The day before our trip to Disneyland, I woke up with blood in my underwear. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I’d known this was coming, sooner or later, the same way it was always looming for prepubescent girls, but I’ll admit, the timing wasn’t stellar. Still, I wasn’t surprised. Life had always had a way of taking good things away from me. Why should I have hoped to be a child at the most magical place on earth, if even only for a day? I shook my mother awake in the darkness of Grandma’s guest bedroom. “I started my period,” I stated bluntly.

“Oh honey,” Mom moved to cup my face, to give sympathy, but I pulled out of her touch and tucked twitching hands behind my back.

“It’s not a big deal. I just need…stuff.”

Mom sighed, resigned, and threw off her blankets. She shouldn’t be surprised this was how I’d chosen to handle the situation. First blood or not, I’d been an adult for years. It didn’t matter that I was only twelve. I’d stopped being a child the first time I’d offered myself up for a beating to spare my little brother. Dad didn’t particularly care who he hit, so long as he hit someone. I’d been six then and already well on my way to understanding some things about the world I really shouldn’t have. With the first smack of Dad’s beating stick on my back, the last dregs of innocence had left my small body. I should probably feel something about that, too, but I didn’t. It’s just the way things were.

My mother shuffled past, beckoning me to follow her into the bathroom across the hall. She held up a bulky panty liner, “Here. This is all Grams has. We’ll stop and get you something better on the way. Let me show you how to use it.”

I nodded, and let her show me, though I already knew. My best friend had gotten her period six months ago. Sara wasn’t one to leave out any detail and had shared the ins and outs of bleeding and tampons and pads with brutal efficiency to anyone who would listen in our little friend group. Yes, I already knew, but I let Mom show me. It was more important for her to feel needed than it was for me to be comfortable. And so, I shuffled out of the bathroom and packed up my bag, adding a fistful of the low-quality incontinence liners to my purse.

We drove for twelve hours that day. I shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of my grandparent’s minivan, but I wouldn’t dare complain. They were footing the bill for this trip to Disney. God knew my mom, who was in the throes of raising six kids solo, couldn’t afford it. Mom bought me tampons at a truck stop. Every hotel we’d be staying at during our week-long trip would have a pool, and I loved to swim. Mom tried to convince me that I wouldn’t even bleed much, but I knew she was wrong. My body had been hovering on the precipice of this thing for too long. I was more developed than any of the other girls I knew, with heavy breasts and curving hips and standing at 5’8” already. Men had been screaming vulgar things out the windows of their trucks at me for two years as I made my trek to school in the mornings. I couldn’t really blame them for mistaking me for a woman or something close to one. I looked like it. I relished the vile words the men spewed out their windows at me. I knew I shouldn’t, but my father had told me I was an ugly thing for so long, it was nice to know that someone, anyone, thought differently. I pondered all of these things during the twelve-hour drive, and arrived at the conclusion that while the whole period thing was miserable, it wasn’t a bad thing. It was just another step toward becoming the adult I so desperately wanted to be. When I was an adult, I could be free. I wanted so badly to be free. I wanted so badly to be wanted.

By the time we arrived at the theme park the next night, I was an old hat at the whole tampons and pads thing. I had fully leaned into the idea that no matter what anyone tried to tell me, I was a woman now. I’d demand the respect of one. And I did. Grams and Mom were the first to notice the shift. They just met my gaze with a knowing glint and subtle nods. I’d not be treated like a child anymore. Mercifully, they didn’t try to. They stopped giving me orders and started deferring to me for opinions and on the fourth evening of the trip, Grandma handed me a tattered copy of her favorite romance novel and informed me, “You’re old enough to read this now.”

During our breaks from the sticky, sweaty excitement of the park, I devoured the book. It confirmed some things that’d been pondered over pillows at many a slumber party. The book gave vital information on how to fully wield the power that’d been bequeathed upon me in the form of generous hips and cat eyes. On the last night of the trip, my bleeding had stopped and I clutched a towel around my breasts and left the hotel room with a mumbled, “I’m going to the pool.”

Surprisingly, no one challenged me. They let me slip from the room, twelve years old, clad in nothing but an orange bikini and a towel.

I smiled with wicked delight as I made my way to the pool yard. I’d been watching, these days past, hoping for an opportunity to test my hypothesis, but in order to do that, I needed to get away from my family… and they’d just… let me leave. My heart pounded as I exited the building. The thick, warm night air of a Los Angeles summer blasted me, and I gulped down lungfuls and told myself to be brave. I stepped into the poolyard and let my towel drop. It pooled around my feet, and when I looked up, six pairs of eyes were running up and down the length of me. I met a pair of glittering blue and grinned. I let a little bit of that heat I’d been kindling flare in my eyes, too, “Can I join you?” I purred in a voice foreign to my ears. The minor league baseball player across from me smiled lazily and trailed his fingers through the steaming water next to him.

