Little Dancer

While the afternoon sunshine flooded through the big picture window in the living room, my mother wanted an answer to a question that was too painfully embarrassing for me to answer.

            “Tell me why you don’t want to go to Miss Pollock anymore.  You always loved dancing school.”

The oil paintings hanging there were colorfully rich and vivid ballet scenes.  They were graceful and fluid.  They moved to the music in my head.

“Nothing happened Mom.  I just don’t want to go.  Besides I’d rather play outside and ride my bike.”

 “Darling are you sure?  You are such a good dancer.”

Classical music played on the radio from early morning to early evening.  It was even the background for the cartoons I used to watch.  I can still hear the famous Blue Danube waltz as the ducks swim merrily along the banks of Vienna’s famous river. 

“No I’m not.  You just think that because you’re my mother.  I stink.”

She was preparing my favorite meal:  Wild rice, lamb chops and broccoli. 

“Not true at all.  Let’s see how you feel next week.”

I never would be able to tell her why I no longer wanted to take dance lessons.  I wanted to forget the whole thing, bury it someplace deep and stuff a boulder on top so it could never come out.  So many years after the incident, I rolled the stone away and unearthed it.  It still evokes some sadness in me but more ire than melancholy with each retelling. 

When I was just six or seven years old my mother invited my best friend and her mother to my dance recital.  Our relationship had quite a bit of sibling rivalry. In the days that followed we were in her backyard pool.  Her mother, now sitting in an Adirondack chair in front of me, was reading a newspaper. 

We were having one of our usual childish disagreements when my little friend shared with me her mother’s opinion of my performance in the recital.  She reported with delight how her mother had said I was as graceful as an elephant. 

Stunned from that blow, I looked to her mother hoping she would deny it.  Tragically for me at that moment, she said nothing.  Instead she looked at me guiltily, as if caught in the act.

I have no idea what happened next.  I can only recall the emotion and the stinging in the corner of my left eye because I wouldn’t let them see me shed a tear.  They knew their words had pierced me.

Yvonne A.

July 2019

A Child's Desire

What do I want more than anything? It isn't teddy bears, Barbies or clothing. If I could have one wish come true, I would go back home—to the place where I could speak, where I had friends, where I belonged.

Not this place of concrete jails with a teacher that glares at me when I reply, "no se" (I don't know).

Each morning is a death row march not ending in execution but with having my head submerged in sounds without meaning.

I hate it here. I want to go back to the fresh air and smiling people, but I don't have a say.
I know that my wish won't come true. I'm stuck here in the land of unknowns, drowning in a foreign language, alone and without hope.

Liza

June 2019

The Memory Machine

Harry inspected the contraption in front of him. It had to be metal from the way it glimmered in the light. The smooth exterior felt warm to his touch. Which metal?

"It isn't stainless steel," he noted.

"Stainless steel feels cool against the skin," he heard old professor Maroy's grainy voice. "Not because it is cool but because it is a good inductor. It takes your heat into itself."

Alchemy of Metals had been his favorite subject at school. He met Marla there. Marla with her large appetite and small frame. She wasn't much of a cook, so he did the cooking and she did the eating.

"She probably found a better cook," he scoffed as he caressed the machine.

He turned the contraption upside down. It wasn't copper, it lacked the tan orange color and the vibration was off.

"Some metals are man-made and others, like copper, are a gift from nature," professor Maroy purred as he held his copper bar.

Marla had bought Harry a medium-sized copper-lined pan for their eight-month anniversary, "to make your world-famous lasagna." She had always loved his lasagna the best. She would moan in delight as she ate it.

"You should open your own restaurant," she said between bites. "Actually don't, then you'll be too busy to cook for me." She was both selfish and possessive, qualities he admired. He shook the memories back.

"Marla's gone," he sighed.

Harry's arms hurt from holding the machine.

"Osmium," he said and placed the machine down and touched his heavy heart.

Harry shuffled the papers in his pocket until he found the post-its. Then he picked up a pen. When he finished writing he pasted the note next to the machine, “BROKEN”.

He turned his attention to the next contraption. “Time Machine, huh?”

With a smile he sat down inside. If it can’t be forgotten then maybe it can be changed, he thought as he pushed the ON bottom and adjusted the knobs.

Liza

June 2019

Twilight Watcher

The lights beckoned her out.

She knew the warnings. “Marie, good girls don’t venture out at night,” she had heard every evening growing up.

But the lights were different tonight. They had different tunes. Bright merry colors rather than dark sinister ones.

She didn’t dare be caught. It was bad enough she wasn’t sleeping. But lately sleep hadn’t brought her colors. It had become grey.

