My Sister
I noticed the swell or her stomach, so gently sloping before I even took in the features on her face. Her round belly was wrapped in a pretty floral top that mom had worn years ago when she was pregnant. My sister had told me she was pregnant a few months ago. I saw her post photos of the baby bump on all her social medias with her typical artistic flair. She and her husband live across the country in sunny California. I don’t know why they’d waste a week of California spring to spend that time in New England. We can boast of frost and rain until mid-May some years. Longer if you’re one of the brave souls who lives up in Maine.
Mom reached her first, enveloping her in an overly cautious embrace. Mom has had five children, yet she treats my sister as if childbearing is the most dangerous condition ever. I don’t mean to insult pregnant women, really, I don’t. I’ve never been pregnant, and I’m not sure I ever will. But our mom acts like even a too-firm hug could injure her daughter or the granddaughter within her womb. She fell down the stairs with her second child and was in a car accident with me, the baby of the family. Every single one of us was fine. I think women are more resilient than we’re given credit for, that’s all.
We exchanged hugs and hellos and retired to the living rooms when their suitcases were brought in. My dad immediately made sure my sister could put her feet up and had a glass of water in her hand. I guess she should be pampered. She’s growing a human being after all. She’s seven months pregnant. Every time she glances at her belly or brushes a hand against it, she smiles. Maybe they’re being cautious because they’ve had trouble keeping babies. Two confirmed miscarriages and a few more that my sister claims were certainly pregnancies but were gone too early to test.
Her husband sat proudly beside her. He doesn’t talk much at first, you really have to let him get comfortable before he joins in the conversation. I wasn’t sure he was going to say anything at all. His eyes hadn’t left his wife and the baby hidden inside of her.
I love my sister, I do. But nobody was even half this excited when two of our brothers announced they were having kids with their spouses the last few years. My sister was always the golden child, though, so maybe we brought this on ourselves, anyway. Growing up she was the first one to answer when mom or dad called. She had all As and did her chores without being asked. She competed at the state level in high school in cross country and won scholarships for athletics, her artwork, and her academics. If she were my kid, I’d have a hard time not favoring her, too. But I could tell, even if nobody else could, that my brothers were hurt about how excited mom and dad were for her baby rather than theirs.
I love my sister a lot. She’s never once done anything to make me dislike her even a little; She had a big heart and was a great big sister growing up. She taught me how to put on makeup, style my hair, and even shave my legs. Maybe I do resent her a little. It’s just because I know mom taught her all of those things. I just wish that rather than my wonderful sister teaching me, it would have been mom. I wish mom had taken a moment and spent it with just me, teaching me what it means to be a woman. I don’t even know how to complain about it without sounding whiny or ungrateful.
She went into preterm labor near the end of her visit. And now I feel like a real jerk for being jealous of her the whole time.
Why I Write
He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.
I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.
In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.
He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.
I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.
I stopped writing.
I lied to my therapist about the journal.
I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.
He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.
The Workplace
Mariah tried to ignore her two coworkers loitering behind her at the watercooler. She likely had the worst cubicle in the entire office. She could see them in the reflection of the little silver hand mirror propped up on her desk. Her grandmother had left it for her when she passed. It probably deserved better than to collect dust in her office space.
Bill laughed too loudly. Today he wore an incorrectly tied striped tie of varying shades of brown and red. He was narrating the night before. Apparently, he’d gone on a blind date, and the woman had been a bit… over the top.
She’d had a crush on him when she first worked in the office. But when he’d blatantly ignored her, or worse, teased her, that little crush had fizzled.
Aaron, who never left Bill’s side, grinned at every overly dramatic, grotesque detail. At least he could tie his tie correctly. He was married, though. His wife probably did it. Would she be happy if she knew what he and Bill were discussing while they pretended to drink water?
Mariah lifted the mirror, pretending to fluff her tight curls. She tilted it just enough to see Sean walking down the hall to the cooler. She didn’t have to move the mirror to know Seth was walking down the hall on the other side. Great. The whole posse. She didn’t see what was so exciting about Bill. But the other three practically worshiped the ground he walked on.
Mariah tried her best to focus on the email. Mr. Guilligan, Thank you for your quick response. In regard to invoice 03254-1—
“Raya!”
Mariah whipped her head around to face Bill. “It’s Mariah,” she said with a frown.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Bill chuckled. He had a nice smile— An attractive face, really, but there was nothing else positive she could say about him.
“What do you want?” She sighed. “Some of us have work to do.”
