2018 Mirage

Stella Wang

Mirage 2018 Dana Hall School

Dedicated to POLLY MAHONEY

Nanneke Nicholas

In her 21 years as House Director, Polly has cared for countless girls from around the world. During that time, she has raised two wonderful children, Finn and Owen, and she and her husband Kevin have made Dana Hall a home. Polly’s warmth, her deep expertise, and her unwavering commitment will be remembered by all whose lives she has touched. Polly celebrates the creativity and beauty in the everyday, whether it is her clothing designs made out of recycled materials or her expert baking. As she starts a new journey, we send her on her way with great appreciation for all the gifts she has shared with us. Thank you, Polly...and bon voyage!

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Dana Hall

TABLE OF CONTENTS Golden Mirage Collaboration by Mirage Editors

Cover Floral Bouquet Stella Wang ’18 1 Rainy Morning Nanneke Nicholas ’19 2 Grandma India May ’19 4 Goddess Ida Jia ’18 4

Spring Collage Lily Foregger ’18 5 Kelly McGucken ’19 6 Submerged Danny Caroline Johnson ’18 6 Always Knock Nadia Bacchus ’18

7 Dancing in the Lights Grace Wang ’19 7 Sofia Barros ’18 8 How to Paint Your Nails Nippon Fantasy Karen Chen ’19 9 A Year in Water Droplets

Saaniya Desai ’19 10 Celebration of Life Naomi Kalombo ’18 11 Murmuration Matt Enlow, faculty 11 Flor Julia Burke ’20 12 The Bloom in the Crib Jin (Maggie) Zhang ’18 13 Words

Anotidaishe Chikunya ’19 14 The Woman Sruti Ramaswamy ’19 15 Time’s Growth Sophia Diez-Zhang ’18 16 Alone Again in January Christina Blake ’18 17 Obvious Oblivion Yassmeen Youssef ’18 18 Silhouette Yee Wen (Cindy) Lye ’20 18 The Fold of the Mountain Charlene Tsai ’20 19 Red Wrapped

Jin (Maggie) Zhang ’18 20 Egg Rice Heewon (Regina) Lee ’18 21 To Bloom, To Wither Michelle Ma ’18 22 To the North Jenny Jung ’18 22 Return to the South Jenny Jung ’18 23 Bitter Muya Guoji ’20 24 Roman Olives Saaniya Desai ’19 25 Pony Farm Abby Niles ’19 26 Kangaroo Stephanie Donohue, faculty 28 January Anna Park ’18 29 Snap-Peas Anna Park ’18 30 Hydrangea Pattern Fenn Novicki ’18 30 ConfidenceInsecurity Caroline Ellis ’20 31 Maya’s Joy Lindsey Gilfeather ’20 31 Height Gemma Carr-Locke ’18 32 Make America Be Seen Again Didi Nwachukwu ’18 32 Prolific Charlene Tsai ’20 33 Jin (Maggie) Zhang ‘18 34 The Log Bridge The Dancer’s Discipline Brooke Rioux ’18 35 Summer Meadows Amaechinna Iwuh ’19 36 Waiting Julia Ran ’19 37

HyoJoo Kim ’18 38 The Warmth Afterschool Hangout Grace Wang ’19 39

Instead of You Nina Webber ’21 39 The Earth In Winter Ida Jia ’18 40

The Explosion Michelle Ma ’18 42 Goodbye to Your Eyes Lucy Hamann ’18 43 Ponyhenge Carissa Dragat ’19

43 Honey Please Don’t Go Echo Chen ’20 44 Self-Portrait Mimi Jarrunpattana ’18 Back Cover Mirage 2018

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India May

GODDESS

Ida Jia — inspired by Chinese poems and myths My grandmother brewed wine with leaves from the moon’s laurel tree.

She told me about a vast lunar palace, where a lady and a hare lived.

“Is it true?” I asked.

“It is the same moon we are looking at even if thousands of years have passed.”

My grandmother cut threads from the moon’s silk yarn.

She gave them to me as I embarked on a voyage across the sea.

“I will miss you,” I said.

“We share the beauty of the moonlight even if we are thousands of li apart.”*

of the land across the sea.

I thought of my grandmother, knitting by her window, lanterns on her door.

I whispered, “I wish to row a boat on a stream of light to you.”

The moon floats above me.

A palace in the sky?

More like a goddess: ancient and sublime, like my motherland; affable and sage, like my grandmother. *Translated from “Shuidiao Getou” by Su Shi.

I saw water cascade down from the moon’s shining river.

It washed over my window, over the snow-clad meadows

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Lily Foregger

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Mirage 2018

Kelly McGucken DANNY Caroline Johnson

I sit on the dock, looking down at my feet hanging over the edge of the water. The pale light of the yellow moon illuminates the sleek black surface of the lake, expanding for miles. The stars above glisten, almost as if they are searching for him. I wipe the moisture off my forehead with the sleeve of my brown canvas jacket. My white t-shirt clings to my chest and the mugginess of the summer night hangs in the air.

I stare across the lake at the private dock on the other side. The boat sits there eerily still and tethered to the dock.

For once, the house by the lake stands completely dark and quiet.

You must know, I pride myself on my self-control. I rarely do anything on a whim. If I didn’t over-analyze my every move, everyone would know who I was and I would have no control over anything. But Danny, Danny never thought about what he did. Everyone always knew what he was thinking; he never thought about what he said or did. To Danny, nothing ever had consequences. Danny would not last long in the garden of Eden.

Danny and his yacht and his bike and his shiny new girlfriend. Not Danny and his buddies and their stones. Not him sailing by on his daddy’s shiny new motorboat with his pretty new girlfriend.

I look down at my hands. Though they shake I am not frightened. I thought about sitting there forever. No one can disturb me, not even Danny. Not him with his taunting laugh and the smile that crinkled up his eyes and showed his dimples.

I look down in the water; Danny’s not laughing anymore. His eyebrows are raised and pulled together, his shocking blue eyes staring back at me in horror. Danny screams and I scramble to my feet, almost falling backwards in the process. I look back down at the water and he’s gone. Nothing but the chirping of crickets and the occasional screech of an owl fills the silence.