“Sure,” he said, taking another sweeping look down to my toes and then slowly back up before he met my eyes again. Something stirred in his gaze and I bit my lip before climbing into the hot tub beside him.

I’d been watching the baseball team for a few days. They had rooms down the hall from ours. I’d overheard them talking about their spur-of-the-moment decision to stay a few nights and explore the theme park before continuing on their way. All of them were young, in their early twenties, and all of them were outrageously good-looking in the way only aspiring male athletes can be. They were all also, mercifully, on good behavior. I took for granted the danger I was putting myself in, not having learned the other truths about the way men might behave when confronted with an almost-naked young woman. And that’s what they thought I was: a young woman. My body, my face, the way I held myself told them. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t bother to correct them. I spent hours in the pool that night, riding on their shoulders, swimming beside them, running my hands all over them, their hands all over me. I reveled in it. I laughed and they echoed, and when the one with striking blue eyes invited me up to his room, I thought for a long minute about going, but this man was a gentleman and he saw the hesitation in my eyes and tipped his head.

“I get it,” he said, “you’ve got other attachments.”

I smirked and nodded, allowing him to believe whatever conclusion he’d come to.

“Either way, this was,” he smiled, “...fun. Thanks.”

I twined my fingers in his and looked up under my lashes, “Sorry.”

He ran a tentative hand down my cheek. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Let me know if you change your mind. You can find me in room 402.”

I nodded again and gave him the sultry smile I’d spent an hour cultivating in the mirror earlier. He grinned and turned away, exiting the pool yard with his friends elbowing and gently ribbing along the way.

When they were gone, I sank back into the hot tub and laughed. Though they didn’t know it, those men had just given me the keys to the kingdom. My hypothesis was confirmed. There was power in this woman’s body. I’d just had no less than ten men dancing for me like puppets on strings. I palmed my round breast and grinned at the sky. Yes, there was power in this body, power in the truth I now beheld. And I would use it from that moment forward to get everything I ever wanted.

When we left the most magical place on Earth the next day, my metamorphosis was complete. I was a woman, and the world wasn’t ready for the terrors I was poised to unleash upon it.

by Wilkinson Riling

There is a quote from French dramatist Jean Baptiste Legouve, "A brother is a friend given by nature." I can say from experience, nature went out of her way to provide to me the best friend, the best brother, a person can have. It would be years later when cruel fate would override that process of natural selection with the indifference of a random accident.

We were two years apart, my brother Richard and I, but I can tell you we had a deep connection I've heard only exists among twins. Physically, for all the similarities, there were significant differences. Richard was taller, I was leaner. Richard was muscular, where I was slight. Richard was left handed, I was right. Richard was outgoing and personable, I leaned towards being introverted. The one trait we both possessed was we could look at each other and know in that instant what the other was thinking. With just a glance we could detect in one another our thoughts, mood, veracity, anxiety, needs and most of all humor. That was the one super power he had over me. He could make me laugh anytime he wanted, and often did.

When we were kids we had a basement my Dad had refurbished with a tile floor, drop ceiling and wood paneling. Pop even put a TV in the back wall when the first remote controls came out. The basement was a man cave long before they were ever known as man caves. Speaking of caves, when you closed the main door and covered up the basement window, it was black as pitch in the cellar.

The neighborhood kids would come over to play a game of "Tag in the Dark." The person who was "It" would step out of the room and count while everyone scurried for hiding places. That person, after reaching "ten Mississippi," would turn off the light, enter and have to search in the darkness to find the next person to be "It."

My brother never bothered searching for anyone else, he just would start calling out my name in a funny voice and wait to hear my stifling giggles. I tried so hard not to laugh one time, I wet my pants. So, when he tagged me and the lights came up, I was not only "It," I was pissed, because he made me the focal point of much childhood derision. But I knew then as I know now, all's far in a game of "Tag in the Dark."

My brother had a softer side to him as well. When we were kids we shared a room and a bed. Around Christmas time we both liked having a back scratch. When we gave each other a back scratch there was always an argument who went first. Because if you were the first scratcher, then you, as the scratchee, could fall asleep after. Without a clock we had to figure out how to time the length of the back scratch. So, we used the Christmas standard, "Silent Night." The back scratch would last only as long as the first two stanzas of the carol. Richard always got to give me a back scratch first, leaving me half asleep to finish up. I still remember my seven-year-old voice cracking on the high notes of the lyrics encouraging one to sleep in heavenly peace and finishing with my brother asleep in what could only be described as such.

I smoked my first cigarette with my brother. I was around ten. We would go behind our garage along with my brother's friend Scotty. We took turns puffing and try not to cough on a Winston cigarette Scott stole from his mother. Our garage was backed up against a small hill that divided our block from the street behind us. This hill gave us easy access to the garage roof where we would practice our delinquency. On this particular day, we were racing to climb up to the garage roof. Scott and I took the well travelled back route.

