Nights are lighter in the summer --

The land’s heavy heat goes to sleep with the sun like a reluctant, yawning child being carried off to bed.

The world turns a thousand subtle shades of the color blue. And you wonder if mirrors really do reflect only green light differently.

Dusk settles snuggly into the gaps between things. Warmth that was nestled into nature’s little hiding places lingers for just a little before dissipating thinner and thinner until eventually becoming night itself.

You never had to wait as the night did to become complete. Lingering at the top of the stairs waiting for a nod, a head tilt, or the small shift of making room before slipping so easily under the sheet that serves as a summer blanket. I never could fall asleep completely without cover.

The room is so still, it could almost be a painting in the background. Cool, old bedding drinks sun from flushed faces as thin fingers drink from between legs.

Grass crunches under feet like ice trying to be. Adventures and trysts splinter the hush in our yard, the neighbor’s garden, the wood next to the river.

Chirps from the bed are melted into the night to dance with the crack of wood and the song of cicadas and frogs. And all at once there are crickets in this frail ecosystem, the facade of these nights.

And, looking up, we know that every star in that bright night sky was placed there for every time that we convinced ourselves, more and more each time, that we were in love.

Slowly, as if dawn were unheard of, the haze softens to make way to a dull pink. and then to the color of the orange sherbert ice cream that you spilled onto your good dress (like your mom warned you would). And our trail, just our little reveries, slowly fades with the stars and I know and you know that our secret world is coming to an end.

Sheets, once so cold, emit warmth across the cooled sweat on backs and to legs that had to be reminded that they were chilled. Sleep in firstlight in thin shirts like crumpled paper. We will invert time, we will sleep against the clock in this small bit that is already becoming nostalgia.

It was you when you said hello

It was me when I pretended that I didn’t know

It was you when you danced

It was me when I laughed

It was you in that dress

It was me in the kitchen

It was you when we kissed

It was me for the first time

It was you when you yelled

It was me when I wouldn’t hear

It was you when you felt too much

It was me when I had you just to have you

It was you when you exploited that

It was us when we were selfish

It was us when we manipulated

How young we sounded

It was you when you came back

It was me when I agreed

Agreed with the dying greed of then

A small feeling that we both know a little too well, don't we?

You’ll write and I’ll sing

And I’ll buy you a ring

And forever

We will never

Be away.

You’ll spin and I’ll play

Me and you, Misses Day

And we will begin again in the morning

And when it is night

And you wake with a fright

It would be my delight

To sooth you.

And she’ll look just like you

A catch 22

Oh the things she will do

My beautiful girls.

I’ll spin you around

Turn that frown upside down

Take your care all around

It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I used to be a king

til I got caught in my reigns.

I used to be a queen

til my husband slept with the maids

I used to be a a fish

but I was never really good at school

I used to be a string

until I got caught in a spool

I used to be a flower

til I got baked into bread

I used to be a whore

before I got used to this bed

I used to be a lion

but I had too much pride

I used to be a ball

until I took too many sides

It’s a time and a song that have been written and told over

And over

And over

And over again. One that only grows too big before collapsing inward upon itself to begin anew in the morning. Like waking to a metal, curved bedframe in a room where the dark wood is kept warm by carpets that your parents have placed in the house before the two of you even decided to buy it. With the coffee that you never used to drink waiting, ready for one to become two. With the Pacific Northwest manifesting itself into droplets on the windowsill through the gap in the window that no one ever seems to close.

Floral quilts become daisies on your hand and little girls find the light from the sun and capture it in their eyes. Spin me around and place your hands flush against the wall to feel flat instead of hot and human.

Stop fretting, darling. Because one will always be One and you know that I’ll always be around to show you that when you seem to have forgotten. But, too, be there for me, as it seems lately that I can’t keep my numbers straight.

I traversed gravity yesterday and can feel it in the fibers of my back by right of my hands. Like how an unfortunate puppy is left from his mother, the right hand becomes Lefty and the left, Mt. Doom. But they were just things to fill my mouth when anything, really would have done.