Panting, I avert my gaze, and my eyes snap up to look back at the speedboat. It’s still sitting there, waiting, moored along the dock. I try to even out my stertorous breathing. It can’t hurt me. It couldn’t throw stones at me. No one can disturb me anymore, not even Danny.

ALWAYS KNOCK Nadia Bacchus Always knock before opening a door.

You could guess what might lie behind, But you can never be too sure.

It might be an empty bathroom you are searching for, A dethroned toilet seat awaiting your dancing upon arrival each time, But still, be sure to always knock before opening a door.

If you’re in a hurry on the first morning of school at seven fifty-four, You can run into any classroom, thinking you made it and all is fine, But you can never be too sure.

Maybe you remember the lost earring on your sister’s bedroom floor, But she just got out of the shower and hasn’t yet covered a bare behind, So always knock before opening a door.

You could be a thief, prying into the home of a family you’ve never met before, And you don’t think they have a security system, or a Rottweiler by their side, But you can never be too sure.

Or there might be something else, if you are searching for a cure To the pains of your past that could be eased if you barge in with nothing to hide, But still, always knock before opening a door Because you can never be too sure.

Grace Wang Mirage 2018

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HOW TO PAINT YOUR NAILS Sofia Barros

People say it is hard to paint your nails. It is not. 1. Before you start, go to the bathroom, because there is no wiping once you start. 2. Get your favorite color nail polish but be careful with your choices. The color you choose says a lot about you. Red is the color of blood and it shows passion and anger; blue is the color of the sky and indicates calm before the storm.

3. After you choose your color, pull out the brush and wipe it on the side of the bottle. Then paint one stripe in the middle of your nail. Make two curved lines on either side of middle. 4. Repeat for a second coat and finish it off with the top coat. 5. Wait 30 minutes between the color coat and the top coat. Then wait 2 hours before thinking of doing anything physical.

People always undervalue waiting. 6. Then you’re done.

Enjoy your nails.

Enjoy being more pristine than other people and having the right to judge other people’s nails.

It is not all about the color of the nail, but the length as well. With long nails you can type obnoxiously to let everyone know you are there. With long nails you can pick the lock to your boyfriend’s bedroom. With long nails you can tap the table, as you wait for him to come home at 4 o’clock in the morning.

When he finally arrives, you can point at him with your long nail. He can yell about needing space and trust.

He says,“I would have called, but I forgot my phone.”

You can storm out, careful not to break your nail too soon. You can sit on the front porch staring at the full moon in anger. You can think about who you are and how you got to this situation. You are a small woman with soft hands and broad shoulders.

You wear blouses and dress pants most of the time.

You have bob-length wavy hair that is worn in a tight ponytail. You always wear shoes that will make a clicking noise as you walk. You wear large hoops in both of your piercings, so as you shake your head you hear the ting. You tap your boots against the stone beneath, so you can hear the steady beat. Your facial expression changes every couple minutes until your foot taps at a faster beat. Your hand clutches your leg as your posture straightens out. Slowly a smirk grows out of your frown. You sit like that for a half an hour as your gaze never falls from the moon, until you hear a faint sound behind you. You stand abruptly, and you rush inside with long strides. With every step, you push on the floor as if you want to break it. You walk

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until you see the dinner you carefully laid on the table hours before. You see the leftover pasta you cooked sprayed across the floor and your boyfriend clutch his chest tightly. He looks at you with wide eyes as he descends to the floor. You walk toward his body and he snatches your hand. You hear a snap and you twist his arm behind him, freeing your hand. You look down at the perfectly painted red nail barely hanging on to you. You twist it off and throw it at him. He is tall and he is twitching. His soft small hands are struggling to lift himself up. He was missing his ring finger and that always bothered you. You would cringe every time that hand came near you. He tried reaching up at you again, but you step back with a blank expression. Instead of staying there, you walk toward your bedroom. You grab some shirts, pants, underwear, and cash and stuff it into a bag. You change out of your stained clothing and you stand in the room careful to not touch anything. You repair and repaint your nails. You stay in the room for about two hours waiting. Don’t worry: you are almost done. You walk back toward the kitchen and see that he has stopped moving. You toss the bag on the kitchen table and walk to grab the house phone. You call the police and say that you found your boyfriend lying on the floor not moving. You speak few words between the tears and you say you see a red nail near him.

You say, “I think someone broke into our house.

Maybe they are still in here. Please get here soon. There is a bag of their stuff near him; they must still be in here. I am going outside. Please get here soon.”

When the police arrive, they declare him dead and they find you outside on the porch, tapping your foot against the stone. When you notice them, a single tear rolls down your cheek. The police put you into a hotel to help you calm down. They find the woman he was with earlier that night and convict her of murder.

They saw on his phone that he had photos of her: pictures of her with red nails. Now that you are done, you can enjoy your life. People say it is hard to paint your nails or commit a murder. It is not.

Karen Chen Mirage 2018

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Saaniya Desai

CELEBRATION OF LIFE Naomi Kalombo I crossed the doorway and took a look around, not really knowing anyone here, though they all probably heard what happened. Regardless, I walked up to the table loaded with many red solo cups and surrounded by people who didn’t know what to do with their hands or where to stand. They stared at me with surprise and pity. I smiled at them with my teeth. Grabbing two red solo cups, I headed to the dance floor away from their stares. The place where people danced and sang, adding their cries to the music, called to me. Now these are my people— recognizable by their freedom from worry, from thought, from pain—celebrating life, and I needed to be there. I finished my drinks and emerged from the middle of the bodies pressed together and became surrounded by their heat and their joy for life. There was no coldness here, but how long could the warmth last? I hoped long enough to completely forget everything. I let myself go. I screamed the words to songs that I didn’t know and danced erratically and laughed at nothing and at everything. It felt like I could live in this moment forever.