My brother had a better idea. My father had left a ladder out, unbeknownst to us, Richard set it up in front of the garage and started to climb. Scott and I arrived on back of the roof just as Richard's arms came over the opposite end of the garage followed by his grinning face. He had that smile on his face thinking he surprised us with his ingenuity. It took less than a second for that smile to be replaced by a look of fear and regret. The ladder slipped out from under him and he disappeared from view. I don't remember hearing him scream, I do remember the sound of crashing glass.

Scott and I ran up to the edge of the roof and looked down. The image is burned into my brain like a color daguerreotype. The edges may be faded, but all the consequential parts clear and visible. Richard lay splayed on his stomach perpendicular to the fallen ladder and surrounded by shards of glass from a broken window. He was wearing short pants. His left leg was cut open at the calf with a four inch wide vertical tear that ran from just below the knee to just above the ankle. There was a pool of blood around the area of his leg. I could see the white of his bone protruding out from the canal of blood held in his place by a levee of skin.

I don't ever recall being more clear of thought. I remembered our neighbor had been working in his garage. I jumped off the back of the garage and ran through the neighbor's hedges, I told my neighbor that Richard needed help. The neighbor ran over with rags to use as a tourniquet. I didn't follow. Instead, I ran down the driveway and up the street. This happened on a Saturday afternoon. I recalled that another neighbor up the street always had her father over for a late afternoon spaghetti dinner on Saturday. Moreover, I remembered her father was a doctor. I got the old man away from his Italian dinner and to bring his medical bag. I pushed him down the street imploring him to hurry and to save my brother.

The doctor had clean bandages and gave my brother a shot of something just as the emergency vehicle showed up. In the end, Richard required over seventy stitches and had to work to rebuild muscle in his leg. It only served to make me aware of how accident prone my brother could be. I've heard it suggested because he's left handed as the reason, but I believe it's because he was fearless. He remained so even after taking that fall.

My brother went on to become of all things, a roofer. Talk about tempting the fates. He started his own roofing company which became locally very successful and well respected. I pursued a career that took me to the West coast. Whenever I'd come back to visit over the years we'd rib each other about our childhood exploits, whether wetting pants or falling off ladders, to any weight gain that we managed to accumulate over the years. Even though we both put on the pounds, Richard would always smile and say, "Bill, you ain't heavy, you're my brother." The line was taken directly from the 1969 hit from the Hollies, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother." It would become our theme song.

In 1989 I was at work at my desk in California. The phone rang. It was my father. He told me Richard had an accident. "Please don't tell me he's gone, Dad." He wasn't, but it didn't look good. I flew home that evening. My brother had fallen after a chicken ladder snapped in half causing him to slide off a three story roof. He struck a car and then hit the pavement head first. A chicken ladder is a homemade wooden support that allows a roofer to walk perpendicular to a slanted roof. This gave out causing Richard's fall.

The first day I arrived at the hospital and saw him, Richard's head looked swollen to the size a beach ball, tubes and wires stuck in and on him like tentacles draping from an electronic squid. I got to hold his hand and let him know I was there but I have no idea if he heard me. I spent the day bedside and whispered to him stories from our childhood.

On the second day, I am left with another color daguerreotype in my brain. My father and I were visiting Richard. We were talking in low tones at the base of his bed. Without warning, Richard bolted straight up in bed, eyes wide open, staring directly at us, his left hand reaching out to us as if he wanted us to grab his hand and stop him from falling. It was and is, the scariest thing I ever saw in my life. Because I had no idea what to do. Nor did my father, because we banged into each other trying to move out of the room and call for a doctor. Richard was pulling at tubes and cables and stretching all the wires clipped to him. The doctor and nurses scrambled and settled him down, but I can never forget the fear I saw in my brother's eyes and the helplessness I felt. The doctor said Richard might have been reliving the fall in his mind. Add to that, what my father must have been going through and it was all beyond my emotional imagination.

The third day remains the most incredible for me, because it contains elements of life's mysteries causing me to question my very sanity and issues of life after death. I can play back bits and pieces in my head like a tick tok video, so let me time stamp it for you.

It was March, 13th, 1989. 7:30 a.m. an early Spring morning. The sun had risen above neighborhood rooftops. I'm sitting in Richard's hospital room with his wife. We're letting Richard know we're there. I'm speaking in low tones because I don't want to excite him and repeat the previous day. His wife is gently stroking his forehead. A nurse barrels into the room like Mary Tyler Moore on prozac and loudly proclaims, "Good morning, Richard, it's a beautiful day!" She opens the blinds to let in more sunlight. "Spring is in the air! The tulips are in bloom and your family is here and they love you very much!"

