The Meridian 2022-2023

The Meridian 2022-2023

Table of Contents Mother Dearest..........................Page 4 With Bad Comes Good..............Page 5 Trespass…….............................Page 9 Judgemental Nature..................Page 11 Near Flight……..........................Page 12 Grandpa Sasha.........................Page 14 The Two Passengers.................Page 15 Untitled......................................Page 18 What am I to you?.....................Page 19 Where I am From Poems..........Page 20-26 The Show Must Go On..............Page 27 Untitled......................................Page 29 Salvage the Bones Response...Page 30

Cover art- Sydnie ‘24

Background art- Ziad ‘24

The best part of putting together this publication every year is getting to see all the fantastic work KUA students create. This year’s Meridian has art from a range of mediums, from photography to ceramics to paintings, and writing inspired by everything from the lives of students to Broadway shows. I hope there is something in here for everyone and that you enjoy the talents of some of our students just as much as I have!

And of course, the biggest of thank yous to all those who contributed. This wouldn’t be possible without your willingness to share these pieces of yourself.

Happy reading, Liza Wolf Editor

Mother Dearest

By Anonymous

She has taught me what I know She has made me forget what I thought

I hear her voice in the retail store I see her name on the sizes I remember her words through the number on the scale I feel her in the jeans that pinch my thighs

I hear her when I pick up the fork I see her in the mirror I remember her flinch when I lift my shirt

I feel her through every bite I feel her in my ribs when I cry I feel her in my fingers, down my throat

I love her I hate her

Art by Alice ‘23

With Bad Comes Good

By Lulu ‘24

“I believe deep what they say about the Lord giveth and the lord taketh away” (Woodson 99). I never really thought I would have to believe in this.

Nothing had ever left a void in my life and I never expected anything would. My papa was the opposite of a void, he filled every crack of life within me and was as sweet as his favorite wine. My papa symbolized the American Dream, coming from nothing he built his own life in the Bronx. From working many low-wage jobs for multiple hours in order to support his family, he fell nothing short of the most hard-working and strongest person I have ever known. Being with my papa felt like the safest place on earth, and even the worst possible thing couldn’t happen to me when my hand was intertwined with his. Even fifteen hundred miles away, him in the warmth, me in the cold, his voice over the phone was a soft blanket.

Soon that same voice I had always known grew as scratchy as dry hands. Soon, eating was a force, moving was not a given, and that one vacation we had planned was unattainable for him. Soon, I lost my Papa.

Art by Elliot ‘26

I was there, the moment she was delivered, and the moment those blue eyes locked with mine, I knew I would never forget them. From the moment her small, soft hands wrapped around mine I never wanted to let go. However, the years moved by quickly. One moment three with a princess birthday cake, the next eight with clowns at her birthday, and soon enough, eleven standing over my hospital bed. Here I was, lying in the hospital, failing to lend my hand to my grandaughter who just wanted to hold it. Once I was a superhero, battling and never losing, but now I was lost. Lost not because I wasn’t battling, but lost because I couldn’t battle. I couldn’t let my family see me like this, so many great memories, and this couldn’t be the last one with me. I fought, begged, and prayed, and as I saw those tears streaming down her face, I wanted to wipe every single one away, but I was too far. I knew I was my grandaughter’s person, the one she loved to cuddle, the one she loved to call, and the one who made fifteen hundred miles feel like nothing. How could I possibly leave this world with her still in it? I held on hard to the life that was being ripped out of me by cancer, and when I finally heard those last words of hers, I let go.

My daddy was the best person I had ever known, started from scratch and built a great life for my brothers and me, all while dealing with my mom.

He was a saint. He never failed to give me anything I asked for. Growing up, many moves, many homes, and many new beginnings, but he was always the same. The same sweet, loving, caring, and best daddy. He never stopped parenting and even helped me raise my beautiful daughter, who would soon learn that my daddy, her papa was the best person ever. He held her with the most delicate hands like she was a porcelain doll. The relationship they

created was greater than one can imagine and the smile on her face never left when they were together. That could be said until there my daddy was, failing to reach my daughter’s hand, and I never knew if that same smile would return. It hurt. It hurt really bad watching my daddy go, but it hurt, even more, watching my daughter lose her best friend, watching her cope with a pain that was new.