She knew in the lights laid the answer to rekindle her dreams. Her structured life had comforted her. Wake up, take care of her family, cook, eat, and sleep. It had been fine, yet the tightening in her throat had extended to her stomach, making her gag down her food at meals.

All of it lacked colors. Outside, the lights laughed. The blinking drew her attention.
An invitation.

She listened and only heard the deep breathing of her family. The only one awake was Ada. She was allowed to stay up.

Marie never thought it was fair that Ada stayed awake but only one member of the family was chosen to be a TwilightWatcher. Marie wasn’t allowed to complain, it was unseemly.

Another blink. She pulled on her dress and collected her gardening shoes. The lights had invited her, not Ada.

Liza

June 2019

A CHILDHOOD DESIRE

He’s crawling on my hand. His legs tickle my skin. It’s okay because I like him. Now he’s rolling himself into a ball. I love it when they do that. Roly-polies are my favorite kind of bugs.

I love all bugs. I guess it’s because they like me, they trust me, and they slow everything down. I wish I could slow everything down sometimes.

Other times, I like to go fast. My mom and dad tell me I have something called ADHD and autism. All I know is, there’s way too much going on and way too many sounds-all at the same time.
My bugs make me feel calm. It’s really hard to feel calm sometimes. Sometimes feeling calm is boring. Sometimes I like to flail my arms and shake my legs to get that weird feeling out of me.

I’m talking about that feeling that makes me think electricity is rocketing through my insides, making my skin feel prickly. I don’t like that feeling. Moving my body a lot makes it go away for awhile.
Roly-polies don’t have that problem. They’re calm all the time. I bet they never feel weird. When I’m in the mood to be silly-which is often-I like to make funny sounds because my mouth feels strange. The noises I make help my mouth feel better and they make my little sister laugh.

My bugs can’t make sounds or act silly, but I still love them. They’re my friends. They trust me and they like me, because I take care of them and I’m calm with them.

My mom says I should be an entomologist when I grow up, because I can study the bugs I love and discover new bugs, too, I told her, “ maybe,” because I’m not sure yet. I’m only twelve and I don’t think other twelve year old boys are thinking about their futures yet.

For now, I wish I could be more like my roly-polies. I want to slow down my world once in awhile. But not all the time. I want to have fun, too.

Jessica S.

June 2019

CHILDREN

There was a family I spent a lot of time with over the years. We weren’t very close when they first bought their house in my neighborhood. But, as time went on, we began to share experiences, moments, good and bad-as friends do.
The father of the family would mutter under his breath if he was angry about something. He never told me anything directly because he didn’t like to talk about his problems. When he was happy, he’d work on the garden with his children.
Those times were enjoyable for me, because we didn’t have to speak. I’d watch the three of them enjoying each other’s company and it was enough for me to just be there. There was laughter, curiosity expressed with many questions, and occasional bickering. The children were brother and sister after all.
The only family member who ever spoke directly to me was the mother. It wasn’t often because she rarely ever ventured outside to our friendly meeting spot. When the whole family showed up, it was for a barbecue or a special occasion, like a birthday.
I was okay with that because I preferred spending time with them individually. It was far more satisfying. When the mother of this family did come to see me, she looked stressed. Her hair was messy from her yanking and shaking hands. As soon as she approached me, the tears began to flow and I waited for her to speak.

She’d look at me, but her eyes were far away. She’d always say things like, “I can’t do this,” or “They deserve better.” I knew she meant she was doubting herself. I wanted to tell her she was a good mom and that her children loved her. But I couldn’t. She cried harder, the more she spoke about her children. The sobbing couldn’t drown out the screaming coming from inside the house. Her eyes would focus on me and she’d say,”I have to go back.”

Those times were sad meetings for me, but I cared for this family and-as a friend-I wanted to be there for all their experiences. The children interacted with me the most.
The daughter was only five years old and the son was twelve. They liked to be silly with me, which I loved. They’d chase each other, look for insects to collect, and roll around in the grass, laughing.
When they smiled and laughed, you could almost forget they had any disabilities. I loved it. Their smiles were innocent, sometimes curious, and always beautiful.

Their laughter filled me with joy. In those moments, they were like other children. But I knew how special they were. They just navigated and perceived the world differently. But so did I, and that was fine.
The children were definitely my favorites of the family. I didn’t want them to leave but the day had come. The family had sold their house and was planning to move very far away. I knew I’d never see them again.

The sadness nearly overwhelmed me before it became bittersweet. Each family member glanced at me, one by one, smiling as they said goodbye. Though I longed to follow them, I could not.

I was a tree. Their tree. Always.

Jessica S.

June 2019