THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Brianna Dunkley

In the Magenta Playground, I nearly touch the sky as I swing. The world around me seems so still, an illusion, in the same way the sweat on my face resembles tears. But the little worries I have are at home where I last left them and the mosquito I nearly squashed still, unfortunately, maintains its blood-sucking beauty.

As my tricycle navigates down Barker Ave, I marvel at my neighborhood and its beauty. Summer is in full swing, And so is my grandfather’s garden, from tomatoes to squash, persisting through the summer’s hot sun–still, life is all that is left, and the only sadness seen is the sky’s tears.

Now I wipe my own tears, thinking about those days and the beauty of my innocence, because the world is not the same as my memory left it, my memory, like a pendulum, swings past to present, present to past, but I try to make the scene in my mind remain still; I try to imagine the tomatoes and squash.

But I can’t ignore my present, the thoughts in my head like a game of squash–my heart tears.

I yearn now for those seventy-five days of stillness, the simplicity of those days and the joy of the swings will not be left to memories past; I shall bring them with me as I decide right or left. I think about the soups that became of that squash. The bodies in the kitchen, in relation to one another, swinging. I miss the beauty in those moments, but I must focus on the present, still, the memories that I must make still. Let the past be left there; I am growing to appreciate the present and future’s beauty. Focusing on my squashed suitcases on the train and the crying baby’s tears and the homeless man’s open palm, from person to person, swings,

I still have the soup in a bag next to me, of course, in it that beloved squash. After taking that cold left towards the train station, I must now wipe my warm tears, leaving the beauty of my home once again but not towards my beloved swings.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE?

Nick

Mobed

I love people, my family, my friends, strangers, those who lie somewhere in between. I love the sky and the stars and the universe, I love the moon and the sun, bigger and stronger and more definite than we’ll ever be. I love loving, I love that loving is one thing I never have to worry about not giving enough of. I love art, inexplicably human art, I love that we’ve always had to express ourselves somehow, I love that paintings on the walls made by effervescent minds won’t die out any time soon. I love warm rain in the summer, when the weather acts as unreliable as my emotional state, going from sunny and humid and hot and loud and angry, rain hitting the concrete hard, to dark and cloudy and gray and silent and calm, like the universe had cried, mourning itself and us. I love how completely different colors and feelings and songs and paintings can make you feel the same way, like when you silently walk through an art museum with earbuds in, letting yourself process the physical manifestations of the emotions and opinions of people who aren’t here anymore. I love how the dark can make you feel braver, and how the light can make you feel calmer. I love how things like glitter and quiet and touch mean different things to everyone. I love when the wind blows just strong enough to move your hair softly out of your face, and when it grows strong enough to sound deafening, like Mother Nature wants to talk to us. I love how I’m capable of feeling as much as I do, that living can mean a billion different things to me, enough that even though I get overwhelmed and underwhelmed, I know I won’t ever have to worry about getting bored. I love that I can still feel like a child sometimes, that I can still go to my parents’ bed and cry, even if today I feel more grown up than not. I love the feeling of warmth hitting your skin and sinking in, from a fire with an addicting smell, or from fresh laundry. I love the feeling of understanding complex things, and having the reassurance that my brain still can still learn, that it hasn’t given up on me yet. I love laughing until I cry, or crying until I laugh, or any mix of the two. I love running around in the summer, working on the yard with my father until I collapse, panting, laying down facing up at the sky as the wind gently pushes the clouds in a steady flow, feeling the solid ground under my back and cool dirt across my palms. I love when my 21st-century brain shuts off, and for the first time in months I can paint for hours at the wrong time, in the middle of the night or at five in the morning, silent, my chest full of a buzzing energy, my mind racing, hands shaky with the need to create. I love that our brains can do things like make entire worlds, people, places that we’ve never seen in this life, proof that imagination and intelligence have always been interconnected, and nothing smart can ever be conventional. I love that I exist at a time where not only I want change. I love that I’ve been raised in a way that lets me get angry, angrier than people up on pedestals say I should feel, angry enough to make careless people wonder why I care so much, angry enough that I know I am paying attention.