I asked the nurse how he slept through the night. She smiled saying he had such a good quiet evening, no seizures. She again reminded us it was a beautiful day and left. I turned to my brother's wife and smiled. "I think he's going to be okay. I'm going to call Dad." I went to a nearby pay phone, fished out a quarter from my pocket. My Dad picked up in one ring. "Dad, Billy. Richard slept through the night, no seizures. He even looks better. Dad, I think he's going to be okay." Those words no sooner left my lips when I heard the intercom. "Code Blue, Code Blue, Code Blue."

"Dad, get down here, now!" I had a sinking feeling I hope I never feel again.

I ran back to my brother's room, it was already crowded with an emergency staff. My brother's wife was against the opposite wall in the hallway looking in, but it was hard to see anything except the backs of the doctors and nurses working on Richard. The patient room right next to my brother's room was empty, so I stepped up to the doorway to get an angled view of them working on my brother. They were doing CPR and all the other emergency procedures we see on TV hospital dramas but this drama was real. Or was it?

There was a radio playing music in the empty room as they worked on my brother. The radio was playing a song. It was a song by the Hollies. "He Ain't Heavy He's my Brother" was playing as my brother was dying. I started to think I was in a bad dream, not quite a nightmare. This can't be happening. But it was. For four minutes and nineteen seconds I listened to that heart breaking song watching as my brother's life ebbed away. To add to the mystery of the moment, the next song that the radio played was Chicago's "If You Leave Me Now." His wife later told me that was their song. Was that Richard saying goodbye to us? Was it just an amazing coincidence? Was my brain seeking connections to help me deal with the trauma of the moment? I don't know. It haunts me to this day.

As the song says... the road is long with many a winding turn that leads us to who knows where? But if I'm strong, strong enough to carry him, he ain't heavy, he's my brother.

I carry my brother in my heart.

I'm a boomer. I vote. I mind the thermostat, keeping the temp just shy of Goldilocksian just rightness.

I'm a boomer. While growing up, the holocaust was still a societal fresh memory. And a couple of atom bombs. And imminent nuclear war, whose threat, ironically, has reared its ugly head again.

I'm a boomer, and just when I'm tempted to think about "greatest generations" and such, I realize I like all of the new people.

I'm a boomer, but I'm not proud. Boomers are old. They act like they were born old. They acted like that and dressed like that when they were growing up. And they grew up. Right into these old people.

So I'm a boomer-denier, recalcitrant. I eschew the boomer persona.

Yet, even reborn, rewoke boomers remember things as they were. Things that persist--inert, immutable, and finished--fixed in place--even when life moved on. Perfect casts of those we leave behind, marbled in stone--truth be told.

Like those frozen in place in the ruins of Pompeii. Or Han Solo in his Carbonite.

A story:

I had a crush on this adorable, amazing girl in high school. She was my puerile unrequited love. But as I moved on in life, in my mind's eye she remained the same all these years: adorable and amazing. Beautiful. Fun. Shapely and sexy and--did I say--adorable.

But we never happened. Oh, the pain!

I used to pray that I'd be OK with whatever God planned if, at just some point in my life, she would be with me. Even if it took all my life. Even until my last day on Earth: if I could have her then (and she, me), it'd be just fine with me and thank you, God.

At reunions, conferences, or pledge drives, I'd ask about her, but no one had any intel on her. I was dying to know how she turned out. Married to whomever (and not me), was she happy?

After countless alumni pages, chasing surnames, and very deep search engineering, I found a possibility, a link. Finally! I did a [Ctrl+F] of all of her names--first, last, maiden, and married. A name set some letters on fire to highlight, way down the column inches. Somewhere down an obscure scrollable site of a garden club blog that promised...pictures!

But before I took my final stroll, savoring in my mind's eye my running through the fields toward a slow-motion embrace of the girl I knew and loved, I stopped.

What if she's dead? This site was from two years ago.

I searched the name that lined up the correct search engine tumblers and added..."Obituary."

Nothing! As if God was telling me, "There's a chance."

I used the left arrow to advantage and went back to my highlight. I tiptoed down the web page. There she was, her name in the legend below the picture that identified her second from the right.

My God, she looked just like an old boomer! But happy.

And adorable.

BOOM! God had had different plans for these boomers who each traded up. And to the x's, millennials, z's, alphas, betwixters, and nexters, I realize God was on point all along, because my life was way better the way things had turned out. In fact, enjoying life's perfect Goldilocksian just rightness.

This story is a tragedy. I’ve told it a million times. In fact, it’s most of my stories, but I’ve left out much of it. I’ll tell you more and more each time, I swear. Here’s the most I can give you today:

He was my first love. It all began when I was 18 and he was 17. We were almost to the end of our senior year of high school. March 24th was our first date. I had never been romanced before. I’d had crushes, been on dates, been kissed, been felt up in someone’s basement by a guy I hated. But, I’d never felt something like I had that night. I was wearing ripped jeans, a black tank top, a flannel shirt, my black converse, and my dad’s old jacket. I still have the last two items. The shoelaces are frayed and the jacket’s pockets are ripped, though. We had pizza and ice cream, and talked about our future plans - college, jobs, moving away from home.