At some point, I lost my voice and became thirsty, so I went looking for another drink or two. Avoiding the table with the pity people and their pity stares, I went straight to the kitchen to pour my own drink. After my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room caused by the bright yellow wall, I noticed the kitchen contained an island table with a sink behind it under a window and a fridge to the side. I went to the fridge and saw pictures of people I didn’t recognize. A big family picture monopolized the middle of the fridge. In the picture, three little boys sat on the green grass with their dog, held by the boy in the middle. The mom and dad stood behind them, and a boy who looked like my age stood on the other side of the mother. They all smiled like they just heard the funniest joke ever before the camera clicked. It was disquieting, not just because they seemed too happy, but because the mom looked like my mom. They shared the same smile. Maybe all moms share this.There I go again, thinking.

Shaking my head and making my drink, I headed back to the dance floor. The music was at the perfect level, loud enough that you couldn’t hear yourself think about the people you lost. I loved that. I felt like every beat of the song originated from my chest, and maybe this is how people live forever. I wish Mom knew this. The next thing I knew, the dawn came and the music faded to silence. The music was always fading. The people had fallen over couches and tables, laid to rest like martyrs, fated never to be vaunted for their valiant fight for life. And I stood alone again. I must be good at this game to always stand alone in the aftermath.

Matt Enlow Mirage 2018

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Julia Burke

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THE BLOOM IN THE CRIB Jin (Maggie) Zhang

The cracks of windows bring in the brisk wind.

Despite the beating wind outside, our hearts are motionless, craving the warmth.

This is only the start, only the beginning to a long journey where you don’t see the end.

We wait for the end of trees and the flower blossoms to bloom.

Spring is when we are all in full bloom, Without the fever and without the wind.

It’s when we aren’t craving the coming of the end.

Then we hear no more the squeaking of the window; branches sit motionless.

We await, again, its beginning to strip away our last motivations, our last warmth.

Behind another window rests a fireplace, a cup of coffee, warmth Where love is in red rosy bloom.

The mother begins singing the lullaby from the beginning, coaxing the baby to sleep, keeping out the chilly wind.

In the crib, his flinging arms become motionless, as he begins dreaming before the song comes to an end.

But this dream of his will never end as he’s embraced in his sheets, its softness, its warmth.

In his dream, the snow shows no signs of retreat, lies motionless on the ground. Yet the roses in the field begin to bloom unbothered by the crisp wind: a first sign of the new beginning.

But no one else senses this beginning, and no one else can see the end.

They only witness those traveling through the bitter wind, as it ruthlessly rips away the last bits of warmth From the hearts that crave to bloom.

So cold it stays, steady and motionless.

The baby is sound asleep, hand still motionless.

The mother sings the song again from the beginning, not to him, but to her heart, to the flower that wants to bloom.

Then her song comes to an end.

Sitting beside the fireplace, the crackling sound of burning wood gives off warmth While she gazes out to see the leaves, blown off by the wind.

Her motionless eyes despise the wind.

How much she wishes the bloom of the flowers will bring her child warmth And to sense the beginning, see clear to the end.

Mirage 2018

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WORDS

Anotidaishe Chikunya I miss the feeling of words.

Just words.

Nothing more.

The slight tickling of vowels and sounds and unspoken syllables bubbling to the surface of my mind Foraging their way to The Tip Of My Tongue Commencing the creation of sweet nothings better left unspoken I miss the feeling of words.

Just words.

Nothing more.

The scratching sound of my chords attempting to strike 3 notes, that for some reason rang silent when I thought of saying them aloud to you.

I miss the sincerity in which I would’ve carefully carved the pavement of my heart with the exact 3 words I wanted to say to you.

Had you given me the chance.

I would’ve painted you pictures Landscapes Memories Stories Just using my voice.

I would’ve sworn any vow Told you every secret Said every beautiful thing that came to my soul every time I looked at you.

Saw you.

Felt you.

Touched you.

Yearned, you.

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Sruti Ramaswamy

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Mirage 2018

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Dana Hall

Sophia Diez-Zhang

ALONE AGAIN IN JANUARY Christina Blake

Outside it has begun to snow.

That means it is a new year.

This could be the year I see my dad.

Lying next to me is my teddy bear.

Without the bear, I am alone.

The frigid night carries the icy wind.

I may be swept away by that wind.

I cannot survive the chill of the snow.

Why am I so alone?

January 1989 was the year My father left behind his teddy bear.

Did you really do it, Dad? You aren’t a criminal, Dad. The truth whispers to me in the wind.

You shouldn’t have left the teddy bear.

My feet trudge through the snow.

I’m going to find you this year.

This time I won’t be alone.

Did you commit the crime alone?

It hurts to even admit it, Dad. Why did you choose that year?

You disappeared into the wind.

But you can’t be hidden by the snow.

I am haunted by that bear.

That stare of the bear.

I wonder if that family feels alone.

Did you cover him in the snow?

His spirit is now alone.

How do you live with yourself, Dad? Was it quick like the wind?

I just want to be with you this year.

The only evidence left is the bear.

I hate this bitter wind.

People always whisper about me when I am alone.

They think my thoughts aren’t safe, like you, Dad. I’m don’t want to be sad this year.

Enveloped in this wind, I am so alone.

You left me that year, Dad. My teddy bear is buried in the snow.

Mirage 2018

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OBVIOUS OBLIVION Yassmeen Youssef She foolishly smiled, oblivious to their intent.

She introduced herself, heavy accent and light heart.

This was America, comfort was just within ascent.

Rehearsing her first impression, time was much spent.

The classroom was vast, the gleeful eyes her restart.

She foolishly smiled, oblivious of their intent.

She banged on the language barrier, hoping for its dissent.

Sneering, they teased and poked at her soiled, fresh start.

This was America; comfort was just within ascent.

Fitting in only began her phase of malcontent.

Their laughter now rang through the halls, tearing her apart.

She foolishly smiled, oblivious of their intent.

Bending backwards for their eyes; they would not relent.

Sharp eyes sliced through her skin, making her lament.

This was America; comfort was just within ascent.

Yee Wen (Cindy) Lye

Kicking, pushing, laughing, was the extent of their torment.

Crumbling slowly the only thing she had, her sweet heart.

She foolishly smiled, oblivious of their intent.