But life went on. It had to, with or without my daddy here. And as I had this gaping hole in my heart, it started to fill, healing was being done with the help of someone. Not long after my daddy left this earth, Chris came into my life. Not only was this new to me, but it was also new to my daughter. I knew her papa leaving was a change and a bad one, but I hoped Chris would be a good change. It didn’t take much time for Chris to integrate into our daily life, from playing catch with my daughter, to meeting his cat, to having family dinners with him, I saw that same smile that she had left in the hospital room, quickly reappear on her face when he was around.

I was nervous. Emotion filled the empty car space as I drove to T’s house to meet Lu for the first time. What was I gonna say? What was she gonna say?

How would she react? Many questions circled my head, and as I look back now, they shouldn’t have. Seeing Lu merged into a part of my daily life, when I saw T, I saw Lu and that became the norm. I knew about Pat’s recent absence in T and Lu’s life, but it didn’t seem to have an impact on Lu because whenever I saw her, she never failed to smile. Lu and I quickly grew an unbreakable bond. Time spent with Lu was easy, like I wasn’t trying hard and everything just flowed. After spending many years with Lu, I can see why Pat

loved spending time with her. She was open, fun, and always smiling.

My papa was a big part of my life, one of the biggest, and losing his hand to hold was like the first time on a bike without training wheels. But Chris, Chris didn’t put the training wheels back on but he guided me, and showed me the way. Chris was the helping hand I needed. When my papa left, he wasn’t going to leave me without direction and no training wheels. The Lord may have taken my papa’s hand away from mine but he put it right into Chris’s.

Art by Elliot ‘26

Trespass

By Isabel ‘24 Stepping free from your sheets and Trespassing on your sleek black floors They betray my dry bare feet.

Clinging to my smooth soles, I stick across the gleaming floor, Through the glass walls, My ghost prints vanishing in the pale, cloud-stained sun.

Vanishing to any eye but yours.

Why is it That where there was never any print but yours - spotless These walls forget so soon?

Spotless, print-less far too soon.

You are everywhere as always, In all the places that you should have been, In all the places that I never wanted you, In all the places that belonged to you.

But you’re already gone.

Your perfume, scent, and soap Cling to your clothes and Clutter your empty shelves, Drip from your walls, But in the dark, I know how long it’s been since you stood here: It was that entire lifetime ago Of a few months That you stood here.

There is a calm here that could not exist before, Though I am an unfaithful creature to name it Peace.

I do not know what loyalty or love I owe you, but This place is not better for your absence.

I am still the welcome trespasser here.

Art by Sylvie ‘25

People, People everywhere They judge you For how you Look Walk

By Anonymous Speak Smile Learn Dress.

They look at you with hatred and disgust, Even the things that don't matter, Music taste Color of your shirt Hair Favorite pastime, They judge.

Why, why does it matter if someone wears a blue shirt and not gray?

Or likes to listen to jazz, not rap Or rather read a book than look at a screen.

From the moment when they first lay their judging eyes on you, There is a picture forming in their head, A picture of you A picture that might not be who you are, But it is what they see.

At the end of the day, why does it matter?

Why were those nasty looks thrown at you in the first place?

In a while, will you still remember me?

Or just forget that I exist So why dwell on those things if they don't matter?

Why throw those piercing glances?

If it won’t matter in 100 years.

Judgemental Nature

Near Flight

By Luchik ‘24

Part I I imagine you searched the sky, Bifocals traded for binoculars, Nearing the pine tree, crackling needles texture The whispered murmur of a sun-scorched forest.

Kyiv boils in summertime, And the little cemetery of cross-beamed stakes impales its loamy hill.