“We want your opinion to help us settle a bet,” Bill said, gesturing to his companions. “Which of us is more likely to get a date at the bar tonight?”
Mariah turned back around in her chair. “I’m not playing that game, Bill.” She continued typing. She hoped they couldn’t tell how red her face was.
“Someone’s got a stick up her ass,” Sean scoffed quietly. Not quietly enough.
In her mirror she could see the group disbanding. Finally. Maybe she’d move the water cooler before she left tonight. She’d place it behind Toby’s desk. He wouldn’t tolerate their banter. Bill hadn’t left her alone since the Christmas party: teasing and taunting. He could have any woman in the office if he wanted. Including Sarah, the new receptionist. She was about as pretty as they came, and sweet, too, as far as Mariah could tell. She’d flirted with Bill so many times it was a wonder he hadn’t invited her out yet.
Mariah watched the time tick down to five pm. It took forever. She dumped the rest of her lo mein left from lunch in the trash can. The janitors cleaned on Tuesday so her cubicle wouldn’t smell like it tomorrow. She needed to start eating healthier. She made pretty good pay and lived in a modest apartment with roommates. She could certainly afford to buy the healthy stuff. Maybe she’d hit the grocery store that evening.
She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and slid her grandma’s mirror into an inside pocket. She’d put it somewhere in her apartment. She’d buy a cheap one for the office. She double checked that her computer was completely off, and her desk was locked. Satisfied, she took the stairs down to the lobby despite the way her heels bit into her feet. She’d have to wear flats tomorrow.
Mariah made it to the lobby. It was pretty. There was a tall wall with a waterfall running over it. The white tile floors were always clean. She still thought the building with its live plants and modern lighting was as pretty as when she’d come to work here as an intern.
“Hey, Raya, wait up!”
Damnit. Mariah kept walking. “Goodnight, Bill.”
He skidded to a stop in front of her. “Hey, I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. That was out of line.”
“Oh,” She had not expected that. “Well, you’re forgiven. Just, maybe have your conversations not right behind my cubicle.”
“S— Sure.” He stammered, running a hand through his dark hair. “Raya— Mariah, would you like to go on a date with me?”
That was even more unexpected.
“Bill!” Aaron jogged across the lobby, flanked by Sean and Seth. “Want to hit The Diaz tonight?
It could be some mean office prank. She turned to his friends. “Actually, he just asked me on a date.”
All three turned to him, incredulous. Maybe he’d been serious. “Did you?” Sean asked.
Mariah looked at Bill. “Your answer is mine,” She shrugged, “But if you say no, that door is shut for good.”
She’d never seen Bill turn red like this. It was nice to know that he could get embarrassed. He didn’t say anything.
“Right,” Mariah shook her head. She walked towards the door. Her heels clicked across the floor. She’d take a cab to the store. She made it almost to the vestibule.
“Yes!” He called after her. “Mariah!”
Our Baby Girl
I knew he was the one I wanted to marry again and again and again when we were dating. He volunteered to do the dishes after Thanksgiving at his parents' house. He refused to let my mom pay him for house sitting. He holds his baby niece and wrestles his young nephews with all the tenderness of a father. I wanted that for our kids, too.
We got married in June. It was beautiful. We shared our first kiss as a married couple before a pink Montanna sun setting over the big blue mountains. There wasn't a luckier girl in the world.
We had an awkward wedding night where we both sheepishly admitted that we'd get better over time. And we did. Four months into our marriage, I drove to the dollar store and snagged a pink box from the shelf. I could feel my face turning red; I'd never bought a test before. I made sure I handed the item to the cashier with my left hand, so she'd see my ring.
In our apartment, my hands shook so badly, I dropped the first test in the toilet. I hadn't told my husband I suspected anything. I knew he'd be excited, though. Every time we made love, he'd tell me he hoped this one conceived a child. I wasn't disappointed.
When I showed him the faint pink line on the strip, he spun me in a circle. He even teared up when the doctor confirmed the pregnancy. It was perfect.
Six months into the pregnancy, I caught him texting another woman. I only read a few messages over his shoulder before he caught me. But they seemed pretty cut and dried: She couldn't wait to have sex with him again. In October. When he was going on a trip.
Of course, I cried; bawled my eyes out, more appropriately. My husband's first words however at my frame-wracking sobs were, "calm down. Think of the baby." Of course, he was right, I didn't want to lose her. But of all the things to say, why those words?
The truth, or some version of it, tumbled out. He told me that she was someone from high school. He'd done nothing but message her. As for having sex again, he said they hadn't had sex since high school.