I had already committed to school, but he was waiting on a letter from his top choice. He wanted to be a theater major. I only went to one school play - the children’s play he was in - because I hate plays (for the most part). He’d actually told me not to go to it, but I did anyway, and I think I still have the ticket stub and the playbill with a kiss mark over his name. I wore pink lipstick that day.

He got his degree in computer science but works in email marketing (I despise advertising of all kinds, but not because of him). But, before all that he moved back to Italy, and we were long distance for a year. It was awful, minus when he visited me at Christmas. I drove to the airport to see him. It was raining and I listened to “Friday I’m in Love” by The Cure on the way home. I got distracted and took the wrong exit. I ended up on the toll road.

Our second date was at the mall. I wore yoga pants and I may have been hungover again. I know I was tired. I don’t drink anymore which makes this story funnier to me. When we were walking, I started singing along to the music they played over the intercom and he said to me, “you know every song”, which isn’t true, but I know a lot of the hits from the past 50 years. We sat on a couch in the Macy’s furniture section for hours. Long enough for someone who worked there to come up to us and comment on it. He said he’d already sold the couch and didn’t mind that we’d been there for so long, he just thought it was interesting. He said, “When you two get married, come back here, so I can sell you some furniture”, and we used to reference that all the time. We didn’t get married, not even engaged.

On our third date, we went on a walk at a park near my neighborhood. We ended up back at my house (not in that way, that comes later). He met my mom for the first time, and we went upstairs to “watch TV” aka makeout. We made our relationship official that day. I was wearing my favorite overalls that I still get compliments on to this day. I bought them specifically to wear on that date.

Our fourth date was prom. My dress was $450, and it was the most beautiful I had ever felt. I was not popular in high school, but he was relatively popular. I ended up getting compliments from people who had never spoken to me. We went back to my friend’s house for the afterparty. He drove my car there. I got a little bit drunk on shots of Ciroc and we spent the whole party alone in my friend’s bedroom (not like that, that comes later).

That happened for the first time in late June, but I won’t tell the story. It was unremarkable to be honest. We had our first fight around that time. We were driving home from another park. I think I was driving because that was something that I used to do. I stopped the argument by cranking up the music. We were listening to “Jack and Diane” by John Mellencamp, and I was singing along to it. He used to like my singing and my taste in music back then. I took him back to my house and my mom convinced him to stay for dinner. We were fighting about something stupid and she was the one who ended it, albeit unknowingly.

The worst fight we ever had was when I was 21 or 22. Flash forward from senior year of high school to senior year of college. He was an anti-vaxxer and I made fun of him for it. I can’t remember what I said, but it wasn’t that offensive. He started screaming at me. He screamed at me until I sobbed on the floor of my bedroom. I stopped trusting him that night. I remember my friend was in the other room, and he texted me asking if I was okay, and I said “yes”. The next day, when my boyfriend had gone home, my friend asked me about the fight again and I told him that I started it, which is kind of true, but he said, and I’ll never forget it, “I can’t imagine what [his girlfriend’s name] would have to do for me to yell at her like that”. They live together now and are a very happy couple, I’m still friends with them both.

The reason for the breakup was not all the fighting. In the end, he cheated on me. He admitted to it in August. I was 23 and he was 22. He told me it had happened while he was away in Italy while we were 18/19 and that he had just kissed a few girls, so I forgave him. I told him not to do it again and he promised he wouldn’t. I visited him in mid-September and was there until October 30th. He called me on the 31st to tell me he’d cheated on me twice while I was there.

I told him he was a coward for not telling me before. The thing that made me the most angry was that he chose to confess over the phone. I didn’t even get closure because he didn’t want to see me cry in person, he couldn’t do it when we were together because he couldn’t bear to see my face. He didn’t cry when he told me. That made me angry too.

He started dating someone else, but we called each other and fell asleep on the phone together many nights for the next few months. He started going to see a therapist and he got better to some extent, he started letting me talk and had more empathy towards me. He apologized and told me he’d repented (he’s a devout Catholic). I told him that meant he was forgiven by God, but not by me. (I love the song “God Will” by Lyle Lovett, and I think it’s fitting).

Regardless, we saw each other in person in January, and we went on a weekend getaway to Savannah to try to patch things up. It ended in him yelling at me in the airport when I had a panic attack. We haven’t seen each other in person since then. I wish I could say I had a better last memory with him, but I don’t.