While a red-ringed smokestack belches dim exhaust into a cyanide sky.

Concrete slabs course through the matted brush.

Hungry weeds lap up the ruin.

Soviet or Scythian, The forest forgets in equal measure.

You enter the copse, break brittle carpet with lonesome intrusion, Like any serf stealing away from the plow within the last millennium.

That peasant sees a flock of sparrows break upwards from a low-beamed fence, panting wings churning the molasses heat.

You– a Jew with eyes thrown higher than the stakes between two grainfields, yearn for a greater bird.

To dive, slice through the air, Outpacing the immolation Of your childhood, Branded with two smoldering stars: yellow / red a six-legged insect drowned

In raspberry kompot So you climbed the ashy limbs Of the only telephone pole predating Tsar Nicholas, swaying in the free Dnieper breeze, to the hawk perched there near flight.

Part II Did you imagine then, before you fell, crumbs caking every crevice, stained plastic cutlery scenting the seats, quarters and nickels glued down with spilled juiceAll this in your graying Honda?

That too-large too-thick coat like a big black beetle brimming with trifles.

Or twenty-dollar breakfasts at IHOP: très leches on kids’ menus.

On the freeway home: the full-bellied sloth, Sun pressing a palm against the cold windows of your Honda And a fidgety boy fingering the AC, draped in downy coat Because he forgot his at home, And you aren’t cold anyway.

From atop the pine, From the dawn of your prime, Audubon aubade craning toward The hawk’s nest, near flight.

Grandpa Sasha

By Luchik ‘24

My grandpa is a fist over anvil glowing red.

Grandpa hammered from the earth, A dacha cast of lead.

My grandpa is Joshua, Crumpling Iron Curtains in his hand.

My grandpa is old Moses, Boiling the Atlantic in a pan.

Grandfather eats Fascists for dinner And Communists for lunch, Chess Grandmasters for breakfast, And bureaucrats with brunch.

My grandpa married dynamite, Who’d shattered mountains in her spite, And reared two generations With borscht and warm insight.

Art by Mica ‘23

My grandpa is a helpless boy Thrown onto a train.

They blacked out all the windows And hid from fiery rain.

While trumpets screamed above, And sirens moaned below, A world billowed up in ash To horns of Jericho.

My grandfather is never wrongIt’s their fault they won’t listen.

Grandpa is an atom bomb, Thanksgiving dinner- fission.

My grandpa split the earth apart, Clenched palms worn and marred, He stormed the Reichstag fifty times and planted maple in our yard.

The Two Passengers

By Jasper ‘26 The coachman had always liked the fog. It kept him awake, as his job required. The fog gave the sense that all was quiet, that everyone was alone and therefore had no reason to fear.

The lanterns illuminated the carriage depot sign barely reached his eyes.

Big Ben struck 12 times, and midnight had fallen upon him.

His horse snorted in front of the carriage, stomping the ground with her hoof. A new passenger was about to arrive. The passenger was a tall figure, clad in black robes and a large hood that nearly covered his entire face, with just his pale chin being visible.

They carried a large tome at his side, though it did not unbalance him as he walked. Their footsteps were nearly silent as he approached the carriage, their long robes covering his feet giving the impression that he was floating.The figure reached into the many layers of his cloak to find a pouch of jingling coins, which was tossed to the coachman as the figure boarded the carriage. The coachman heard the flipping of pages before the figure spoke, in a voice reminiscent of a creaking door, “Bucks Row.” Bucks

Row was a long ride from the depot, but the heavy pouch of coins convinced the coachman otherwise.

The horse's roots echoed through the silent city, matching the sound of wheels hitting the cobblestone. The figure's voice smoothly slipped into the coachman’s ears with the simple words, “Stop here.” As soon as he finished his sentence, a faint scream came from a nearby alley. He left the carriage, and as began to move away they murmured, “I’ll be back.” The bident talisman on the tome shined for a moment before the figure was fully obscured in the fog.