Of course, I was angry. Maybe I should have left right there. Instead, I demanded he block her number. I'd forgive him if it really was just a moment of weakness.
"Done." He'd said. I watched him block the number in front of me.
I was too afraid to tell my mom or my friends. They'd overreact. They didn't know him like I did. It was a mistake.
We drifted after that. I still didn't want to speak to him, and he didn't really try to engage with me, either. At some point, he stopped joining me in bed at night. I held out hope, though, that the baby might change everything. Maybe she could fix our relationship.
I was with my mom and my brother when I went into labor. My mom called my husband, but he didn't pick up. She tried to call from my phone, but he didn't answer. So, she sent him a message: Your wife is going into labor.
I gave birth to a healthy girl early the next morning. My husband never came. Rather than my husband holding my knee as I pushed, it was a young nurse. Rather than my husband getting me ice chips and a cool towel, it was some young volunteer. I held our new child alone in the hospital for two days and he never came.
My brother confirmed that he wasn't at our house, so I let my parents take me to their house. It felt wrong laying in my childhood bed holding a screaming little girl and wondering where my husband had gone. I wish I'd never found out.
The day I was pushing a human child from my body, he was filing for divorce and full custody of our baby girl. Three days postpartum, and I had a legal battle on my hands for the infant wailing on my chest.
My father called his lawyer friends for advice. My mom called everyone she knew to pray that I'd get to keep my baby. Generally, the Montanna courts favor women. So, despite having no income, I won full custody of my baby. He got the house, but I'd never be able to keep it alone. I moved back into my parents' house.
The secret got out of how the whole mess transpired. The woman he'd cheated with, had never been a fling. When they found out she was infertile, they launched a plan for him to have a child with someone else and gain full custody in court. He'd spent our marriage financially isolating me and doing whatever he could to set me up to fail. If it weren't for my parents, he would have won.
My baby is almost two years old now. Mercifully, she looks just like me. I still see her father on occasion at the grocery store or in passing at the park. The restraining order keeps him far, but not far enough. He watches from a distance. He's tried to bring the custody battle back to the courts, but his case was thrown out.
My curly haired beauty hasn't asked about her father yet. She hasn't connected that her uncle and I have a dad, or that all her playmates have daddies. I'm not sure what I'll tell her. Until then, I'll keep looking for that shadow that lurks 100 yards away.
Her Name Was Rose
Dew kissed petals and
Rosy sepal bed,
Adornments and grand
Proportions of red.
Velvet are the veins
Teeming, lush with life
Soothing the remains
Of thirst and parched strife.
Aromatic myrrh:
It escapes and slips
Imbibe the nectar,
Let it wet your lips.
Go taste the ocean
In the droplet falling:
Unkempt emotion.
Your rose is calling.
Climbing the trellis,
Vigorous and spiked,
The thorns will relish
In their hidden strike.
The rain elevates
The forbidden pearl.
In beauty she bates
Covering her churl.
Steam evaporates
Drying her dark eyes.
Too cloudy for fate,
Obscured by her cries.
Go taste the ocean
In the droplet falling:
Unkempt emotion.
Your rose is calling.
The jewel is walled in
Under lock and key.
Enclosed safe within
Loath to be free.
Fear of the briars,
The coppery scent
Their sting like fire,
The promised torment.
Unachievable:
They deem it a dream.
Irretrievable.
Her worth, too extreme.
Go taste the ocean
In the droplet falling:
Unkempt emotion.
Your rose is calling.
Knight and defender
Atop a swift steed,
With a coat of white.
His flower to free.
She can’t dull the thorns
She was born this way.
Her lovers’ flesh torn
So badly none stay.
The darkness descends.
The clouds choke the stars.
Will agony end?
She casts her gaze far.
Go taste the ocean
In the droplet falling:
Unkempt emotion.
Your rose is calling.
Deafening silence
Screaming and lonely.
Drowning in violence
Crying if only.
Liquid in motion,
Screaming and calling:
She lost devotion.
Debased and crawling.
She’ll kiss the cold ground,
Revel in the dirt.
She think it profound:
Ogling eyes avert.
Go taste the ocean
In the droplet falling:
Unkempt emotion.
Your rose is calling.
Save her, save her, please.
Sharper than her thorns,
She wields it with ease.
She won’t have to mourn.
Roses bleed like you.
Boiling, red and thick,
She smiles and laughs. Who
Cares? The tile’s slick.
What a silver tool,
What a scarlet stain.