This was America. Comfort was just within ascent.

Charlene Tsai Mirage 2018

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Dana Hall Jin (Maggie) Zhang

EGG RICE Hee Won (Regina) Lee On the hot frying pan, I crack open an egg.

Five seconds later, I throw some salt One…two…three… twenty five.

I burst the yolk, but it is okay— I have soy sauce, olive oil, and white rice.

I go to my dorm room and prepare youtube One bite of egg rice and youtube in front of me Brings me to my childhood.

My parents were always so busy Dad home only on Saturdays My mom worked at school so she had to leave early too.

Every morning, on unevenly torn paper My mom would scribble a note: Eat this before it gets cold. I love you.

Next to the note There would always be egg rice, Warm and steamy, Showing off its liquid yolk.

One bite with dried seaweed Another bite with Kimchi The sweet, salty taste surrounded my tongue— But I would always leave one bite.

It was my own sign of protest.

I would want ham, sushi, or toast, Not the same egg rice day after day.

Sometimes I would find a dish from the morning With the same note, Except she included: I will be late.

I sighed and put it in the microwave One...two…three…thirty I sat on the sofa Turned on the television And ate my egg rice.

Sometimes I would throw out half of my rice And throw away the note from my mom And make my own meal But I always left dirty dishes.

In the middle of the night I would hear someone washing dishes I would go to the kitchen and watch her back And then go back to sleep.

It was nighttime sometime last winter There was the same old note And egg rice—a little salty this time.

The yolk had burst and become solid.

Late at night My mom came from work She looked around my dark room.

There was only my breath And the creaking sound of the door Only my mom’s silent footsteps And the cold plain wood floor So she went to the kitchen And lit up the house.

She turned on the television And put on her apron and rubber gloves There was nothing but the sound of water and dishes.

I got out of my bed and went to the kitchen And watched her back.

I went to it And hugged her.

Then I took out the pan: An egg, a pinch of salt.

I counted to twenty five— Warm and steamy egg rice For us.

Mirage 2018

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TO THE NORTH Jenny Jung

For my great-grandfather, who sailed to the North in 1940 And so I will continue to sail forth, Despite the winds that blow on my face, To that country of old men in the North.

I left my family and all my worth For this reckless dream and this worthless chase, And so I will continue to sail forth.

Though the tears of my wife fill the water of the earth, Her finger on the map guides me in trace To that country in the North.

I wake, surrounded by dearth, Am I dead? Am I still moving through space?

And so I will continue to sail forth In hopes of finding rebirth: Between me and death it is now a race To that country in the North.

I am like a tree tied with a girth, And I feel aimless as an emptied case.

And so I will continue to sail forth To that country in the North.

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Dana Hall

TO THE NO Jenny Jung

For m father, who North in 19

And so I wil sail forth, Despite the on my face,

RETURN TO THE SOUTH Jenny Jung

For my great-grandfather, who returned to the South in 1949 It has been nine years since I saw you, dear wife.

Forgive me that I left you all alone this time.

I was young and inept.

I wanted money and back then life in the North Looked much better than the South.

Will you forgive me that I became a Communist, POISONOUS QUESTIONS Will you forgive me that I left you for the North, Will you still love me as you did once?

Anna Kalvelage

ORTH

my great-grando sailed to the 940

ll continue to

,

winds that blow

Do you recall when I made fun of your laugh, saying it sounded like a goat?

Snow White would have never met the prince And remember when you told me I was the most beautiful man? if she had never taken a bite of the poison apple.

The poison apple would not exist If I come back to you as your man, if the evil queen did not exist.

With the same humor, though a changed face, What if you didn’t exist?

Would you still love me?

Would I be miserable and lonely?

Would I be happy, at first?

Would you be happy if I showed up?

What if when you first smiled at me I had never smiled back?

Would you be sad if I did not return?

Would you hate me?

Give me an answer because I am right outside your door.

Would you have stayed here?

What if I could hear things that others could not?

Would that make me crazy?

Would my ears always be sore?

What if I could soar through the sky?

Would I fly alone?

Would I fall for someone else?

What if I hadn’t fallen in love with you?

Would you have fallen in love with me?

Would I still feel empty now that you’re gone?

What if I had gone to see you after you left?

Would we still recognize each other?

Would I still love you?

Oh, if only I had gone to see you.

But I never went to see you, and I still love you.

Just like Snow White was poisoned by the evil queen I was poisoned by you. (now read from the bottom up)

Michelle Ma Mirage 2018

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BITTER

Muya Guoji

When no one is paying attention, I sneak into the study room. This is the room where my cousin Ying creates all of his artwork, stores all of his drawings and shuts out his annoying five-year old cousin. The more he forbids me from going into his room, the more he provokes my curiosity and my level of defiance. I am intrigued by a room that I have never stepped into simply because of my fascination with the unknown. I enter the room with caution, as I look around at all of the portraits he has sketched. The Monets and the van Goghs he has mimicked, and the realistic landscapes he has painted, are dramatic and eye-catching. As I look closely, I am tempted to touch them; I want to feel the beauty of the art. Nevertheless, my moment within my cousin’s world comes to an abrupt ending. The door opens and Ying steps in. He looks at me with distaste, and I stand there staring back at him vacantly. It is the silence before the storm.

“I told you not to come into my room!” says Ying.

“It’s the study room, not your room!” I argue.

“Everyone knows that only I use this room most of the time, and I forbid you to come in. You always ruin delicate things!” bellows Ying.

“Not true! You are the one who behaves badly!” I reply.

We argue and argue, and before I realize it, it turns into a fight and we are yelling and screaming at each other.

And then it worsens. We push and pull at each other, which puts me at a huge disadvantage since he is seven years older and twice my size. Our ridiculous screams and the sound of my crying finally attracts the attention of my grandma.

Startled by the noise even with her hearing loss, she comes running from the kitchen. My grandma pushes us apart with her frail hands.

“Granny, she is being annoying again!” shouts Ying.

“No! He shuts me out and is being mean again!” I reply.

