had brought back those memories for them. It was also so fascinating to me to think about how music is so extremely intergenerational, especially in regards to jazz. Its legacy in the world has lasted so long and continues to last, and everyone has different experiences tied to the music. Getting to create new memories tied to this jazz standard with my grandparents was something super special. After the song was over, I had asked them about the memories they had with that song and they had told me about how they always used to go dancing. This was one of the greatest memories I’ve had with my grandparents, and I’m so grateful to have learned something so interesting and fun about my grandpa before he passed away.

fifty two years
my grandfather still looks
at her angel eyes

Jordan Niebuhr

Calling

Growing up, we went to the Methodist church as a family, but we were not very consistent, and after a while, we stopped going altogether. This bothered me because I always felt God’s presence; I just did not want to upset my parents or make them feel like bad parents if I asked why we were not going anymore. Then about 5 years down the road when I was about 15 years old, I remember riding with my mom on a road trip. We were casually discussing some events from her school classroom, specifically some kid named Jimmy who was a “living hell in the classroom” according to my mother. For some reason, I instinctively blurted out, “Mom, why don’t we go to church anymore?” Taken aback, she paused in silence for a moment. She continued to think to herself quietly. I became nervous, like I had made her uncomfortable. She expressed that she did not even realize that I had the desire to go to church. So I told her how I had been feeling for so many years, like I was missing out on something in life without a working relationship with God. Next Sunday, we attended a Catholic mass, because the rest of our family identifies within the Catholic faith. From then on, my family has not missed a day of mass since, and we have been confirmed into the Church for four years now. Mom and I revisit that moment all the time, and she always thanks me for my courage to stand up to her and my father to push them in the right direction, even though it was hard for me as a young man to overcome the barrier of their authority. I could honestly not imagine where my life would be if I had not had the courage to ask a question as simple as, “Mom, why don’t we go to church anymore?”

sunday church bells I don’t hear anymore

Logan Bader

Sisters' Duet

My dad is one of ten siblings and they are all migrants from Ireland. So the very tight knit, Irish family was brought to America as were their traditions. All of my aunts and uncles, growing up, live within a 10mile radius of each other so when we had family parties we would all go to my grandma’s very small house and have them there. Every Christmas we had at my Grandma’s house where there were at least 40-50 people cramped onto the first floor and basement of her house. Every birthday party we would pitch a festival tent in the backyard and it would be packed with people. When the night was winding down my uncle Tony, the musical brother, would break out his guitar and play and sing songs from when he was growing up, mostly originating from Ireland. All of us would sing and through these events all of the nieces and nephews learned these old Irish songs. This part of the night was my grandma’s favorite because she was a singer and in the choir in Ireland when she was younger and it overjoyed her to see everyone singing these songs she grew up with. Growing up around all this music enforced my love for music and is where I find a lot of my roots when it comes to music I write and listen to. If it were not for my surly Uncle Tony I would have never learned guitar and performed for people. At these parties it was required my sister and I sang a song each because they had such a support for our singing careers and our music, so reluctantly, my sister sang for them. As we got older we started doing a duet of Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley which was one of my Grandma’s favorite songs we did so it became a family party tradition if the guitars were broken out. This haiku brought that back for me because my Grandma passed over winter break of last year and the whole family has not been fully together since her funeral which has also meant we have not had a musical round either. I am looking forward and hoping that it will be brought back at our Christmas party but I also never know.