The coachman did not have to wait long before the figure returned. The horse did not respond as the figure moved by, with his large tome now open,

writing a note with an elaborate pen made from a rooks feather. This figure was not smart, the coachman observed, as the ink would not dry in such wet conditions. That reasoning clearly did not matter to the figure, as they closed the great book as they stepped up into the carriage. The figure asked again, in that creaking voice, “Go to the Royal London Hospital.”

It did not take long to arrive. The hospital always gave the coachman the creeps, and the once-comforting fog certainly didn’t help. The figure seemingly floated out of the carriage as they approached the hospital, leaving another pouch of coins on the edge of the carriage as they left. The coachman begrudgingly got up to retrieve it, tying the horse’s reins on the edge of the driver's seat. As the coachman stepped to the ground, his shoe got caught on one of the spokes of the wheel and hit the ground before he realized what happened. Everything when black.

The coachman woke up to the figure rubbing his forehead with a moist cloth. The figure had rolled him to his side and offered their hand to help the coachman stand up. He took it graciously and started apologizing profusely. The figure ignored the apologies and went back into the carriage, opening their tome. The coachman, confused, climbed back into the driver's seat. The figure spoke again, in that eerie voice, “The graveyard.”

The coachman looked back with the intention of asking which graveyard, but it did not take long for him to realize. The coachman turned back to the road, two bags of coins jingling in his pocket, and ordered the horse to move forward. They moved to the sound of the figure writing in his tome.

The graveyard was always the foggiest part of the city. It made the air feel heavy in the coachman's lungs, bogging down his every

thought and movement. The figure exited the carriage but did not pass the gates into the graveyard. He walked in front of the carriage and pointed the opening of the hood to the coachman expectantly, their face now completely covered in shadow. He reached a cloaked arm to the coachman, and as he spoke the gates of the graveyard flew open, “The reins?” The figure's tone was almost kind, but it did not stop the sudden fear that entered the coachman’s body.

“I don’t want to go, you, you, made me come with you. I fell because of you! I’m here because of you!” the coachman gasped, making himself as small as possible in his seat. The figure raised its hand again, simply saying “I have been your passenger for much longer than that.” The coachman, now a passenger, looked towards the graveyard, seeing a familiar name. The passenger handed the figure the reins and moved to enter the carriage.

Art by Anonymous

Untitled I love you.

Three words

Three words

Eight letters

Eight letters

Endless ways to say it.

I love you.

Before every goodbye

I’m here for you, I love

And after every hello

you.

I love you.

I’ll be right back, I love

Drive safe, I love you.

you.

Have a good day, I love you.

I’m your biggest fan, I love

Talk to you later, I love you.

you.

A way to resolve a fight,

One wrong turn

A reason to fight for someone.

One drunk driver

All because

One last breath

I love you.

Any I love you could be the

Play hard, I love you.

last

See you soon, I love you.

So always say it.

Be safe, I love you.

Three words

Tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Eight letters

Neither is 20 minutes down the road.

I love you.

So always say it.

What am I to you?

By Anonymous What am I to you without my hugs?

What am I to you without my ears?

What am I to my friends but free therapy?

What am I to my parents besides a report card?

What am I to boys besides a body?

What am I to my mirror?

What am I to myself?

Do I even like who I've become?

Do I even care?

I want to be liked.

I need to be loved.

But I am nothing to myself without being something to someone else.

What am I to you?

Art by Ari ‘23

This year, ninth-graders were asked to write poems about where they are from based on the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon. They used this poem as an outline for their own experiences. The following pages few are the final products of this assignment from a variety of our students.