Granny defends Ying but tells him that he must treat me with respect and forbids him to hit me again. Ying is humbled by my grandmother’s words and adds it to the many lessons that she has instilled in us. He sheepishly goes into the living room and turns the television on. For me, there’s so much more to learn. Granny just continues to talk about why I should respect Ying’s room and his privacy. The more I think about how easily Ying seems to get away with his behavior, the more outraged I am. I will not let Ying get away with this again.

“You don’t scold him!” I say to Granny, as salty tears run down my face. I then make the biggest mistake that I’ve ever made and shout, “You don’t scold him because his mom just died!” I immediately feel both angry and guilty at the same time.

I feel so spiteful and cruel hurting Ying and attacking his heart, all so that I can defeat him in this ridiculous battle. The pained look on my grandma’s face tells me that she wants to teach me so much more about his loss, and I know what she is going to tell me.

But with Ying close by, she avoids talking about this sad occurrence; all she can say is, “Muya! It is very rude and inconsiderate to say this. You need to apologize to Ying.” I know that I not only owe Ying an apology, but I also owe his mother, my dear aunt, one as well.

My aunt brought Ying to Beijing and stayed with us when my mom was away doing research in Myanmar, when I was just three or four years old. My aunt gave me the care and love that she gave to her own children, as if she was my own mother. I still clearly remember that whenever I cried she would hold me in her arms, pat me softly and say quietly, “Oh, my poor girl.” I guess her love was what made Ying so jealous of me. Then one day we learned that she was gone forever. No one knows why she ended her life.

I walk into the living room where Ying is sitting. He is pretending to focus on the television. I know he is just pretending because he is not watching his favorite Japanese anime, but instead watches a news channel. I slowly walk towards him.

“Ying,” I say.

He turns to me, and I see a drop of water shining in the left corner of his eye.

“What?” he replies. The water droplet seems to evaporate and disappears.

I don’t have the courage to apologize for what I just said. So I whisper, “I am sorry that I went into your room without your permission.”

“It’s all right. If you really want to see my artwork, you can just tell me and I will show it to you,” he replies.

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“Thank you,” I answer, relieved that we had made amends. I want to say how sorry and foolish I feel by hurting him, but “thank you” are the only words that seem to come out of my mouth right now. Noticing that both Ying and I have come to a settlement, my grandma is calmed and relieved.

There is no more fighting, yelling, or hitting, but the tears just keep streaming down my cheeks and into my mouth. I know that whether or not I apologize or no matter how much Ying forgives me, the harm that I created will never be resolved, because I will never be able to take back those words.

The tears taste not just salty, but also somewhat bitter.

Saaniya Desai Mirage 2018

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PONY FARM Abby Niles I am a murderer. And even if you are not, you know the feeling.

During the summer of 2010, I went to summer camp in Temple, New Hampshire, at an idyllic place called Pony Farm.

The farm is owned and the camp overseen by Boo, a 60-year-old woman whose full name I still would not be able to tell you, although my family and she are very close. Although I was a quiet child at camp, she still recognizes me when I see her occasionally, although it is almost ten years after I last attended camp. At “Pony Farm,” along with thirty other girls ranging from age eight to fifteen, I lived a fantasy. As a child of eight years old, my style was uncoordinated, my clothes plastered with grime, and my hair was always sprinkled with hay. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if others cared. Essentially, heaven for me was (and still is) spending twelve or more hours a day on a farm. As campers at a two-week long session, we woke up at dawn, fed our horses, cleaned the barns, rode our horses, got a snack, did more barn chores, played in the pool or with the mini horses, did more barn chores, showered, ate community dinner, sang campfire songs in the lodge, and went to bed. I took on the role of a machine who loved the factory. And I was freer than ever before. This life we lived and breathed, and it felt like living there would prevent old age.

Yes, I got away with it.

When you drive into the main circle at Pony Farm, there is a yellow federal-style house at the end of the road. The kind you see in movies, with a golden sun and green trees surrounding it. Next to the garden shed is a rabbit house and across the backyard is a chicken coop with a wire fence surrounding it. Walk fifty yards from the coop and you’re at the pool, which is an oasis at the farm on hot and dusty days full of work, of which there were many. A bees’ nest at the entry gate to the pool deterred no camper from the water; it was, indeed, unlike any other bees’ nest as a result of its residence at Pony Farm. The possibility of getting stung felt small compared to the outside world. The pool neighbors the goat and miniature horses’ territory. Campers could almost always be found on the yellow house’s lawn for afternoon activities with the small animals, and when there was counselor supervision, mini horses could be led around with thick cotton lead ropes.

Jazzy, Pumpkin, and Captain were the miniature horses. Jazzy was black and white spotted, and so was Captain. Pumpkin was the smallest, a musty orange chestnut. He was sassy, and if you were too rough with him he would kick you. He was the campers’ favorite; nobody was actually afraid of being kicked by a tiny orange horse, especially at Pony Farm, where nothing went wrong. The rabbits also were available to be petted in their large human-sized cage. Kids would tumble around in the grass, going back and forth from the pool to the lawn to the rabbits. The grass of the yellow house gave shelter for adorable infant wasps that liked to perch on the tips of green seed pods and bite you while you were tumbling around. I did not find this out until after it happened to me.

You are the first person I’ve told about the incident.

The light that filled Pony Farm was different. It seeped yellow sunsets and emotions like the promise of ice cream. It was what resurrection must look like. Fire hazard hay lofts held in their crevices secrets of time. Spirits of mischief beckoned children into those places that were never bathed by light, those places to which they always wanted to return, but in older days had forgotten in the race for new things and mundane knowledge. The dust that rose from the riding rings was free of the worries that plagued us back home, and the food, although drab, was the best sustenance an eight-year-old girl had ever tasted because it was only available while sitting on the wooden benches in the Lodge. Cracked tack wasn’t taken care of by the campers because their care would do little to restore it; this served to grant us freedom from responsibility. Musty barn must have become one of the most heavenly scents of my childhood. The barns had too many horses in them, but the steeds at Pony Farm were resilient like no others, just like the campers were expected to be.

Resilience only goes so far.