Unforgiving. Cruel.
It’s over: the pain.
Can't taste the ocean
In the droplet falling:
Unkempt emotion.
Your rose was calling.
The Red Carpet
Central Park smells better in the fall. That doesn't say too much, but if you've ever had the displeasure of taking a walk through in the heat of summer, you'd know what I mean. It smells like dirt, rot, and earth. I feel uncomfortable watching her undress bit by bit. I have trouble not being unnerved by the leaves I step on as I trample her youth and virility bit by bit. Soon she'll die.
A glance around the park shows the birds, the people, the animals, and insects that enjoy what she offers. The shade, the fields, the flowers, the walkways, and the water-features. Sometimes I wonder if Shel Silverstein walked the same path I do. Did he try to pick around the yellow and orange leaves plastered to the asphalt?
Too often, I hear people speak about phases of life like the changing of the seasons. If this is it, I don't want it. She buds every spring like a little baby. She opens her eyes and learns and grows. She sprouts into a full woman. Fertile with life of every species, she offers everything to them. We don't even thank her.
We marvel at the colors in the fall. They are the last markers of her beauty. Some travel a hundred miles to catch the foliage. But she's dying. We all sigh and simply wait for the birth of a new year, a new season. Will next year bless us more? We don't even thank her. Have we ever thanked her? Rather, we toss silver cans in her bushes and cigarette butts on her trails.
When the leaves drop and turn brown, we wait and wait and wait for spring. What about the old crone that waits, gnarled and bare? Some admire her pretty white hair on the tree branches and bushes, but we simply wait for her to die, so we may enjoy her daughter's benefits.
She gives, and gives, and gives. We take, and take, and take. When there is nothing left, we sit back and wait until she's dead. Then, we may enjoy ourselves once more. For what is fall but the reminder that she's dying and with patience, we may help ourselves to her fruits.
Central Park is abuzz with activity. People take photos of the leaves. The birds perch in the branches. The path is covered and I have no choice but to walk the red carpet that fall has laid out.
A Million Words
There is a silent explosion of color bursting across the page as her brush breathes life into the canvas. Each stroke carries the weight of a thousand words. Each color is another chapter in the story. I don't have the talent to paint a book like she does. I could never manipulate a medium like she does. She lets me watch her fashion a flowering garden from water and pigment. She doesn't mind that I stare as she forms a rock into a goddess. How does a two-dimensional peony elicit such emotion? Why does a piece of twisted clay make me weep? How do her hands communicate more than a million words ever will?
Vicus, Villam, and Arbusto
Kashi had to pull the phone away from her ear at the decibels Sierra’s voice had reached. She didn't know her speaker could make such a sound.
“Calm down Sierra, everyone else is asleep!” Kashi spoke in hushed tones. She hadn’t been away from home for long but sleeping in her old room again felt so strange. She stared at the pale pink walls and her butterfly curtains from when she was young... even the white dresser, vanity and nightstand seemed foreign.
Sierra’s voice was something that Kashi would never feel estranged from. “Kashi I’m so jealous! You actually kissed him?”
Warmth spread over Kashi’s face as she put the phone back up to her ear. “Say it a little louder so my dad can hear.” She hissed sarcastically. “Yes, I did. We went for a walk in the fields after that. We kissed again a few more times, too.” Her mind replayed the way his fingers unbraided her hair as they kissed, running his hands through the unbound locks.
“I called it, and you know it!” Sierra said, not lowering her voice at all.
Kashi readjusted herself against the pillows as she slid under the pink comforter. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Kashi tugged on her loose dark hair that flooded the pillow where she laid her head. She never left it down. But the way Carr’s hands had run through it… She didn’t want to tie it back up. “You always do have an eye for this stuff.”
Kashi wondered if she looked out the window, she’d see the faraway light beaming from Sierra’s face. She could practically hear it over the phone. “Of course I do. I’m just glad you actually let it happen this time. Remember that summer with Nathan when you could’ve—”
“Yes, I remember very well, but I was sixteen!” Kashi protested, remembering that horrible moment when he tried to kiss her, and she instead laughed and the kiss… it didn’t happen the way it should’ve. “Please stop bringing that up!”
Sierra’s laughter was too contagious for Kashi to be upset any longer than a moment. “Don’t worry Kashi, I only use it to embarrass you. Nobody knows about it except us, Nathan and whoever he told." Considering how embarrassed he had looked, Nathan probably hadn’t told many people, if any at all.