We continued to try to patch things up for months, multiple times. We broke it off once and I started dating this girl that I really liked (she broke my heart too, but she was nicer about it). The ex-boyfriend and I almost got back together in June, but we fought over the phone about sexual assault statistics. He said men get falsely accused all the time and I disagreed. I asked him if he really believed me when I told him what had happened when I was 16 and he promised he’d never hurt me like that. He said yes, and I asked him if he’d believe that I’ve had so many friends who have similar stories and he said he wouldn’t necessarily believe them. I hung up and told him I couldn’t do it anymore.

I think back to all the times I took Klonopin before having sex, so “it’d be easier for me to get through it”, and I think it makes that argument make more sense.

Last Thanksgiving, 5 months post-breakup, we went around the table and talked about what we were most thankful for, and I said that I was most thankful that he wasn’t in my life anymore. The whole table - my whole family - clapped for me.

when we come back

into focus

and it's a number

of years in

doing time

like it's a red light

and we've got

a long way forward

and behind

on our mind

like a bubble

the wind

is swiftly

blowing

caught in the hand

and we're looking in

all the colors swirling

blending us, in

to the moment

03/27/2024

Nonfiction challenge @Prose

I grew up in a small neighborhood. My two brothers, three sisters, and my mom lived in a housing project in the middle of Denver, CO. Some of the other kids were cool, but most of them were trouble so I stayed away and read books in my room.

Deep into our 10 year residence there, we played sports, went to church, started backyard dance groups. It was a real groove even though in all ten years, I hadn't a single girlfriend.

Then one of my sister's friends started whispering in my ear while we all hung out.

I didn't know how to respond but it was... well, hot.

She would say two sweet words, and then linger there.

"Meet me."

This went on for a week or so. I finally asked here "where" one day.

She told me how to find her bedroom window.

The night I arrived, a caller was already present. I still climbed up.

When she saw me, the previous fellah was dismissed promptly. I later learned he had never actually had the pleasure.

With anyone. To this day.

But I digress.

She told me to stay quite, that sge had to keep her door open. Mother's rules.

I saw her rummage through her closet and she returned with a condom.

Her mouth helped it on.

Then I was to lie back.

There are no words to describe the first caress of a naked girl's thighs. Especially as her hips grinded and melted onto yours.

But we were cut short at the sound of mummy headed upstairs.

I had to leave.

But left my virginity behind.

fin

The hefty odor of coconut with subtle hints of tea tree floated through the room as I sat dutifully on the living room floor. My mom sat on the sofa behind me, holding a faded yellow comb with one too many bristles missing in one hand, and balancing an aromatic elixir of oils in the other, the scent of which permeated the room. Without much warning, her cold hand pulled against my forehead, painfully craning my neck back.

My mom’s fingers, intentional and trained by preceding generations, massaged my scalp, the warm coconut oil seeping into my hair, washing away the burdens of the week. Even the slight tugging of the comb on my scalp felt like a release, a cathartic experience. When I saw the metallic cup of oil depleted, I knew every strand of my hair was meticulously drenched. She concluded by carefully folding her work into two braids on either side of my head.

Every day until the end of fifth grade, my scalp was well-cared for, my braids bore an uncanny resemblance to Wednesday Addams, and coconut became my signature scent as I pranced through the halls of my elementary school. Little did I know at the time that I carried my culture with the oil in my hair and the braids resting on my shoulders.

But as I entered middle school, these parts of me began to wash away. I grew distant from my culture in an attempt to satisfy the norms I saw around me. A circular oil stain and a bottle of heat protectant replaced the shelf space that once had been filled with a Tupperware container of oil. The sharp scent of coconut no longer trailed me; instead, I conformed with straightened strands. I spent Monday and Thursday nights alone in the bathroom, burning my hair into society’s mold.

Until one day in tenth grade, my mom arrived home carrying a mammoth-sized white jar. Unscrewing its lid, the soft scent of coconut slid through me. A sense of euphoria seeped into my body in unison with the memories of those weekday nights with my mom.

“You know, I’m not just pulling strands, Riya,” she said, and explained that in Sanskrit, the word “sneha” translated to “to oil” as well as “to love.” What I had once simplified to be a method to improve my hair health, was truly a labor of love that had been handed down, generation to generation.

I came to realize that abandoning this tradition had led me to rinse my culture away. And so, I began to gradually re-oil these gaps I had created. That night, I asked my mom to oil my hair once again. I sat in the same spot I had those many years ago, with her steady presence behind me. Her slow process felt soothing and tender, linking our generations. My mom’s hands on my scalp restored my appreciation for the tradition she was continuing through it. Through her, I’ve learned the significance of treasuring tradition and I’ve found compassion in even the most mundane rituals in my life- at school and at home.

Mondays and Thursdays, once demoted to ordinary days, are now treasured occasions for introspection and connection. On the days following, I proudly wear my hair, coconut-infused and all, with the braids cascading over my shoulders as symbols of my identity. They remind me of the ties that bind me to generations past. Through hair oiling, I honor and embrace my authentic self, weaving my story into the traditions that shape it. These days have a special place in my heart, reminding me that, despite the tangles along the way, I am capable of appreciating the profound beauty of the people and traditions that complete me.