One particular day, I decided to meet the new chicks that one of the farm’s chickens had hatched the week before. I

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remember Boo telling me in her soft way that there were ten exactly, warning me to be careful in the pen with the chicks.

One wrong step...

In my neon polyester shorts, bright blue T-shirt, and pink leopard print slip-on sneakers, I followed an older camper into the chicken enclosure. I crouched because the wiring above our heads was only three and a half feet tall. The chicks were the size of clementines, all black with little white chests and yellow beaks. Looking at them made you feel clean, like nobody cared too much about your future or your past.

The girl I went in the pen with was named Ellie Spring. Last I knew, she still lived seven minutes down the road from my house in Sherborn, on Nason Hill. She had dirty blonde hair that was straight as a post and shoulder length. She had pretty eyes, but her large front teeth jutted out slightly, giving her a slightly awkward expression. She was closer with my sister than with me, and the only thing left in my house that points back to her is a blue insulated water bottle that my sister mistakenly brought home and never returned to Ellie.

I didn’t do it on purpose.

We marveled at the little animals, who traveled collectively in a small but loosely packed swarm. They pecked at the ground for bugs and bits of rock to store in their gizzards. I bet they had no idea what life was. One little “cheep” and they had your heart. I could have stayed there for days with the baby chickens, but my love was soon spoiled. Ellie was sitting in the corner of the pen closest to the coop, coddling a chick in her hands. Girls were hollering on the lawn, trotting the minis over obstacles like sticks set up on lawn chairs or buckets. I don’t remember losing my balance; I think I just didn’t look where my foot was landing.

The little splat happened in an instant.

I knew what had happened before I looked down. Luckily nobody had caught me yet. Boo’s cautioning words filled my mind as my eyes grew hot. That quick feeling of panic, my muscles injected with adrenaline, my stomach falling to my feet, my heart splitting in my chest as I looked down at that mass of mutilated chick. An emotion akin to the one you feel when you lose a loved one. Your stomach wringing, every cell in your body turning in on itself, your eyes shrinking into your head, fingers curling, armpits heating up, hair rising. To fight or to flee.

I was a killer driven by atrocious love.

Ellie was busy in the other corner of the pen. I picked the chick up by its legs, which were free from gore, and placed her at the entrance to the pen, in the little dip beneath the gate. I looked at Ellie, forcing the inner ends of my untamed eyebrows up. A gasp.

“Becky, we have a problem!”

Becky, the senior counselor, came over. Another gasp.

“Oh no! Do you think one of the ponies stepped on her under the gate?”

I glanced at the spot where my foot landed on her. I found no words. Ellie responded.

“Maybe. Poor little thing.”

I don’t remember who brought over paper towels, or where we put the carcass, but I do remember scooping her up.

The same fluffy black feather, the same pale yellow beak, the same flash of white peeking out from behind a muddling of things and colors that should not have been visible, colors tinged anew with reality. I handed her to Becky and suddenly felt that I had misplaced something. A sensation of exposure swept over me. I felt the cloud of freedom settle to the ground as if it had been released from airbags that had been lining my world. Protective when resting but destructive at their moment of deployment. Pitchforks seemed sharper, the sawdust stall bedding clogged my lungs more, water no longer kissed me like it used to. My peers’ eyes became coated with new acidity, though they knew nothing of the true nature of the chick’s death.

Stephanie Donohue

If they had, I would have been at their mercy, expelled from this garden of Eden.

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JANUARY Anna Park

The trees are covered in a powdery white and branches stick out like veins; Nature sleeps, but even so, January is just awakening. She stretches her arms, eyes wide open, taking in the endless blue sky above. Her blankets are left pristine, a white sheet over measureless valleys of green; Oh my, she’s just spoken!

Her words are enough to make swirling icicles rupture, leaving your skin chill.

But she is reserved because of this chill; It makes her blood go cold, it runs through her veins.

Words float in murmurs of snowflakes, silently spoken; meanwhile, it is she who stirs in her slumber, it is January.

The white has taken over, making the world pristine; A kind fox faces the brightness of this new world, shielding its eyes.

You are awakened when you look up to meet her eyes; Her laughter is as infectious as is her chill.

Is it right for her to continue infecting others with her nature so pristine?

While ice cracks into thousands of veins, her breath diverges as such. It is January who believes she is everlasting—so everlasting that she barely realizes what she has spoken.

Speaking of spoken, Her words freeze darting eyes, trapping them in panes of glass; her skin is cold to the touch, oh icy January.

What a lighthearted chill; Who are you to reveal such turmoil in your veins?

As it turns out, her cover is pristine; She hides behind this mask, pristine, To cover up the words silently spoken; To hide the fact that she’s got chill running through her veins; To face the darkness of night, diverting her eyes; To send whispers of ice and a chill down your spine. This is the true nature of January that she herself refuses to believe. January will try to convince you that her white blankets so pristine, the adrenaline-pumping chill of the words left never spoken, and that the glimmering reflection of you in her eyes will never tarnish your veins.

But you must not forget what flows through January’s veins, Shield your eyes from her infectious smile, nature so pristine, words unequivocally spoken to form in the air an insidious chill.

Fenn Novicki

SNAP-PEAS Anna Park

It’s a lazy Sunday morning; My brother and I are in our pajamas.

Stuffed into a paper grocery bag, like two peas in a pod, we laugh with Mom, who is behind the camera.

Between the mischievous grin of my chubby face, and his chubby face, and my bobbed hair, and his tiny fingers, we grab onto one another, as if trying to spare this paper bag from tearing like snap-peas do under enough pressure.

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In this moment, my wide-eyed, Korean-American gaze locks with his, passing along a message of shared beginnings, of faith in our heritage, of pride in our ethnicity– but now, looking more closely, I see his mouth form an O, his fingers grab onto the edges of the bag, trying to escape, and I begin to wonder whether peas would split if they knew of the outside, if they knew of the heat of criticism, or if they knew just how much harder it is to bear the pressures of the steam pot alone.