ramblin man
sung through Irish brogues
the songs of immigrants

Mary Callaghan

Time Out

Growing up in Chicago, we would usually have a few snow days during the winter. These days with no school and no work were magical. My little sister and I would get to watch TV during the day, which meant that there were new but maybe not-so-exciting shows to watch. We would, of course, be snuggled together in a large blanket. I remember a big rainbow knitted blanket my mom used to have on her bed, only during the winter. I remember the softness and the complexity of the knit. I remember surveying and studying that blanket, trying to see where one color of yarn turned into the next. I don't know who made that quilt, or how my mom got it. I can't actually remember the last time I saw it, but I hope that we still have it so I can curl up into it again. I remember hot chocolate and popcorn and tea that is mostly milk. I remember snowballs and slipping on ice and the gray mush the show turns into the day after. I remember my mom and my dad and my childhood home. Of chicken noodle soup and hot baths. I remember the day I tried to slide down our snow-covered slide and fell straight off the side. Of the day my parents told us we were going to Disney World during winter break. It reminds me of my cousins at Christmas. After the presents were opened and the cookies devoured, the kids watching A Christmas Story for the thirteenth time that week. This was a simpler time. A time before grades, essays and tests. A time before growing up and hard decisions and milestones. A time before betrayal, burden and heartache. A time before death, before disease and goodbyes. A time when the biggest consequence was time-out, and all I had to lose was desert.

one part tea
two parts milk
an Irish child's remedy

Melanie Wilson

Two Peas in a Pod

I like to think back to my childhood days of fishing with my grandfather. It wasn’t often that I got to go along with him, because I was so young, but when I did get to tag along, we always had the best time together. He always packed us ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch and he never forgot to bring my favorite drink at the time, Sunny D. I vividly remember one time while we were fishing, I admired him throwing the cast out onto the lake. I wanted to be just like my grandfather, so naturally, I tried casting my Barbie fishing pole just like grandpa. I ended up throwing the entire pole into the lake and watched as my grandpa drew it back into the boat. Luckily, the pole was floating. Looking back on this moment, I realize the great deal of patience my grandfather showed me during this moment. He didn’t scream at me or get angry with me for throwing my pole into the water which resulted in him fishing for my pole. Instead, he used it as a learning opportunity. Once we retrieved the fishing pole, he guided me through casting the fishing line on the next turn. My grandpa always made sure that it was just him and I for our fishing adventures. Whether that was because we had a tiny boat or because he just wanted to spend quality time with me, I’ll never know. What I do know, is that I will always remember the days spent on the lake with my grandpa. I will always remember the ham sandwiches and the Sunny D. As my grandpa grows older, I hope that he, too, will remember the days we spent together on that small lake.

my fishing pole
in the lake
we both giggle

Naomi Klingbeil

Apartment Window

I recall how my parents and I would watch the lightning storms through the window of our old home. My parents and I lived in an apartment near downtown St. Louis until I was three years old. In the living room, there was a large window looking out to empty sky. I have vague memories of sitting by the window with my parents and watching the lightning while it stormed. The memories are so distant; they almost feel like dreams. Thunder and lightning never scared me as a child; I was more fascinated by them. I remember watching with thrill and wonder as a child with my mom and dad as lightning would flash across the sky. We would then listen for the thunder to strike and marvel at the speed or intensity of the crack. I would point out lightning bolts that were particularly incredible to make sure my parents saw them, as if they were not looking out the same window as I. This is one of my favorite childhood memories I have with my parents. I barely remember the old apartment I lived in for my early years, but I remember that window and the times we would sit in contentment to marvel at the stunning work of Mother Nature. Now, years later, I still enjoy thunderstorms. They are a spectacle I always revel in whether I am in my house with my parents or alone in my car. I know I will get a good night’s sleep when it is pouring down rain and thundering consistently. My parents and I sometimes reminisce about this ancient memory when it storms near our home now. We moved to a house in the suburbs of St. Louis when I was three, and that home also has wonderful windows for looking out at lightning.