I really like this challenge. I adore writing. I know I'm not that great yet but what I do know is that I like writing, I enjoy writing because it is the only place I can be myself. I can pour all of my emotions and mould them into a character or a situation and I love the power it gives me. The only place I feel powerful is when I write because I get to decide what direction I want to give to my stories and characters, which I hope to publish someday.

I got diverted. I feel like none of my friends understand me. We used to be a group of seven friends at my university, we used to do everything together and it used to be so fun. These people made my college life worth it. Among these seven friends, we had an inner closer friend group of just 4 people. Me, my roommate let us name her 'Pam', my neighbour 'Danny' and our friend 'Amy. I loved this inner circle of friends. I felt like we understood each other so much and that this group would remain forever. My dreams were evidently short-lived. There was a huge fight between my roommate, Pam and the rest of them. I was left hanging in the middle. Left to handle both sides. I know I can never leave my roommate alone because I do not think she was in the wrong. I think one of my other friends 'Sarah' poisoned the minds of my other friends and suddenly they didn't want to talk to her anymore. Sarah has always been jealous of Pam, the way she had an inner circle that Sarah was not a part of. Sarah envied her, and still does.

Both sides were sympathetic towards me, knowing that I had to balance both friends. I put in efforts, I put in effort for four months and these days I began feeling myself slipping. I've begun feeling that Sarah, Amy, and Danny are very fake towards me, they don't really want to talk to me but they're putting in unnecessary effort. I feel my friendship with them has gotten too 'forced' hence, I've stopped trying. This has left me in a problem.

Amy used to be a really good friend of mine, I still consider her a good friend but she's gone around and made Sarah her best friend. I haven't been able to properly talk to Amy in more than a month and I regret that. She gets me, a little but I've gone and thrown it down the drain. I'm left with no energy to reconcile. I feel I've been giving too much of myself with nothing for myself.

I've also realised people only care about their own problems, they don't want to listen to other's problems if they can help it. Humans are selfish, it is a known fact. We mostly centre our lives around ourselves, thinking of others to be side characters in our movie. We fail to realise that there are simultaneously millions of movies screening and everybody is a side character in one or the other movie. The problem lies in the fact that nobody has time for my movie. I've been watching others movies for a while now but nobody is interested in mine. This is mainly also the problem of Pam, she gets too caught up in her own movie to ever even enquire about mine. She has to say something about everything.

I'm different. I've never fallen in love with anybody (not counting family and friends) I haven't really felt romantic feelings towards anyone. I don't know if I'm aromantic or not. What I do know is that everybody is in a relationship and I don't want to be in one like ever and that makes me different and weird. But sometimes I think that nobody else has really liked me either. I know that for a fact. My friends have been pretty all my life and the story has been so centred around the movies they are starring in that we never got the chance to reach mine. This is the first time I've ever admitted this insecurity of mine.

I'll be okay, I know that I'm okay with being a side character in most movies, I know that I'll be okay tomorrow but I saw this challenge and I wished to write it. Thank you so much for listening. I hope all of you do well and sleep well!

I told my friends that I wasn’t depressed. I had spent the day before laying in my bed, alternating between scrolling on my phone and staring at the wall. I’d had a jar of canned peaches for breakfast, pulled straight from the cupboard. One of the ones with a pull tab lid where the fruit inside sat in a sugar-sweet syrup like concoction. I’d eaten nothing but ice cream for dinner, scraping at the sides of the paper container while sitting in my bed. My computer laid next to me, unopened. But I felt better about myself because then I could at least pretend that I was going to start doing something productive. I’d met them at a movie theatre. We were seeing the sequel of some science fiction fantasy that I’d never seen the original for. I made jokes about reading the Wikipedia page and pretending that I knew the plot line. I’ve always been good at pretending that I’m fine. They already knew the truth, of course, but we were our own little bubble of existential crises, sitting there in the parking lot. They were just nice enough not to call me out on it.

But I lived a fine line of grief and spite, and with a determination not to lose any more people. That was the part that I wasn’t very good at. I feel like the girl in a cliche movie, complaining that everyone around her dies. But I was only two years into my twenties, and I’d already lost more people than I’d had fingers, and less than half that had been older than 30. Three suicides, one overdose, one surgery gone wrong, a little girl only eight years old. Two grandparents, too many friends. I’d gotten used to planning carpools to funerals. I carried life on my shoulders like Atlas, afraid to drop the world- knowing that all their stories now were mine.