Dana Hall

CONFIDENCE (Read from top to bottom) Caroline Ellis We are the strong ones They will never say We lack compassion Because we don’t try To give up on our ideas We are well known But people will say We have the strength Deep down And it’s accurate We use our words as weapons It is never true that Actions lower our esteem We matter No one can tell us We have lost our place in this world

INSECURITY (Read from bottom to top)

Lindsey Gilfeather

HEIGHT

Gemma Carr-Locke Dark blue with a yellow border And red dinosaurs.

Six dark notches represent the inches of growth, Over ten sharpie markings fill the blank space.

Four eyes stare at me, As my back is pressed against the board.

One swipe, left and right, I turn around; There will always be sharpie markings above me.

Years before but inches apart, I’ll never reach it.

It’s like a cloud Of doubt that floats above my head.

Following me everywhere I go, Raining down on me With shame. I’ll never Reach the markings above you.

MAKE AMERICA BE SEEN AGAIN Didi Nwachukwu

1607, 2017 History repeats itself Yet citizens still remain unseen A Native American who fled the scene To save his family and himself 1607, 2017 The colonists who preached independence as the theme Then denied equality, contradicting themselves Yet citizens still remain unseen Enforcing segregation, and putting up a screen She sat down on her seat, but stood up for herself 1607, 2017 A constant battle with violence and screams With continuous effort to protect yourself Yet citizens still remain unseen The people who can, don’t want to intervene We’re all alone, all by ourselves 1607, 2017 Yet citizens still remain unseen

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Charlene Tsai Mirage 2018

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THE LOG BRIDGE Jin (Maggie) Zhang

She held my arm, As I unsteadily walked across that log bridge.

A face of innocence, a face of delight.

She was just a few years older than me, So she knew, And knew well, Just how to take care of this naughty child while Our parents ate at the dinner table.

She was the only one Who understood why I would run out to the playground Despite the adults asking me to stay.

She left, To England, to study abroad.

I held her arm, Didn’t want to let her go.

Two full years, I saw her twice.

And I’d still ask her to hold my arm When I crossed that log bridge.

Even though I knew I could cross it well just by myself.

But I realized Just how quickly it would be before I would hold Someone else’s arm while they crossed The log bridge.

I left, To study abroad.

I held my parents’ hands, Didn’t want to let go.

Every year, I come home twice.

And I still cannot easily let go.

I’ve always walked the same log bridge.

My first day going to school, Or taken to the hospital To stay overnight, I always had someone to hold on to.

Except now, As that log bridge lies beneath my feet, I have to walk it Alone.

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Brooke Rioux Mirage 2018

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36

Dana Hall Amaechinna Iwuh

Julia Ran

THE WARMTH HyoJoo Kim Late night, when the light goes out, When pitch-darkness and silence are about to devour me whole, There comes my mom, invincible, Here to fight the monsters near seven-year-old Claire.

Every night, when we lie down together, I hold the hand of my mom, tightly, Her fragrance or her warm touch Ushering me into sweet dreams.

The only time I can see her beauty, the way she is, Without pressure of perfection, The only time I can hold her hand for so long.

But who to blame for her life as a businesswoman?

Time goes by, mercilessly, The sprouts inevitably grow into Well-grown plants that inevitably wither, A law of nature, too immense to counter.

Now I see the creases on her hand, pale and transparent, Blue streams of veins disclosing evidence of her life.

Now the duty falls on me to make those streams Flow as smoothly and lightly as possible.

No longer is my hand in her hand, But her hand in my hand, not against monsters in the dark, But to hold fast against time, which grows and withers us both, To hold fast calmly in the swiftness of time, When its pitch-darkness and silence are about to cuddle her up.

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Grace Wang

INSTEAD OF YOU Nina Webber

time took you washed you away from my embrace my love i see your persistent gaze on the curb of new york pavement through the window of a departing taxi cab i can feel an entity slowly dividing us and it makes me miss the time we had together instead of you

Mirage 2018

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THE EARTH IN WINTER Ida Jia

Ba was leaving again. On a frigid February morning, she stood on the doorstep to see him off. Behind her, the yard was silent and frost-bitten; in front of her, the road was covered in a mixture of snow and dust and shielded by a layer of lumpy ice. It was going to be a treacherous ride.

She clutched his hands like a fallen climber hanging onto the weeds on the edge of a cliff, begging him not to let go. It was not enough. Far from enough, she thought. He came back only on the week of New Year, and not even every one of them. The last time she saw him was two years ago on an August afternoon. She was eight years old, the age of roaming the fields, chasing magpies, and making wreckage out of cabbages and watermelons. She was about to enter elementary school, and he came back to pay for her tuition and textbooks. He also fixed the gashes on the roof, a result of the heavy thunderstorms. But all of these did not matter that much. What she truly longed for was to hug him, talk to him about her excitement and trepidation about going to school for the first time, and hear him talk about how the “rich city folks” entertain themselves in glamorous neon lights and gigantic shopping malls. These conversations reassured her that he was still her ba, that he was the man as she had known him, that she was not sharing his affection with someone who got a thousand yuan in a single red pocket…

“Calm down…I’ll be back on next New Year’s Eve. I promise.”

She heard him speaking to her, and the sincerity in his voice warmed her fragile heart and frozen body. She felt sorry about doubting him.

“Be a good girl, Chunshui,” he patted her shoulder, “Take care of your mother and little brother. Be respectful to your grandma. Learn your lessons well at school. My job at this factory will bring us more income than all I managed to earn in the last two years. You can go with me to Beijing the summer you graduate from elementary school. Chunlin will be old enough to travel with us then.”

She exclaimed, “Oh, Baba, I’ll be thrilled to visit Tian’anmen Square and the Great Wall!”

“I’ll work extra hard at the factory, and you’ll study extra hard at school. Our dream is not that far away.”

“I will, ba.” She promised, and a wide smile appeared on her face. For a moment, she looked like a blossom from springtime sent to rejuvenate the earth in winter.

He rubbed her messy hair and touched her reddened cheek before sitting on the wagon. She jumped up to hug him, and he held her close. “My Chun’er,” he whispered, seeming to have lost all the strength and will to let go, “my Chun’er…”

Hours seems to pass before he put her down and said to the driver, “We can go now.” The wagon started to move; its contact with the road produced squeaky noises that sounded unusually shrill in Chunshui’s ears. She wished she could pick up the broomstick and smash the wagon to pieces. But she only waved harder, even as she trembled uncontrollably.