Track and Field Wisdom ‘26

I am from a generation of softer hands I am from, using Fabuloso in homes that WE occupied I am from you don’t know pain, so wipe your crocodile tears I am from, Mr. Clean Magic Eraser used to clean the stains on the walls from, negligence The negligence of fathers who were never home, and mothers working hard but not hard enough I am from people putting their all into me and, And sacrificing it too I am from loving sweet potato pie but loving my uncle, apple pie even more I AM FROM, TOUGH LOVE Grit so grainy, my sandpaper words polish and scrape but my sister knows she’ll come out shinier in the end Better, stronger, and sturdier, like the houses my uncle helped build Not offering, TELLING his workers what had to be polished, and what had to be scraped and scrapped The when, and the why’s…

Why I and Harmony had to work harder, be faster to get out of Boston To Be Better and never come back for good

I am from seven years and then some, track shoes and shotput, Of being the slowest on the team Keeping my eyes on the prize even with my bad vision Keeping my pace, consistent Even when every single kid on my team ran off course, Burnt out and tired For THEY had a vision They wanted us to succeed so I did For I am from A mother not ready for the world, And a world not ready for the child that mother bore I am from sacrifice and crocodile tears I am from sweet potato pie, as well as apple I am from Fabuloso, And steam mops Illness in the mind But not minding the voices in your head when they whisper big somethings and lead you down a track of no return Whether it be a long distance or sprints I’ll keep my eyes on the prize For I can ignore them, those voices Those voices so similar to my family’s constant nagging On how…

I am from generations of Conquerers And Failures, Mistakes, And people who clawed their way to success, Instead of a normal long-distance race, some people in my family Had no choice But to compete in the Steeple chase

So, I make sure I am on the right track, I’ll continue to run in my lane until I reach the finish line for being useless serves no real purpose And the bubbly feelings inside Like dawn dish soap Pop and disappear so easily When something hurts So even when my joints creak like door hinges after a race Even when I get third or second by a slim margin Before every time I have to run full speed toward the finish line Can I have a moment of silence before I start my races My silent battles For all those who have given For all those who gave what I received For all who have ran distances, I can't even comprehend All who have lost so much more than what I have gained Can I have a moment of silence for the women in my family?

For they were the ones who I listened to, For they have been doing track long before I have Running, and running against time, so they can provide From food to heat, to Time to stop for a moment of silence, when I needed them to, Time to stop and Say a word of Wisdom or two

Where I Am From Clare ‘26 From debut and from folklore I’m from the small town of Bristol Rhode island an ocean breeze, and boardwalks. It feels comfortable and old.

I’m from a mirrorball from “every version of yourself” ”shimmering and beautiful” I’m from the catchphrase games and competitive nature I’m from the endless laughter and passionate hugs From justin and from jann and from lila From the opening arms of the sea, the kind of comfort only one place can bring you where the stars shine a little brighter I’m from rhode island

From dairy and meat “healthy” substitutes

From the sneaking out and crawling back home under the covers at the end of the night because “you missed your bed”.

Where I’m From Marek ‘26

I am from burnt Ghirardelli's brownies From the Big Agnes tents and Armada skis I’m from the basket ball hoop in the road (Open, beautiful, Scent of rain) I’m from Bud Werner The snow Gently falling on the ground I’m from the hockey game after Christmas And the loud laughs From the Amelia and Maryann I’m from the sarcasm And the “dish but can’t take” From “You need to eat more” And “You ate everything” I am from Jesus Christ and Church on Sunday I’m from many different heritages Essado and French toast From the Grandma that got lost in woods And the father that grew from the concrete Grandma’s house with every trinket from the past I’m from the Girard family all over the world Argentina, Mexico, Native Lands, Wyoming and Colorado.

Where I Am From Spencer ‘26 I am from the cold snap of a can of seltzer water, from Price Chopper, and brachycephalic dogs.

I’m from the green country style 2 story house I call home, many windows, and tall ceilings.

It feels like I’m right where I belong.

I’m from the Maples, the Oaks, Tall and tough, they hold their ground.

But I am no oak, nor maple tree standing in hundreds, thousands, millions, all tall and proud I have felt weak, like there was no way I could ever be forgiven.

I’m from sorrow, remorse, regret.

I’m from forgiveness, and empathy, and “I love you”.