You think this was and want this, want that. But it is only what you can get out of the end of a pen that becomes what is posted for carriage.

The truth is that these instruments are the sweetest song that my eyes could have ever seen and one that is constant and loving. I will not pretend to tell you about music when your treble clef is more trouble than it’s worth only because everything becomes a fierce and unnecessary trifle. And it’s so silly that your desserts are our social nuances and that one can forget how another sounds after only a week. And how trains of thought flow to grow to such things and destinations in which you never really bought a ticket.

So welcome to these places that I have been and to my impressions everywhere. This hand painted white will soon become a ghost; upside down of course. And then watch as it turned to a turkey and then again into a Christmas tree. And maybe my hands won’t know the things that make my skin feel like it’s not on right. Because they are fixers and not feelers. Because grabbing bundles of fabric in my hands calms my brain for some reason, but taking “medicine” scares me. If the waves of this keep going, everything will be alright under the permanently crescent moon that sings as it rings if you got too close to it at the end of the world that was accidentally made by the strike of one line that completed two letters.

There is no way to stop, really. You can just step back and say “Yikes, what a beautiful mess I have made in my own hand. Will even I be able to use what I have made?”

Maybe, maybe not. But my angle is more right than the angles that would have been drawn on this paper otherwise and I’ve turned so many degrees that it would put that unit circle to shame.

So maybe take your hands as I take mine sometimes and write until everything is okay. Or follow the rope back to your plane. Because I don’t know what hands do, but they do everything that I love and everything that I will ever hold near to me. And name them what you will, Lefty, Mt. Doom, but I won’t always be right and I already live in the Northwest.

This city was like an octagon when I first arrived, the sides of it hard and eight. Why anyone would ever need eight of anything is beyond me. But the city has since changed and these street people are more than just street people now and are more life and blood and scenery. They have come to find a place where the clouds rest, contingent upon a meticulously calculated number of people holding their breath at the same time. The ethereal pause of breath leaves for one to contemplate what statistics were in play for such a lucky creation that led to this. This country was a pioneer country left by anonymous hands for sons and daughters of parents whose crow’s feet contain pure, unfiltered sunbeams at the cracks inspired by loving contemplation.

Strange to think that this pivotal factor would never be a Callifactor to people like her, and her, and Illika, and me save for the time that forces to be reflected upon after one too many an erosive transaction. You find a K-point in your life at some point and all too quickly and oppositely, you realize that things don’t have to be that hard. And you can tell yourself that it’s okay to feel things and to feel easy. “Oliver, take that off your face” now. Because you are Oliver, and he is you and there is no need to be carrying around such things. That it’s okay to revel in a joy zone, that you can find the zest point, and you can climb the trees. You mold the clay, and you can tend the bees. You can take life and make it sweet and you can be the sugar baron on the dance panel that everyone always wondered about.

The sunbeams of this world can reflect through your morning window to make a stained glassed mural on your floor and when they ask why it is that you’ve fractals on your carpet, you can kindly and gently tell them it is “Orphism – the relationship between colour, abstract form, and music” and that they would understand it better if just one juicy bar of music could penetrate them like it has penetrated you. But also that you cannot explain it any further, just as one cannot describe what ‘sonoma’ pink is or what exactly makes the beautiful girl from stage 8 so much more beautiful than when she was on stage 7.

So take up your dance wand, you spirit figure, or whatever it is that makes you feel whole, and join these average looking strangers who are more than you or I will ever know. Because their yolk is like a hearty amphibian and their heart like a blood tub, filled to the brim. But his is light and you already carry too much.

Deanna and Gordon Banry married on September 25, 1987 with youthful hearts and unbridled enthusiasm for what the future had in store for them and their 3 month old baby, Brit. For themselves, they made a life on an island in the Pacific Northwest called Friday Harbor. To this day, Deanna and Gordon still live in this highly visited area alongside beaches dotted with dulled seaglass and where, if you listen closely enough, you can hear the ferry arriving and departing several times a day.