as lightning
lights up the sky
so does a child’s smile

Rachel Pevehouse

Play Hair

Growing up, my mother and I didn’t have the best relationship. We have never been close. When I was little, I wanted to be close to my mom. I remember when I was really little, probably four or five, I would beg her to draw with me, to play beauty salon, to play dolls, anything. She would always refuse, or if she did agree, she would play for a few minutes before saying she had other things to do. Though, there was one time that she did play with me for more than a few minutes. It was the summer before she went back to work, and her and I were home alone. My dad was working, and my brother was napping. She was getting ready in the bathroom, and I was sitting downstairs in the living room with my little beauty kit, toying with my hair clips and lip glosses. I worked up enough courage to go upstairs and peek into the bathroom, watching for a few moments as she blow-dried her hair. She caught me looking and asked what I was doing, what I wanted. I remember the lump in my throat as I held my case behind my back. “Can we play hair, Mama?” I asked. At first, I saw the usual look of rejection, but then her expression changed. She turned to look at the clock and sighed. She agreed, “just for a few minutes”, and I was overwhelmed with childish excitement. I remember going to her room with her, sitting on the bed with her, running my plastic brush through her hair. I had been begging her to teach me how to braid, but she always had something else to do. I had been trying to teach myself, and it was time to show her how I had been doing. She had short hair, so it was much harder than it usually was when I practiced on my Barbies. But I kept trying, adding dozens of butterfly clips and glitter bobby pins to her mess of her. It was the first time I got to finish playing with mom. She let me completely style her hair, leaving it in a heap of snarls and sparkles. When she first saw, I was sure she was going to get mad that it was so messy, and I was ashamed. But she didn’t get mad. She simply uttered a “good job, honey” before taking out the clips and pins and placing them back in my case. It was a rare moment of real connection with mom.

white minivan
twin carseats
silence covered by pop radio

Sophie Kibiger

Air Guitar for Breakfast

This instantly takes me to weekend mornings as a child. My siblings and I loved to wake up and see my dad preparing to cook a big breakfast for us. We especially got excited once we were old enough to start helping cooking. One of us would help my dad crack the eggs and whisk them. I remember thinking how crazy it was that my dad could whisk the eggs so quickly. My siblings and I always tried to stay away from the bacon pan because we were afraid of the grease splashing up on us. Every now and then when we got some courage to ask my dad if we could flip a piece. Lastly, someone was on toast duty. We would put bread in the toaster and butter it up as soon as it popped out. My mom would ask for help setting the table (no one wanted to do that). Then we'd pour everyone a glass of orange juice and all sit down and eat. We didn't do big breakfasts very often because we had busy weekend schedules so whenever we did do them it was a special treat. My dad is very big into music and always has something playing while he is in the kitchen. I have memories of air guitaring and singing with him as we cooked breakfast. My dad has a had a huge influence over my music taste due to these early morning breakfast jam sessions. I hope some day I can have these same simple but important memories made with my own family. Whenever I go back home next I hope to wake up to the sound of bacon sizzling and music playing for another family big breakfast.

little girl
up on her tip toes
watching dad

Sydney Rudny

The Noom of Her Leg

I remember a specific night that my siblings spent at our old house together. It was a lazy day and we were all relaxing together watching some movie on television. I had a way of sitting with my mother when I was a child that was very comforting to me. She laid on a couch with her legs bent to where I could sit in the nook of her leg and watch the television. The memory is small, but honestly many of my memories before I was fourteen are fuzzy for me. This one night I remember feeling like a family though. I remember being happy that we were all together. I was happy we were doing something that we all enjoyed. I was happy that we were able to escape the stresses of our life together and just enjoy the moment. We did not have many of these moments, so it makes sense that I savor this one as much as I do. If I had to guess, we were watching something on Lifetime and I was not paying attention. I remember that we lived in East Peoria in a house at the bottom of a giant hill. My step-father’s parents owned the house and we lived comfortably in that house. The ceilings were very tall, and the house had an open feel to it. In this memory, the living room of the house had a very warm color scheme to it. The wood in the room was darker colored wood, we had black leather couches, and the color of the carpet is not clear to me now, but I remember it was comfortable.

I think I may
curl up the way we used to
and think of you

Zachaery McReynolds