I’m from the crepes on Thanksgiving, and brown hair.

From Caden, and Mom, and Dad.

I’m from Canaan Village Pizza, and watching movies every Sunday.

Where I Am From Ali ‘26

I am from warm blankets From Dior and Balenciaga I am from the large walls Wood floors, sound roof that reaches over from the trees And the plants The blues and greens With chimes that hang from the sky From the mums that sway beyond the front door That flourish in the spring And letting the smell trickle through the air I am from Mike, Jess, and Cole From love and death I am from nothingness and fullness The world stretches in which I belong I am from the Concords, the Asias, and Spains I am from the

loud, the warm, the nice, the mean, the everything in between, I am who I am meant to be

The Show Must Go On

By Anneliese ‘23 By now I know the plays I read the lines made from pen and ink That stains the paper as it bled I know The fonts of different voices And the way the sound resides Every move requires Choices Like a rising ocean Tides I do not know My final bow I know The lights that blind the stage As we face the crowd that stares Who’s eyes light up with such amaze As if were animals in our cage I know the blocking that moves the chairs The way feet move through the maze behind the curtain of props, lights and black shirts I do not know My final bow

I know the hours of work that goes by Sitting and waiting to say my line Just to have my character die But still having my moment to rise and shine I know the texture of the costume piece That was sewn carefully by hand With every detail put into every fleece And feather, and button, no matter how grand I do not know my final bow I know the hands that worked on the show The ones not recognized except in our minds The ones who build The ones who put in every cue Move every spot light to its intended place Who in the shadows are the backbone to make us grow Taller than the rest, louder than the rest, brighter than the rest I would not have my final bow

Olivia ‘25

Untitled

By Anonymous

A new horizon is upon us The frost decays and the winter is beyond us The pain melts too the hold I held loosens

The spring is upon us The warm air taunts us The end is near for those so dear Yet for every flower dead a new seed appears Stuck in a cycle always losing For those who will leave, leave a bruising Do I hurt others so when I leave their lives and return to winter snow?

No the old must go

In response to Salvage the Bones

By Caroline ‘26

“Skeetah grabs China by the head and pulls and her body comes out and she is scrambling.

She flies clear of him, twists in the air to splash belly first in the water. She is already swimming, fighting” (Ward 235).

I can smell Katrina. She is almost a tangible person, her perfume the sea salt mist and her breath the wind. Her eyes are burning into my back, watching me, waiting. She wants to take my Skeetah, I can feel it in the banging of the windows and the rattling of the door. I will protect him though, and I will not leave him. He is my guardian angel, glowing white against the black of everyone else.

Outside, the animals are preparing, and some are even escaping; an option I have ruled out because of my Skeetah’s insistence to stay put. The heavy clumps of the elk pad against the soft mud, mixed with the rhythm of softer, quicker squeaks of the prey. They create a melody that Katrina sways to, her long arms shifting, her body gliding in twirls to create a whirlwind that sucks all of us in.

The disturbance of the storm is almost tuned out by the bustle within the house. Sister and Brother are allaying their worries by keeping busy, and the Little One is tagging along, like usual. The father’s room is still, but distress is radiating through our door in waves. My Skeetah is in his own world with his eyes glazed, but he is still here. His insistence to care for the puppies has toned down, as we have realized that all of us may not survive Her. I lay my head on his lap, and we comfort each other in a way that goes beyond words.

He need not say my name, for his hand, which runs down my face like the rain drops on a window, calm, and somewhat sad, communicates enough. The day blends into a night just as interchangeably dark, and my eyes close to the pounding of Katrina at our door, demanding to be let in.

When my Skeetah wakes up in the morning, I walk out of our room to Sister curled up on the couch, her body in a fetal position with her whole being curved around her stomach. I am unsure whether she is trying to protect her baby with that pose, or if it is meant to comfort herself instead. When she stands to meet my Skeetah, the effect of the baby is prominent in her shoulders and eyes. It weighs her down, dragging her towards the earth,

hanging heavy to remind her it is there. Her eyes say that she has given up, that she has accepted her fate as a mother, that she has to be something she just lost.