Today there are four Banry children: Brit, Clayton, Sam, and Lindsey. And this is where my path was allowed to cross with theirs.

Lindsey and I first met in English 101 in the very building in which I am now writing this story. We both had steaming cups every morning when we walked into class. Somehow, this show of water evaporation was enough to bring us together. She drank her coffee black and I choose hot water.

That first year in college was full of learning and tears, loneliness and exhilaration. More interested in making vodka gummy bears and blanket forts than drinking at fraternities, both Lindsey and I grew together and found similarities in our beliefs, dreams, academic goals, personalities, and preferences. I told Lindsey about how I hated the sound of the bathroom fan and she would eat cheese daily despite being lactose intolerant. We’d share stories over almonds while sitting on the kitchen floor and have sleepovers in the living room, despite being roommates. She’d lay under my bed with me and listened while I cried over a boy named Peter. She’d read my writing and tell me how much she felt that God had picked our apartment special for us. I didn’t have to explain to her why I was feeling this way or that, or the reason that I didn’t feel like attending a social gathering; she just seemed to get it. I never expected to find a friend quite like her and I haven’t found another since.

She’s the kind of person who makes you wish that all of the hurt in the world would go away. She makes me wish people weren’t mean and that everyone is warm enough on a cold day. “She’s an angel is person form” I’ve told my boyfriend while crying at a coffee shop over the stress of my senior year of college. “I miss her.” I know that you, the person reading this, cannot understand from just these worlds, but if this doesn’t tell you what kind of person she is, I have have not the command over language to tell you more.

If I forget everything else in my life, there is one day with Lindsey that I hope I shall never forget. The Pullman weather was shifting from winter to spring and the mornings were finally starting to look like heaven instead of milky water. Lindsey woke up before I did that day (as usual) and was in the kitchen looking over the morning light and drinking tea. I began to tell her about a dream that I had that night about zombies. I actually have dreams about zombies more than a lot of other things, so she was pretty used to them by then. She would always listen and tell me what she would have done if she were in my dream situation, but if it were in real life. Between her impressive cooking skills and innate innovation, I had many times over told her that she was allowed to be a part of my zombie-apocalypse team.

We started talking about how we would travel to collect the rest of our team and where our base would be. I thought that the Recreation Center on the Washington State campus would be a good place to set up. I argued that there were many escape routes and lockable doors to keep stashes in. The huge glass windows and location at the top of a large hill would allow for us to monitor approaching threats and the open staircases and floating track would allow for many points of strategic leverage that would allow ease of zombie killing. Additionally, zombie bodies could be kept in the pool until the coast was clear enough to rid them of the premises.

Lindsey said that she thought it was an okay place, but suggested that we should try to make it to her home in Friday harbor. This island is takes approximately 40 minutes to reach by ferry and has a population of a little over 2000. Additionally, Lindsey’s family was already here. She had lived here her whole life and knew it more fondly than the layout of our apartment. The land itself would yield adequate food and the sea surrounding the island would accommodate our needs. I had to admit that her idea for the location of the base was exponentially better than mine. Then I asked her what would happen if the island was already infected when we got there.

Being such a fantastical scenario, I said that we would have to run around the island and kill all of the infected people. Once the island was free of disease, we would be safe to flourish. She got solemn and then asked about Sam and Clayton. “What about them? They are in wheelchairs…they can’t run away if they are being chased.” I was sideswiped for words. I thought for a minute and said the only thing that I could think of But I also learned as soon as the words were said, that just because you can only think of one thing to say, that doesn’t mean that you should say them.

“I guess they will just have to accept it, Linds.” It’s been over 2 years since this moment but I am sure that she stared at her coffee for a few long seconds and began to cry. “But they have had to accept too many things already. That’s just not fair.” She told me about how her brothers used to love running around and playing sports. She told me about how many surgeries they have had to go through and how no one was sure how much longer they would live as their condition is so rare. How they are her brothersand she doesn’t want them to have to accept things like this just because of what they were born with.