“Oh, so what I really wanted to tell you was about what I found out concerning those letters and such.” Kashi said, peering at the envelope sticking just slightly out of her bag.
“No, Kashi, I wanted to hear more about the evening with Carr!” Sierra whined, but Kashi continued to talk anyway, relating the events.
“We need to find out more about Jeremy Hughes. He was even at my eighth birthday party, though only for a little while. He and my dad had a conversation after which he dropped a present off for me and left. The next time I saw him, he was with my uncle just a few weeks ago taking a tour of the land.” Kashi shook her head. “I can’t figure out what’s going on Sierra. But I have a suspicion that whatever schemes my dad and uncle were in originally are about to resurface.”
Her friend was actually silent for once. Kashi stared at the ceiling that was twinged with a rse hue from her pink lampshades. She hadn’t redecorated her room since she was little. Her stepmom and she had done it together. Kashi wasn’t sure she’d be able to redecorate the little room even if she wanted to. It reminded her of her stepmom.
“Sierra?”
“I just looked him up Kashi.” Sierra said from the other line. “He owns a business in the middle of Chicago. It is some sort of insurance company, I think. It is sort of unclear.”
Kashi’s brow furrowed. “What’s the name of the company?” Kashi asked, pulling her laptop from her bag.
She typed in Vicus, Villam, and Arbusto and opened the website to see a beautifully designed page. It appeared to be a legitimate business. She scanned over the blue and white webpage. There were pictures of a sprawling modern office in a skyscraper as well as some farms they worked with. Quotes, maps, agents… But this wasn’t the insurance company her father used for his business. He was part of some local group.
“Is there anything else about Jeremy Hughs? None of this is incriminating or has anything to do with the envelope and letters at all.” Kashi continued to search the website for anything; she heard Sierra’s keys clacking through the other end of the phone.
“There’s honestly not much about him.” Sierra said. “I found a website that has his times from high school track. He graduated from an ivy league college… You’re right though Kashi. Strange that he’s working with your uncle.”
After a few more fruitless minutes of searching, Kashi shut her laptop with a heavy sigh. “We should pick this back up in the morning. I’ll ask Carr tomorrow if he found anything.”
“Kashi!” Sierra chided. “I cannot believe you asked him about your investigation after you two made out!”
“Quiet Sierra! The walls are paper thin in this house. And in my defense, we were back under that gross porch light my dad won’t replace. The mood had died anyway.”
That greenish glass light that buzzed incessantly had killed the romance. It didn’t even light the porch well because of the hundreds of beetle shadows both moving and stationary that hid the shafts of ugly light. The color was not flattering for either of them. It made the chipped blue porch look as gray as the weathered wood below. Kashi had gotten one too many splinters on this porch since she was young.
Carr scuffed the toe of his work boots against it, pulling up a sliver of the wood as if in emphasis. “You find anything else today?” He asked Kashi when she told him that she knew Jeremy Hughes.
“No. I just know he was working with them before I was born, and he’s resurfaced in the town again.”
As Kashi thought over the conversation she’d had with Carr earlier, an idea came to mind. “Sierra, why don’t we ask people in town about him? I know that whatever was happening then was widely disapproved of. Let’s find out more through them!”
“We’ll have to be careful, so we don’t alert your dad or your uncle, and especially not Hughes. But I think that there have got to be people who know something about the secretive business deal.” Kashi picked at the dirt under one of her nails as Sierra then changed the conversation back to her and Carr. It made Kashi smile. It was good to see that some people never changed.
“Well, did you talk about the kisses afterwards Kashi?”
“I mean,” Kashi thought back to the moments that had taken place a few hours before, “Not really. After he tripped in a hole and fell over, we both used it as a way out of that conversation.” Kashi chuckled.
Carr had been nervously clearing his throat and looking back at Kashi then away. He wasn’t looking where he was going, his foot plunged into a hole. With a string of curses, he crashed to the ground, earning a face full of grass.
“At least it's just dirt. It could’ve been horse refuse,” Kashi joked when he finally stood, spitting grass out of his mouth. He did not appreciate that comment, Kashi chuckled. “I didn’t think a well weathered ranch-hand would be so clumsy.”
“Yeah, yeah, all the jokes. I hope you know when you take a trip I will tease you mercilessly.” He flicked her nose.
“If I take a trip.” She responded, rubbing her nose with a scowl.
Sierra’s voice raised itself over the phone as she pestered Kashi about talking to Carr. “You can’t just kiss someone and expect it to be normal the next time you see him.”
Kashi shrugged to herself. Maybe.