I watch Sister carefully as she climbs on to Brother’s bed with her steps just as muted as usual. She curls into herself again as Katrina unfurls herself outside. Sister’s face begins to etch its worry in lines, painting a portrait that covers up her beauty. As the buzz of their conversation continues, her face instead smooths out into a tranquility outlined by longing. They are talking about the mother. I only remember glimpses of her warmth, but often when Skeetah whispers to me, it is about her.

In their corner, the puppies are silent, but I cannot bring myself to get up to check, to care for something I never even wanted. My attention is riveted to the window as someone screams,

begging for help in Katrina’s death grip. One of my own is out there, in the same position I could be in right now, locked away in this prison of safety. As my Skeetah calms and reassures me that I am not in a danger I am in, I sense her.

Katrina is here for us, for my Skeetah. I can hear her whispers in the father’s room across the hall, threatening that she is there for him. She screams, and the effect startles my Skeetah and Sister. The door is opened and the father is safe for my Skeetah, but Katrina has been let in.

We have to stay in the main room with the rest, but I am with him, so all is well. With the glow of the lamp, he looks like a god, blessed by an angel.

I wake to another day of darkness, and it seems to swallow me whole, with only my Skeetah lighting the way. My underside is wet - just a little damp at first, but then it spreads, and I wonder if the darkness has come to drown me. I get up to look, my first instinct being to protect him, but he holds me back and I know he is safe. We walk around the light puddle, the light despair that we all seem to sink into and it starts to spread. Everyone seems to lose a bit of hope. The father starts to make a noise that startles the Little One so much that he clutches Brother as if he can save him from Katrina.

I am forced to wade through the clear trap, and for a second I think of my puppies, my offspring that I must love and nourish. I am brought back into the world by my Skeetah, who pushes me up into a cramped room full of age.

We are so close to Her now, to our mother nature that is both our birth and our death.

She calls to us through the rickety roof, begging us to join her outside. She demands we join her dance, and I scream back to stay away from my Skeetah and his family. Katrina must go away or we will not last much longer. My Skeetah tells me to quiet and I do, for his voice, usually whispering and lovely, is now laced with a desperation that is a ghost of his mother’s birthing cries.

The despair of his voice is echoed in the water creeping up through our safe place back into our bodies, settling a chill that tells of what is to come. Brother is forced to open the roof, and Katrina screeches in victory, “Finally.”

Her dance picks up the tempo, one we must keep up with in order to survive. My Skeetah wraps me in himself, and for a moment I am safe, away from this terrible woman until he jumps. He leaps forward, a jeté that jolts me forward in his arms against his chest. But he is struggling. He is weighed down by holding me, but my Skeetah won’t let me go. I try to tell him that I can do it, that I can fight through her, but he only shouts my name and holds me tighter.

I whip my head around to see the father glance down at Sister’s stomach in disgust, and push her. I know he knows, and he wants to punish her for it. But why should she be punished for getting pregnant if I got reprimanded if I didn’t? But now Katrina has her and tries to get her to dance to a frenetic song, throwing her around to a salsa beat. My Skeetah looks at me, gazing at me with an apology in his eyes, but determination in his brows. He lets me go.

Katrina has me, and is wrapping me in her long arms made of our home. I can hear my Skeetah’s voice in the wind, but I cannot tell if it is just Katrina torturing me with his call.

They yell “China! China!” and I call out in response, but my scream is muffled by Katrina’s melody.

As I fall deeper and deeper into a lull, I find that there is an enchantment in Katrina that I wish to succumb to, a grace in her wrath, a beauty in her destruction. Her swaying arms try to trap me, try to draw me into her dance, but I cannot. I have devoted myself to my Skeetah and must not leave him for her. I must go back.

Art by Lynsdey ‘23