This person who had spent every moment that she could tending to my raw heart was crying her strength away in front of me. And I realised that there were worse things than a broken heart. I can’t describe to you the disdain that I felt for myself at that moment. Lindsey had grown up knowing that nothing was promised forever and, day after day, I only thought about myself.

I didn’t get any words out. She let her thoughts drip from her brain to her mouth to my ears and into my heart. When she had let out what she had I still had no words for her. But, if I had to condense Lindsey’s resilient personality into only one moment, it would be the one that followed: She was still crying, but composed herself and said, “Maybe their condition will make them immune to the zombie virus.” To that statement I was completely stunned. And I thought to myself, “You know what, I bet they would be immune to the virus.”

This moment, as significant as it may or may not seem, spanned only a few minutes.

Lindsey has since left Washington State. She was having trouble deciding what it was that she wanted to do. And, for her, there is no better place to do this than on her island surrounded by Orcas.

Sam and Clayton Banry have had extremely difficult and unfair lives. Their condition, mucolipidosis type III, affects only .16% of the entire world and the chance of both the Banry parents being a carrier of this gene is incredibly microscopic. However, despite their obstacles, these two men, my friends, are some of the most optimistic people that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Sam is currently working on a memoir and Clayton works with the San Juan Emergency Medical Services team on the island.

This family’s resilience throughout the years has been breathtaking. Being an outside spectator to this, all of my experience is through Lindsey. I have learned that memories made are days saved and that strong men breed stronger women. Lindsey and her family have troubles, as we all do. But these people, as infrequently as I see them, have become my family.

NOT UNTIL I HEAR YOU STIR IN BED

NOT UNTIL THE TREES ARE GREY WITH FROST

NOT UNTIL MY PEN WRITES THE RIGHT WAY

NOT UNTIL I KNOW WHY ALL OF THIS IS HAPPENING

NOT UNTIL I CAN OPEN A DRAWER TO ALL OF MY SAD

NOT UNTIL THE MORNING IS CALM

NOT UNTIL THE MOUNTAINS AND ORCAS MEET

NOT UNTIL WE STAND ON THE DOCKS

NOT UNTIL THE MAGPIES CRY IN THE MORNING

NOT UNTIL THE SAWDUST COVERS MY SUNBURN

NOT UNTIL ALL OF THE BIRDS ON THESE WIRES FLY AWAY

NOT UNTIL ALL OF THIS HAIR IS GONE

NOT UNTIL THERE ARE ENOUGH BLANKETS ON THE BED

NOT UNTIL THE RHYTHMS IN MY HEAD RETURN

NOT UNTIL THE HEATER IS TURNED OFF

NOT UNTIL THE COFFEE IS REFILLED

NOT UNTIL THIS BUS GOES HOME NOT UNTIL THE ALPHABET IS EXHAUSTED. NOT UNTIL I’M NOT ANGRY. NOT UNTIL THE SUN IS IN THIS YELLOW BAG. NOT UNTIL THE SAND FLIES COLLECT THE GLASS

NOT UNTIL YOU READ THIS.

NOT UNTIL I’M SOMEBODY.

NOT UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND.

NOT UNTIL THIS BOOK HAS ENOUGH PAGES.

NOT UNTIL MY FATHER CAN REST.

NOT UNTIL THE SNOW FALLS.

NOT UNTIL THE FLOOR IS HARD

NOT UNTIL THIS BUS LEAVES

NOT UNTIL THE TASSLES BLOCK OUT THE LIGHT

NOT UNTIL MY MIND GOES FAST ENOUGH

NOT UNTIL THE LIGHT IS EVERYWHERE

NOT UNTIL HE’S SAVED

NOT UNTIL EVERYTHING CHANGES.

EVERYTHING THAT I WANT. EVERYTHING THAT ISN’T.