“Maybe I’ll just stay home. Go to community college,” I say, setting my laptop on my new dorm desk. I look at my mom, sitting on my bed helping me unpack my boxes, and silently beg her to agree. But she doesn’t say anything, just smiles at me sympathetically. If she thought that's what I really wanted, she'd have me home in a heartbeat. But she knows, despite my fears, I want to do this. Need to. “I’m just so nervous,” I say, rubbing my stomach. Anxiety always brings me stomach problems. “I don’t remember how to make friends.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, her tone telling me I’m being ridiculous. “You’ve never had any trouble making friends.”

“Well, yeah. I know. But they’ve just... always been my friends. Through school and sports and stuff. This place is so big. It’s not like in third grade when I just went up to whatshername and said ‘will you be my friend’ and she agreed and that was that.”

My mom laughs. “Well, no, you probably don’t want to do that. But you’ll meet people in the dorm. And the sorority, if you end up deciding to rush.”

For some reason, my mom’s really wanting me to join a sorority. Maybe because it's not an opportunity she ever had. Her parents were barely able to send her to college, and she had to work her way through it. For me, college was a given, and there's been no talk of me getting a job. “Ugh," I say, plopping down next to her. "I just wish I could fast-forward past all the awkwardness and find people I can be myself with immediately. I, like, lock up around new people and forget how to be a person."

“Just remember. Everyone is in the same boat as you. It’s not like you’re the new girl coming into a place where everyone knows everyone. You’re all freshman in college. People are looking to make friends. Trust me. It’ll happen fast.”

“Okay,” I sigh, not wanting to talk about it anymore. She’s probably right, but her words do nothing to loosen the knot in my stomach.

I momentarily wonder if I should have gone where my friends are going and experienced high school 2.0. But I remind myself that I came to this school so I would be forced to get out of my comfort zone. As scary as it is, I want new. I want change.

My dad walks into the room with the last of my boxes. “Alright, that’s it,” he says, setting them down in the middle of the room. I use my foot to shove them closer to what I've claimed as my desk. My roommate hasn’t arrived yet and I don’t want her to think I’m trying to take over the place. Thankfully, we'd chatted online before this and had established that she'd take the top bunk, which is fine by me since I spent my whole childhood on the top.

“I’m starving." My dad says. "Should we go eat?”

My mom looks at me. “What do you think, Coley? Do you want to finish unpacking first or go eat now?”

I look at my dad. He has his hands on his hips and is tapping his foot, exaggerating his impatience. This is his signature move. I laugh to humor him. “Let’s go eat,” I say. I’m really hungry too, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat much with the knot in my stomach. But if I unpack now and then we go eat, what am I going to do when I get back and they leave? As long as I have a tangible task to complete, I won’t feel completely aimless.

We go to Shakespeare’s, my parents’ favorite pizza place since when they were students here. It’s crowded-- I’m not the only freshman moving in today-- but somehow we manage to get a table outside. I lean back in the chair and try to enjoy the beautiful August day. I breathe deeply, hoping it will ease my anxiety. It doesn’t. I look around at the tables around us. Mostly families, probably doing the same thing we’re doing. I lot of people are wearing the school’s colors, and suddenly I feel self-conscious for wearing a T-shirt with my high school’s mascot. As I fidget with my senior class ring, I make a mental note to hide it and anything else bearing the name or colors of my high school. I’m in college now. Better play the part.

When we get back to my dorm, my dad stays in the car because we’ve had to create a parking spot and he’s worried they’ll get ticketed. I hug him goodbye and my mom walks me back up to my room. I go slowly, trying to delay their departure. I wonder if I’ll cry. Probably not. I don’t typically cry when I’m expected to, something that’s always bothered me. But the feeling of dread in my stomach grows.

“Do you need anything before we go? We can run to the grocery store if we need to,” my mom says when we get to my room. My roommate still hasn’t arrived. I wish she would. That would at least be something.

“No,” I sigh. Something I’ve been doing a lot lately. Cleansing breaths. Not working. “I think I have everything I need. I can always walk to the school store if I need to.” As much as I dread them leaving, delaying it is only making my anxiety grow. I need to cut the cord. Start figuring out how to be here on my own.

“Ok,” she says, but she doesn’t move. It’s like she’s trying to think of something else to keep her longer. “Here,” she says, digging into her purse. “I got you this. I’m not sure why, but it reminds me of you. Of us.” If my mom was a public crier, this would be the time she’d start blubbering. But her eyes are dry.

I take the CD out of her hand and look at the cover. Dixie Chicks. I smile. “Landslide,” I say, remembering the times we sang that song together in the car. “Awww, how cute of you,” I joke, unable to handle the intimacy of her gesture.

She gives me a hug. “You’re going to do great,” she says. “I better get going before dad leaves without me. Love love love.”

“Love love love,” I say, looking down because I actually start to feel tears welling up. This is unexpected. “Have a safe drive back.” But I don’t want her to leave. She’s comfort. She’s familiarity. She’s safety and solace. She’s the person I turn to for just about everything, and now I’m going to be without her.

Just like that, she’s gone, and I turn and face my empty room.