“Bye-bye, Ba!” Her vision was blurred by tears, yet she kept smiling.

“Bye-bye, Chunshui!” He turned and waved. His smile was much more confident now.

The wheels chewed their way out of the snow, the gap elongating like a shadow, until the wagon and the men blended into the grayess of the morning mist. Soon only the empty road stretched before her, and somehow she knew that it ran all the way from the village to the town and into the station where her ba would board on the train to Beijing, the city she knew from inside out, even though she had never been there. Never by ordinary means, at least. In her dreams, she was often a bird, flying past the imposing skyscrapers, the jammed highways, and the grand palaces ba had described to her, looking for Ba. At dusk, she managed to catch a glimpse of him among the tired laborers pouring out from subway stations like water pumping from reservoirs. He disappeared before she could call him, his thin figure a tiny droplet from the countryside river merging into the metropolitan sea.

As she stood there lost in thought, the winter sun slowly rose from the horizon, casting its meager light lazily on the field. It was time to go check on her family. The baby had been crying for quite a while.

When Chunshui entered the house, her mother was trying her hardest to placate her baby brother, Chunlin, though she did not know how to. Her eyes stared into the distance. “Help us, Chunshui,” her grandmother, whom she called Nainai, said in frustration while smoothing the blanket wrapped around the baby. Seeing her brother shiver, Chunshui understood that he was cold. She could not remember a time when they had enough clothes to wear. She took her coat off, wrapped it around him, and handed him back to Ma. Ma continued to stare until Chunshui squeezed her hand, signaling her that the problem was solved. She and her grandma were the only

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people Ma recognized. She did not respond to the presence of her husband—he spent too little time with her.

Ma’s eyes were big and empty, and her expression was perpetually blank. But sometimes Chunshui could sense an emotion hidden deep underneath. She felt that it was fear, but that seemed unlikely. In spite of her illness, Ma was determined. Her breasts were sagged and almost dry, but she held the trembling baby firmly in her skinny arms and gave him whatever little she could offer.

It was time for breakfast. The kitchen consisted of a small old stove, a wooden table, and a basket of water.

Chunshui rolled up her sleeves and stood next to Nainai at the stove. She rinsed the rice while Nainai shaped the dough, the dexterity of her hands matching Nainai’s. She willingly took the position of the housewife after Ma, who had been in poor health since she entered the house as a bride, fell terribly sick and lost her mind. People praised her sense of responsibility, but she knew that she did not have a choice. There was no other way out.

The porridge and the mantou were ready, and the family gathered around the table. Each meal took half an hour because Chunshui had to feed her brother while Nainai had to feed ma.

“The weather is getting colder. How are the chickens doing?” Nainai asked.

“They are enduring it well. But…” “But what?”

“Yuli looks sick. It started a few days ago. She crouched in the corner and wouldn’t move. Her wing feathers dragged.”

Nainai frowned. “That is bad news. We are counting on her eggs.”

The girl sighed. “I know. But she is very old. She has suffered a lot, and she is fighting hard.”

“So am I. And so was your Yeye. It doesn’t matter if you are old and worn-out if feeding your family is your responsibility.”

“Well, try to talk to the hen about her responsibility, then.” She snorted.

Nainai smiled reluctantly. She looked at her granddaughter’s thin jacket and cotton pants. She took off her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulder.

“I’m not cold.” Chunshui said, focusing on fitting a spoonful of porridge into the mouth of a fidgety Chunlin.

“Listen, Chun’er, I’m going to town tomorrow. They want me to help them with the food delivery.”

Chunshui felt her heart sink. “But Nainai, does it have to be tomorrow? It is cold, and the ground is frozen and slippery.”

“We have to help each other in this village to prepare ourselves for the upcoming storm. Besides, I could earn enough money to buy you and Chunlin sweaters and coats. The weather is harsh, and you will catch a cold without them.”

Chunshui opened her mouth to protest but checked herself. She could not dissuade Nainai from giving up any found duties. After Yeye gave his life fighting against the flood and Ba landed his job in the city, Nainai became the guardian of the family.

They ate the last bit of their meal without conversation. Outside, snow started to fall again. A draft of freezing air squeezed through the cracks in the door and was absorbed into the void of silence, the coldest presence in the house. The golden days with Ba around already seemed far away, fading into the shadows of the table and beds.

Mirage 2018

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Michelle Ma

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GOODBYE TO YOUR EYES Lucy Hamann

In the gleam of your eyes: I see you, Between my furious endeavors to succeed without interruption, In the background of my nervous enthusiasm, my loud quietness.

In each pair of eyes is a unique, unparalleled vision, As if along with them comes an unfamiliar world.

Next year, my world will detour without yours, And you will color how I see mine.

In the gleam of your eyes: I see myself, Beyond your flecks of gold, your streaks of midnight black, In the background of your deep auburns and pale blues.

In each of your pairs I am different, reborn, As if I am greeted with a new self.

Next year, your eyes will still be yours, And a part of me will remain captured in them.

Some selves I will miss dearly, along with the pair that holds them; Some I have outgrown already, remaining only beyond me, with you; Some I will remember in blurs, leaving me wishing I had seen more; Few will I watch, relaxed, as they drift away into childhood oblivion.

The harmony of loss and relief will continue, And the force pushing me out, to another world, will not relent, So goodbye to the eyes I have met here, thank you for seeing me, I hope to see you another day, or then again perhaps not.

Carissa Dragat Mirage 2018

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STAFF PAGE Editors-in-Chief:

Michelle Ma Anna Park

Art Editor:

Grace Wang

Staff:

Faculty Advisors:

Ida Jia Echo Chen Helen Chen Cindy Huang Annie Lao Novia Nguyen Charlene Tsai Sruti Ramaswamy Julia Bucci Mary Ann McQuillan Printed by Watson Printing, Wellesley, MA

Echo Chen

Literary Editor: