Tournesol, the LIterary Magazine of the Academy of Notre Dame de Namur

“After the Storm,” Maeve Pinheiro, ’21

“Interim,” Grace Rivers, ’20 “Revisions,” Meg Arfaa, ’20 “Ghosted,”“Afterliving” Kaitlyn Moshang, ’20 “The Space Wanderer,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20 “Zoroastrian Rite of Passage,” Abigail Ryan, ’20 “Making Paper Cranes,” Meg Arfaa, ’20 “Gone Fishing,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20 “Process,” Sofia Oliva, ’20 “Eden,” Lindsay Goldschmidt, ’20 “Sonnet on Schizophrenia,” Maddie Frank, ’22 “Dragon’s Keepsake,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20 “The Last Person on Earth Celebrates a Birthday,” Alex McCulloch, ’22 Ekphrastic Poetry (from Maddie Frank and Maureen Maguire, ’22; Kiera Chambers and Meghan Gallary, ’21; Grace Rivers and Meg Arfaa, ’20) “Window to the Past,” Kassie Clark, ’20 “Address to the Virus,” Ella Canavan, ’21

“Birds,” by Helen Potts, ’25 Table of Contents Foreword, Meg Arfaa, Editor-in-Chief “Away from Home,” Grace Rivers, ’20 “Nani,” Eva Kraus, ’20 “I Am,” Poems by Kaitlyn Kolessar, Eliana Degenarro and Emily Peltier, ’26 “Lonely Tin Marcher,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20 “The Family Feud,” Katie Mowatt, ’20 “Ode to Spock’s Sacrifice” Lorna Petrizzo, ’23 “Goodnight, Nobody,” Emily Shank, ’20

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Contributing artists this issue: Meg Arfaa (’20), Julia Czachor (’21), Brigitte Lubker (’20), Maeve Pinheiro (’21), Gwen Pohlmann (’20), Helen Potts (’25), Paz Sorg (’24), Eva Stillwell (’24), S​í​ne Thompson (’24), Ava Trask (’22), Elizabeth Valenti (’21), Serena Xu (’20).

Cover art by Paz Sorg, ’24 Tournesol ​is the annual literary magazine for the Academy of Notre Dame de Namur, in Villanova, Pennsylvania, 19085.

Foreword

by Meg Arfaa, Editor-in-Chief This issue of ​Tournesol​ will be the first of its kind, published during a pandemic lockdown and in the midst of a worldwide health crisis. There has never been a situation quite like the one that exists today and hopefully there never will be again.

Much of the work in this issue of ​Tournesol was written before the spread of the COVID-19 pandemic to the United States; therefore many of the written and artistic works make no mention of the pandemic and subsequent social isolation. Be that as it may, many of the works still have some relevance to the crisis because of their themes of death and loneliness. There were also a few works written specifically in reaction to the lockdown. That said, there are also many works that provide an escape from the current global health situation and the personal hardships that many have had to face in its midst. All creative writing is an avenue for sharing experience and cultivating empathy. In order to give the readers of this issue of ​Tournesol​ both a sense of escape from the current crisis and the feeling of shared experience and commiseration, I have selected works that evoke empathy and put the reader in the place of each work’s characters and narrators. When the world seems so uncertain and we all feel so alone, it is important to know that there is something besides this crisis. There is a whole world waiting for us on the other side, and everyone is waiting for it together.

“Far-Sighted,” Helen Potts,’25

Away from Home Grace Rivers, ’20 [Silver Key for Personal Essay, Scholastic Awards 2020] The clouds parted, allowing the sun to penetrate through to the small, golden beach of the pristine Hawaiian coastline. The atmosphere remained quiet despite the sound of lapping water along the shoreline, the sapphire waves rolling gently on the sand as the tide crept in. One might be crazy to deem this place any less than paradise, as the mellow palm trees bent and swayed with the breeze, the shade whispering the names of visitors. I laid my towel out on the warm, soft sand, eager to step my feet in the water. Having set down my belongings, I pulled down the clear, elastic strap of my snorkel goggles and rushed to get in the water, the blue of the water so deep it matched my gazing, curious eyes. The water was cool to the touch as I slowly waded in past my hips and took a deep breath in the silence of the small, secluded island. As I placed my head under the clear, shallow water, a school of fish energetically followed the slow movements of an ancient green sea turtle. The turtle, in all of its wisdom and ease, unknowingly embraced the ideology of Hawaiin life: to live simply, finding the presence of God in the grandest of sunsets atop Mount Haleakalā and the simplest of scents from the Arabian Jasmine, a prominent flower on the island. It was paradise, and with the placid water and serene sounds, I felt as if no emotion could be experienced but that of pure bliss, as if feeling any negative emotion was selfish and egotistical. I was fortunate enough to be here, enjoying what I thought to be heaven on Earth, something I would never take for granted. I would later learn that ignorance can be more blissful than the most perfectly calm place on Earth.

For years, I believed my stress and sadness were a product of my atmosphere, as if I could remove myself from such a world I was living in and thus relinquish some of the things that weighed on my shoulders. I felt like I had no purpose but that of pleasing my teachers and family, and thus I spent almost all my time completing assignments or fixating on what others would perceive of my decisions. I wasn’t investing time in myself, and for a while, I believed the only way to abandon the sadness and anxiety I felt was instead to invest time in traveling and marveling at the magnificence of the outside world, where I felt God truly was ubiquitous. I set countdowns on my phone to monitor the day I would leave for trips abroad, as if this would be the day I somehow felt better about my dreary life and expectations. However, while this mindset proved to be faulty, it was bliss. I was ignorant to the “Blue Sky,” Síne Thompson, ’24

fact that just because I was physically present in a location for a short week or two did not somehow diminish or curtail the negative emotions I felt in my life as a whole. he problems I faced were ones I had to deal with in real life, regardless of how much I hoped that changing my perceived dreary location would change the magnitude of the dilemmas I had to face.

As I sat on the porch of our Kauai hotel room, watching the gracious, long leaves of the palm trees sway to the gentle wind, I didn’t feel overwhelming joy. I reflected on the activities of the day, reminding myself of the ancient green sea turtle and the sapphire blue of the secluded ocean that communicated only tranquility and peace; however, its beauty was not enough to soothe my aching heart. Sitting 3,000 miles away from my home state, I realized I did not somehow leave my depression and anxiety at home. My internal call for help would never be answered by the rocking hammock strung between the palm trees or the crash of the crystal waves along the Hawaiian coastline. More importantly, my location on Earth, regardless of its natural beauty or comforting atmosphere, would not change the urgency of this internal call. I couldn’t find the answers in paradise on Earth. I had to find them within myself.

I left the porch, feeling calmly lost. I wanted so desperately to let go and feel like myself again, but my recent realization left me uneasy. While I had broken out of this state of ignorance in believing my destination would change my mental state, there was still much to discover. How would I answer my internal call? How would I seek help beyond my natural, peaceful surroundings? While I had made one big discovery, it felt like another had arisen in its place, and this one felt impossible to comprehend. If I couldn’t find peace in myself, the breadth of the world would never be enough. Furthermore, if I didn’t feel this divine presence moving within me, the beauty of God’s Earth would never be enough to soothe and end my pain. I couldn’t spend just a day finding myself. I couldn’t even spend just a decade finding myself. The search for this inner peace was one I would continually need to rediscover and work through for the rest of my life, and, most likely, I would die not even having found all the answers.

The Hindu faith, embracing the idea of Tat Tvam Asi, believes this search for internal peace is not “​Portrait,” Síne Thompson,’24

one easily completed in a single lifetime. The literal translation of Tat Tvam Asi, “Thou art that,” promotes various meanings beyond those described by scholars and religious figures.

While ‘thou’ describes your being, it is your metaphorical being that has the power to be united with the Ultimate Reality. According to my own interpretation, the ‘that’ refers to our Earthly self. Everything we have the possibility of becoming depends on the Earthly being we choose to be. We aren’t born knowing the essence of who we are, and often the complexity of life does not allow for one to discover this in just a single lifetime. Knowing our true selves demands not only the experience of many lifetimes, but the experience of many forms of life, from the tiniest insect, like the ant, to the most intelligent life form, the human being. We must know the pain and joy from every stage and form of life in order to understand the true essence of who our spirit is, not our physical form.

While feeling slightly lost with my recent realization in Hawaii, I embraced life’s unanswerable questions. It is okay to not be okay. It is okay to not understand the reason for pain or even for joy. While I felt despondent by my ability to feel sadness in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, I embraced the wonderful fact that the discovery of my true essence may take multiple days, or even multiple lifetimes.

“The Waters Provide,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20

Nani Eva Kraus, ’20 [Silver Key for Poetry, Scholastic Awards 2020] As I left the funeral Scattered ashes all around My father pulled me close to him And said “This is not the end” He said to me that this is a beginning, not an end “This is a new beginning.

Now Nani gets another chance” I looked at my father puzzled Only fives years of age “But how can Nani have another chance when we put her in a grave?”

He said the body reincarnates and our souls can live again Death is not a punishment but a chance to live again So then I turned to my mother and asked “What does all this mean?”

She said,”With each life you’re living, you learn a little more about yourself With each passing, you learn something that can help benefit your soul So fulfill your dharma now So your karma’s lookin’ up” Tat tvam asi It’s a feeling we strive for I hope Nani can find it in her next life

I am….

[Snapshot poetry from members of the Class of 2026] I am a strong, independent woman who is capable of doing anything I once could swim at beaches Now I Iie in bed and watch Netflix.

Now my family does puzzles every day.

Most days, I wonder when we will get out, and I look out the window imagining what life will be like after this, feeling trapped and lonely.

There are moments when I really think about what's happening.

I miss hanging and laughing with my friends.

The world was a free place.

Now the world holds people trapped at home These moments teach me that we will all get through this together Kaitlyn Kolessar

“Half Time,” Síne Thompson, ’24

I am an athlete who loves to be outside and active.

I once played in intense games and ran with my teammates.

Now I have virtual calls and practices and I run by myself.

Now my family works at home and wears masks and gloves when going out.

It used to be that I would go to practice with my friends and coach.

Feeling prepared and hyped for our next live tournament.

There are moments when I stop and know that I love what I am doing and want to do it for the rest of my life I miss the car rides with my favorite moms and friends blasting music.

The world was not smart about protecting people’s health sooner.

Now it is a total mess and it's not good for us.

These moments teach me that I should take advantage of my home and health, because some people don't have that in these hard times.

Eliana DeGennaro

I am always out and never in the house. I play sports and do activities.

I once was able to do these things without even thinking twice.

Now I just daydream about my past life.

Now my family is socially deprived and bored all the time.

Most days I sit and wonder when this nightmare is going to end, feeling confined and lonely.

There are moments when I wonder if all of this is real or if I am just dreaming.

I miss being able to leave my house and go into the world.

The world was once a place where people could be together.

Now it is a place where we are apart.

These moments teach me that even if we are apart, everyone is experiencing the same thing and we are all in this together Emily Peltier

�Home,� Julia Czachor, ’21

Lonely Tin Marcher Brigitte Lubker, ’20 Trudging forward, boots crunch the grass The spiteful frost, it snaps like glass In my youth, I felt the draw Yet now I struggle to recall Where the wind once brushed my hair Only lies the stagnant air The birds that ask in bright light voices Why I’ve made these ghastly choices These friends I often used to see Now only meet my gaze to flee The trees all curl in hateful cowls The rhythm's cut by hateful howls Dark beasts I see don’t look like me Once I fall they’ll laugh with glee Where oh why do spirits hide Left for dead this grueling ride My heart still beats, my joints all bend Yet all but terror seems to end The whistle blows, these thoughts all scatter My head returns to boot-step patter I sign off here, your perfect soldier All I am is growing older.

The Family Feud Katie Mowatt, ’20 [Silver Key for Fiction, Scholastic Awards 2020] Of the many things about the beach, walking along the edge of the water, listening to the waves is one of my favorites. Normally I walk alone, letting my thoughts develop and argue with one another. But today I brought my little sister along. It was a cool summer evening, school let out the previous afternoon, and the company seemed right. Because she was five years younger than me, the conversation was mostly geared towards things she could understand- like mermaids. Being seventeen years old, I had grown out of such fairytales believing in only what I was taught by the Tanakh, but I also understood the necessity of believing.

“What if we met a mermaid today? Like she just came close while we were swimming and started talking to us. That would be so cool!” Jen excitedly chattered on as my mind began to drift. What would happen if all the stories we heard as children became true? I began imagining a golem coming to life. A rabbi trying desperately to save our population from the temptations of cell phones and technology by creating a golem. The young creature trying to help everyone at first, but then turning on us. . .

“The Creation of Destruction,” Gwen Pohlmann, ’20

A tugging on my arm pulled me from my thoughts. “Lizzie, mom is calling you.” I looked down to see my phone buzzing wildly. I quickly answered and said, “We’re on our way back. Don’t worry. I lost track of time.” I swiftly turned around and with a heavy sigh, my sister and I started running home for dinner. In my family, we consider ourselves “Jewish,” but we kind of make our own rules. In general, yes, we are Jewish; we observe the Sabbath and the normal holidays.

Outside of that though, we are pretty relaxed spiritually. My parents care more about school and preparing for college than anything else. I don’t mind it too much, but Jen always follows every law to a T, almost annoyingly so.

As we ran up the steps connecting the beach to our house, I started to smell dinner, Kneidlach (chicken soup with matzoh balls). When I hit the top step, all the lights in the world seemed to go out, there was a strong whistling, and I couldn’t see Jen anymore. I started to scream, but then just as it had started, everything went back to normal. I automatically took the next step and could hear Jen’s quirky voice again chattering away. It was as if nothing happened.

Confused, I walked into the house pushing alarmed thoughts from my head and focusing on the delicious smells flowing from the kitchen.

“Liz, are you feeling alright? You’ve barely touched your dinner.” My mom’s voice was caked with concern. It is weird for me not to finish a meal, especially dinner. “I guess I’m just not hungry right now.” Seeing my parents worried expressions I quickly added, “I ate a really big snack a little while ago. I’m sure I’ll be hungry later.” Dinner continued on, and once all of the dishes were cleaned, we moved into the living room to watch a movie. Tonight, ​E.T.​ It’s one of my favorites, and I excitedly sat down with a bowl of popcorn. Jen and my parents followed suit, each of us sitting in our usual seats. As the night wore on, I became very tired, probably just residual from a long senior year. Before the end, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer and drifted off- something I never do.

“Liz, go to bed.” The movie was clearly over, and my dad had woken me up. Jen was nowhere in sight, but then again, she always ran off to say her prayers before bed. I rubbed my eyes and slowly moved out of my comfy chair to go upstairs.

“Good night guys,” I practically whispered to my parents, who were already starting a new movie. My parents were the most amazing people in the world and somehow always knew what was right. They were practically angels, who, in Jewish culture, have the appearance of humans and have no wings.

“Angel” Síne Thompson, ’24

The next day, I slept in until midmorning, which was weird because I normally wake up to watch the sunrise. I went downstairs to eat breakfast but everything seemed to taste weird. I finally decided on a bagel with cream cheese and walked outside to the patio. I could see my parents and Jen already on the beach. Usually, I would have ran upstairs, gotten changed, and rushed to hang out with them. But something was different today. It was as if something had taken control of my body.

“That’s right sweetie, something has.” I whirled around ​ S​ín​ e Thompson, ’24 to see who had spoken but found nothing. “I’m not out there darling. I’m in here.” Whoever had been talking started laughing, or rather cackling. Was this some sort of joke? Had Jen set something up to trick me? Was there a camera lying around somewhere? I began looking for one when the voice said, “No, no. This isn’t a joke.” I stood up and started to panic. I was now hearing voices inside my head. Confused and freaking out, I sat down and began thinking long and hard.

While I was trying to figure out what had just happened, the voice stayed silent. Then, I remembered.

“That’s right.” The voice started chuckling again as I went into a fetal position scared for my life. See, in Jewish folklore there are multiple ghosts, but one main one. The dybbuk is a soul (the voice) that is trapped on earth and inhabits a human body (me) in order to settle its unfinished business. I had done a report on a famous case in which Post Malone was supposedly haunted by a box that hosted a dybbuk for religion this past year. The idea that one was inside me was quite terrifying.

“Yes, yes. It’s all very scary for you, but we’ve got stuff to do, people to see,” the voice quipped tearing me from my thoughts and all sense of safety. I really wanted to scream in that moment, but something stopped me. The voice. As in most cases, it now had control of me, of my body. For some reason it had allowed me to keep my thoughts, though that was probably to make me go insane faster. The voice did take control of my body and my voice because I was now moving back into my house towards the front door and I still couldn’t scream.

Submitting to the dybbuk and giving up, I thought, ​Do I at least get to know your name?

Your plan? ​The voice was silent, but what was really weird was that I could sense it was thinking. Then, I felt it sigh. Using my voice it replied, “I am Jacob, your uncle.” Confusion rippled through me; I didn’t have any uncles, especially not any deceased ones. “Yes you do, or rather you did. I am your father’s brother.” The voice went quiet for a moment, and I suddenly felt overwhelming sadness which quickly changed to anger. Apparently “Uncle Jacob” was controlling my feelings and emotions. “I was supposed to marry your mother, but your father

killed me and wed her instead.” ​Why would my parents never tell me about this? Why didn’t they at least tell me I had an uncle? M ​ y mind was racing, and I didn’t have time to process because right then I realized I was driving down the wrong side of the road. I didn’t remember getting into the car or starting it, but somehow I was fifteen minutes away from my house, judging from the Wawa I was passing.

Where are you taking me?​ I thought to my uncle as we took a turn down a road I had never noticed before. “We are taking a trip down memory lane. We are going to visit your grandfather.” Once more I was filled with confusion. My grandfather had died just before my tenth birthday, but then I realized that if this dybbuk was killed before my grandfather passed away, then he didn’t know that. I thought quickly, ​Pop-pop died seven years ago. We can go see his grave if you would like.​ If my uncle had not been controlling my body, I would be uncontrollably shaking at this point. “No, I was going to kill him for letting your dad kill me. We can still go to the house to get the gun your dad shot me with.” Trying very hard to scream, to cry, to feel anything that was my own, I felt myself losing to the dybbuk, felt myself fuming with the anger my uncle possessed.

​ “Rosy Cheeks,” Gwen Pohlmann, ’20

When we got to my dad’s childhood home, I realized that there was a new family now living there. I tried with all my might to stop myself from walking into the house, but was unable to. I felt myself raise my fist to knock on the door and tried with futility to close my eyes so I didn’t have to watch. I saw as a girl about Jen’s age opened the door and heard myself say, “Is your mommy home?” The girl nodded and ran away leaving me with my uncle in the doorway.

The mom approached and said, “Can I help you?” I saw her eyeing me, questioning whether I posed a threat. I wanted to yell at her, make her call the police, something, but the dybbuk took control.

“My father used to live here and he buried some things in the backyard as a sort of time capsule. He was scared to come back because the memories are so hard for him. His brother died in this house. But, anyway with Father’s Day coming up, I wanted to do something special.” My surprise from the words was outlined in the face of the mom, who led us straight to the backyard.

“Thank you so much, I will just be a moment.” The mom smiled and replied, “Take as much time as you need, and you can leave through the front gate when you are finished.” I felt myself smiling back at her before walking to the back corner of the yard. I started taking handfuls of grass from the earth and digging through the dirt. It wasn’t long before my uncle found what he was looking for. I felt it. I was holding the gun in my own hands. I wanted to cry, but my legs began to run towards the car. I knew what was about to happen and couldn’t stop it.

Stop fighting it,​ the dybbuk thought in my head. ​This is going to happen no matter what. Besides, I know you want it to happen. I know you’re as angry at him as I am.​ As we reached the house and started to head down to the beach I realized he was right. My father ​“Scarab,” Síne Thompson, ’24 was a mean man who killed his own brother and treated my sister and me horribly. Approaching my parents at the beach, I felt my uncle’s anger fueling my body, but there was something else there, too--my own anger.

“Hey, Liz. We were wondering when you’d come down.” My father smiled at me, and for a moment I faltered. But then my uncle took control. Using my hands, he pointed the gun to shoot my father. Using all my strength I shut my eyes and heard the shot.

Everything went black. Someone was screaming. I slowly opened my eyes fearing what I would see. Had I really just killed my own father? Instead of seeing my father’s body and hearing my mother’s screams, I saw Jen’s scared eyes and heard my parents footsteps running towards me.

I heard my sister explaining what had happened, “She fainted and is just waking up.”

Suddenly everything made sense. I pulled myself up, looked to my parents directly and asked, “Did we have an Uncle Jacob?” It was more of a statement than a question, and I had my answer from my parents expressions. With a surprised look and a heavy sigh, my father sat down and replied, “Yes.”

An Ode to Spock’s Sacrifice Lorna Petrizzo, ’22 The ship is crippled, He is on our tail, and death follows him, Should we be caught, We will all be taken before our time, Like weeds pulled from the Earth, Pulled up, only to be tossed down again, Sent down to the underworld to wail for all time.

He calls out, but there is no answer, No answer from the one who can put wind in our sail, Like water slipping through fingers Our time is gushing away.

Your eyes shine with resolve, You will do what must be done, As we’ve been taught, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

Or the one.

Why, oh, why were you that one?

Was there no other way?

You stride over to see your fallen shipmates wearily lying in defeat.

You would do what they could not.

You friend won’t let you go, He is yang and you are yin, Opposites yes, Opposing by nature, But he won’t let you go to grasp the fire, It is illogical he knows, But he was not a spirit of logic, Just as you were not one of emotion.

Time is running out.

You misdirect him, Like a a bird to flight his attention wavered, You gently lower him to the floor Being a creature of peace, you would never harm your friend, But regardless, you must get through.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

Or the one.

You know this to be true.

You enter the chamber where an invisible killer lay waiting, With a stoic gaze, and white gauntlets, You will do what must be done.

You’ve made peace as to what will happen next.

They watch helplessly from the outside, Pleading, begging with you to escape while you can, You won’t heed their cry, You know what will happen, And you know that if you can get them to safety, Then perhaps you will leave for paradise contented.

“Spock,” Síne Thompson, ’24

​

A beacon of harsh unrelenting light shines forth from the vault you tore open.

With it, the pain doubles, It is feasting on your body, But despite the shake in your knees, You stand strong above it.

The light blinds you before you seal the vault, It brings a new world of darkness unto you, But it worked!

We won!

We’ll be free!

We can escape the clutch of the talons, Of the terrible bird of pray, We shall live to see another morning, another day.

One that you cannot see.

A dawn whose infant sunlight will never brush your cheeks.

And a night whose stars will dance on without you under them.

Even though we are free he bolts down to you, Something sharp twists in his gut when he sees your figure in there.

His eyes glisten with horror, Refusing to process what he sees, The ugly truth that glared back at him.

He rushes is to free you.

You, the best friend he’s ever known.

But your shipmates hold him back, They know that letting you out would also let out the invisible killer.

It would go on to kill everyone too, Leaving not a bloody trail, But a line of burnt corpses in its wake.

He knows this to be true, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Or the one.

He can understand, but he doesn’t want to.

You both believed in each other when no one else would, Had each other’s back in times of strife, Stood by each other’s side until the bitter end.

Well, this is that bitter end.

With heartache he approaches the barrier that separates you from him.

He puts his hands on it, While his mind still can’t put its hands on to what he is seeing.

Seeing a strong, steadfast spirit such as your self curled over in pain.

He calls out your name desperately, Like an ailing child to their mother.

With difficulty you push yourself up off the floor, and fix your shirt.

Even in your weak state, you wouldn’t be caught dead sloppy or showing disrespect.

Especially to him of all people.

You stumble over to the barrier, You can’t see him, but you know he is there, You bump into it, with your burnt and damaged body, You call him by name, A sound that has left your lips many times before, But it is different this time.

It is a raspy sound that is feeble and denotes fragility, in a once formidable officer.

Is this the last time?

You ask to know if we are in the clear, Always thinking of others before yourself.

He says yes.

You tell him not to grieve, but what purpose does it serve?

Logic was never a comfort to a man like him.

You tell him what he already knows, “The needs of the many outweigh,” But you are struggling to even stay alert, So, he finished for you, “The needs of the few,” “Or the one,” you reply.

You ask what he thinks of your solution, He can’t answer with anything but your name.

How could he?

And with that begins slowly to sink to the ground again.

You once feared and were ashamed of friendship,

Especially from a man like him, But now, you tell him what we’ve all known, “I have been, and always shall be, your friend,​ Live long and Prosper,” your hand pressing the surface of the barrier in the traditional salute of your people.

He gingerly places his hand with less certainty on his side.

With that the light in your eyes fade, and you crumble down.

Never to rise again like the sun or moon.

He cannot believe what he has seen, His officer, friend, and brother fallen and starting to wither away.

“No,” That is all he says.

Because it is all he can say.

No one has mastery over death,

. . .

“Ignis aurum probat,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20 [n.b. “Fire tests gold” is the first part of a famous quote from Seneca: “As fire tempers gold, strong men are tested by suffering.”]

No one can never bring back what was lost, It is over now, Your last words ring in his ears forevermore.

You won’t live long nor prosper anymore, But because of you we will.

The crew watches him sink to the ground by your side, Heart torn open, and eyes watering with an unrelenting pain.

This was the end.

Rest in Peace, Leonard Nimoy 1931-2015 “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. Live long and prosper”

Goodnight, Nobody Emily Shank, ’20 [Gold Key for Poetry, Scholastic Awards 2020]

I don’t know what is wrong with me, But I can’t cry.

Maybe it is that I knew this day was coming, Or because it happened so suddenly, But as I stared down at my grandfather’s lifeless body, No tears escaped.

Months go by and nothing changes, I just feel an emptiness inside me.

Spring cleaning eventually begins, And I am ready to start anew.

I rummage through my bookshelf, And quickly stop in my work.

I stare down at the children’s book ​Goodnight Moon,​ And I can’t help but let all the memories flood back.

I begin to read the story, Reminiscing about my childhood, And how my grandfather used to read it to me.

Suddenly, I feel as though someone is watching me, And a warmth begins to spread through my body.

I am broken down in this moment, Reading this emotional tale, The memory of my grandfather attached to it, Feeling as though he is embracing me, And I cry.

Interim Grace Rivers, ’20 The words are caught in an interim, Or would you call it a ​calabozo?​ To whom I refer: ​su nombre​ or him?

Shall I describe it as joy or ​gozo?​

Ironic loss of words with two tongues, My mouth can’t even seem to speak in one.

Does this or that come easier when sung?

Alas, one or both remain undone.

Perhaps, however, the words don’t exist, Or the problem lies with communication.

I attempt, but my brain and mouth resist.

The sentence, a delicate creation

Beauty shall remain inexpressible.

Alas, if only I were capable.

Revisions Meg Arfaa, ’20 [Gold Key for Personal Essay, Scholastic Awards 2020]

When one decides to paint a bowl of noodles, one does not expect it to be a difficult task.

The subject itself is simple enough: a bowl and some ramen noodles. I plunged into my first piece for my AP Studio concentration secure in the belief that I could paint a bowl of noodles with the utmost ease. The noodles themselves were the easy part. The problem was the bowl. I sketched what I thought was a straight, clean edge of a bowl only to realize how crooked it was after adding a pen outline and watercolor to boot. The damage seemed irrevocable. I had completely and utterly failed at painting something as simple as a bowl of noodles.

The next day was the class critique; my humiliation would be complete. My classmates were kind, but the core of their criticisms remained honest. The rim was uneven, the broth didn’t have enough shading, the pen work was too light, and the background was distracting. A number of my classmates suggested that I crop out the most of the bowl’s rim. I was ready to take my piece to the guillotine that minute, but my art teacher stopped me. She told me to step away and put it out of my mind for a time. She saved that poor painting from my wrath. I just wanted to fix it right then and there. I wanted to fix all the mistakes, correct every imperfection. It irritated me to no end as I sat looking at it for the rest of class unable to fix it.

A few weeks later, I was reunited with my bowl of noodles. I still saw the mistakes, the imperfections, but they seemed far less overwhelming. I realized then that some of my mistakes couldn’t be fixed. That is the nature of pen and watercolor; every mark is permanent. I filled the distracting background with black, used a stencil to

straighten the edges, and added more shading in the broth. The unfixable mistakes began to look less noticeable and the piece improved overall. I felt rational, objective, calm. The imperfections that once gnawed at me seemed almost inconsequential. I gained a sense of peace in the knowledge that I can’t make it perfect, but I can make it better. Mistakes may be unfixable, but that doesn’t mean that they are the end.

Even though my bowl of noodles turned out far less appetizing than I had hoped, I had still enjoyed illustrating it. Even if I had thrown my noodles out in disgust, I would still have enjoyed it. My enjoyment lies in the stroke of the pen, the placement of the pigment, the careful consideration of each highlight and shadow. There is no joy so great as painting a bowl of noodles even if the painting itself never comes to fruition. Zen Master Ryokan Taigu wrote in his poem “My Cracked Wooden Bowl,” “This treasure was discovered on a bamboo thicket--/I washed the bowl in a spring and then mended it” (1-2). Now fixed and free of regret, my bowl of noodles is a treasure. The product may not be precious art, but the experience of its creation is worth far more. And it will continue to serve as a reminder of my mistakes as well as the delicious nature of ramen.

Two Poems Kaitlyn Moshang, ’20 [Gold Key for Poetry, Scholastic Awards 2020] I. Ghosted Devouring the light, There are ghosts in the night.

Whose energy prevails.

Like an endless black hole, Powerful in all its might, Complications become limited.

Broken down and digested.

Opportunities manifested within.

Empty minds rescind, As the path to wealth begins.

Hearts ever so clear, Filled with love so dear.

The ghosts have their grip, On making life their very own script.

II. Afterliving My stream of consciousness continues.

Although my presence seems to disappear.

I hope my new life is a sweet reward, From some worthy previous soul.

Though my lost may seem sad, I’ve only left to arrive again.

To gain a panoramic view.

Of what it means to be living.

My body has left this realm, There is nothing left to dwell.

But one day I will escape, Able to reach some ease.

No longer chained by needs.

My mind will be free.

The Space Wanderer Brigitte Lubker, ’20 You’re dancing lovely in that spotlight

You are the force of which you seek

Your tear glimmers

Power strong, unbound, and free

Your anger simmers

You never need to come to me.

Calling out into the twilight;

Your blinding soul has pierced the bleak.

You turned your face up to the stars “Who am I in this endless sky!”

“How long is left before I die!”

And all you heard were roaring cars; Now you climb this mountain peak The stones are wet You start to fret You hope I’m holding what you seek; At last!

You reach the moonlit summit Your breath is shallow You feel so callow Will your life yet cease to plummet?; Eyes like yours roamed here before A simple gaze that longs to question So here’s the key to your progression I tell you now, play no encore; The answers sleep while the mind pretends Forget the lies Light never dies I see the spirit who never bends;

“Manipulation” Gwen Pohlmann, ’20

Zoroastrian Rite of Passage Abigail Ryan ’20 [Silver Key for Poetry, Scholastic Awards 2020] My sagdid stays alongside of me He’s keeping the bad spirits and vibes away Allowing me to rest peacefully My people have come to say their last goodbyes.

Since I am not allowed to be touched These farewells simply hang in the air.

I am given away to those who cleanse me.

They wash themselves then me.

Wrap me in cloth that will grow worn with time Then place me on stone to become one with the stillness of it.

The circles are drawn around me.

The fire is lit I am taken to become one with the earth To the tower of silence Where vultures come and dine And I am exposed to the sun where it beams And this here is the end of me.

n.b. The sagdid is a Zoroastrian ritual that prescribes a canine companion to drive off contaminating demons from the recently deceased. Dogs are a frequent presence in Avestan texts, a beneficent presence among human beings. See http://www.iranicaonline. org/articles/dog#pt2​] “Portrait of a Labrador,” Meg Arfaa, ’20

Making Paper Cranes Meg Arfaa, ’20

I was a tree, a piece of a mighty oak, Now I am small, and flat, and square.

I am paper.

Gentle hands with blunted nails smooth my folds, Just enough pressure to sharpen soft creases.

I am folded again, and again, and again.

I begin to take a new shape, The shape of peace, one among thousands.

A small, paper prayer is what these hands have made of me.

May that prayer be answered.

Gone Fishing Brigitte Lubker, ’20 Moving stride after stride through the yellow grass that brushes my ankles, the shimmer of water dances before my eyes excited by the sunlight. Approaching a soft and familiar dug-out in the surrounding soil, I prop my fishing rod upright in the wet clay. Worms are just as easy to pluck as I had suspected, the musk of rain still lingering in the light breeze. Now content, I stand to cast, the hook and worm sailing past with a satisfying hiss, suddenly concluding with a rippled “plop” on the lake’s surface. I settle into a satisfied state, calmy observing the occasional shadow as it lazily interrupts the rays of sun reaching the bottom. The shadows I have come to know; I can just about recognize each one, yet the storm seems to have brought out some unfamiliar residents swimming like lightening and producing clouds of murk in their wake. Glancing ahead I notice the peculiar nests of foam drifting with the wind. These cream colored masses of bubbles unite together, caught by the waving reeds. The light seems to radiate and spiral its way through each bubble, capturing my attention. As I stare the light seems to move so rhythmically through each orb, as though it had a purpose to scan every edge of the lake through its pupil of reflected light. Gazing there transfixed, the creamy eyes seem to be centered on me, each reflection periodically waxing and waning as if to blink as they glare past my own two sockets.

As unsettling chills move up my arms, more of these nests of eyes appear in the corners of my vision. On second glance, perhaps not eyes, no, but the pulsing cusps of some squirming squid-like limb. I grasp the rooted grass with a new found terror as the bubbles morph grotesquely from beastly eyes to wriggling swarms of tendrils then back again. I could scarcely imagine the demonic owner of such vile attachments. The murk displaced by the sprinting fish now clouded over the once serene lake, taking on a rotting complexion. The breeze that had once stroked my cheek now stood stagnant, giving off a decaying smell to parallel the tone of the lake.

Rotting smells strangled my nostrils moving my eyes to stream burning tears. I weakly rose to my feet, swaying with unease as the lake began to ripple from its center. Harsh and violent cries crashed in waves onto the surrounding shore, seemingly shaking the Earth below me to its core.

The cries only increase in volume and magnitude, wailing as a ghastly mutation between a tire screech and a thunder’s roar. I shudder, my ears dully ringing. My ghostly fingertips now submerge in the sickly warm water. As I recoil in disgust my watering eyes try to make out this new hellscape I have fallen into, but all I can see is distorted and swirled through hot tears. Then silence. A chilling cold passes through my chest and grips my heart. The shadows of the deep skate together, gathering in the lake’s center, forming a mass of inky blackness shimmering like oil. The nests of limbs and eyes follow swifty, expanding and multiplying as they sizzle and pop like grease in a frying pan.

Now emerging slowly I can’t seem to take my eyes off of the mass. I try to call out but my voice is mangled and subdued by the ever growing smell of rot. My legs are buckled in panic, my face fixed at attention, I can only wait and dread. The beast moves faster and faster still, now gaining shape as it emerges breaking the surface tension of the lake. My senses are dim as a growing blankness buzzes in my ears and overtakes my vision. The white noise increases more rapidly with every second, echoing ear-splitting tones I could never emulate. The beast is now in front of my pained eyes. So close, I see a grotesque assortment of pieces that don’t quite fit on a body that absorbs the light around it. As the white consumes the last of my vision a violent punch of a sound bounds through the din. With my senses clear I now cautiously open my eyes to an outstretched hand and a more familiar voice slowly registers in my stunned head.

“You come home when I call you, wasn’t that clear?”

Her eyes graze the landscape as she slowly lowers her shotgun.

“Gators…” she trails off as she grasps my hand firmly, leading me back home.

“Seeing,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20

Process Sofia Oliva, ’20 I cannot think, my head is empty I cannot feel warmth, I am cold.

I cannot eat, or breathe, like a fish out of water.

I cannot do what I am. I am not bold.

What can I do?

Eden Lindsay Goldschmidt, ’20 [Gold Key for Fiction, National Silver Medal, Scholastic Awards 2020] My family isn’t religious. When I say “my family,” I’m referring to my mom and me. I don’t have any other family. I don’t believe in much. I don’t believe in any gods or spirits, I don’t believe in heaven or hell, and​ ​what most people don’t know about me is that for the first eighteen years of my life, I didn’t believe in love. Sure, I loved my mom, but she kept a pretty big secret from me for most of my life, so I just didn’t know if there was much meaning behind the notion of love and I don’t remember trying to figure it out. I do remember the exact day I realized that I didn’t believe in God. My mom never really even talked about religion when I was growing up. For the first six years of my life, she never mentioned that some people believed that there was God and that some people would pray for things and live their whole lives trying to get to some version of heaven. I had heard people mention God before, but I never really knew what they were talking about, and I didn’t really question it because I figured that if it was that important, my mom would have told me. At my kindergarten graduation ceremony, however, that all changed. My teacher, a woman in her mid-thirties with a kind smile and gentle nature, stood at a podium at the front of the room. I sat next to my mother, who had been in an extremely good mood that day. Maybe it was because she was proud of me for moving on to elementary school, or maybe it was just because it was a particularly sunny day. I never knew why she was so happy

that day because her happiness did not last long. My teacher began her speech by saying that our class was a pleasure to teach.

She praised us for being intelligent and well behaved, and then she moved on to discussing how each of us was a gift from God. I was confused as to what exactly that meant, so I tugged at my mom’s skirt and whispered, “What does that mean?”

As I looked up at my mother, there were tears welling up in her eyes and her face was turning bright red. I knew that asking that question was a mistake. Before I could process what was happening, my mom swiftly grabbed my hand and stormed out of the ceremony, dragging me along behind her. She put me in my car seat, buckled me up, and got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. For the first half of the drive home, my mom was silent. When she finally broke the silence, I had lost interest in knowing who God was anyway, but she still tried to explain the concept to me.

“Some people believe in God. They ask God for help with things. They trust that God will provide for them during their life and after they die,” she said in one breath.

A new burning question popped into my head. I could tell my mother was unsettled by this conversation, but I really had to ask.

“Do we believe in God?” The rest of the car ride was silent.

I never dared to ask about God again. I decided that I didn’t believe in him. I had lived the first several years of my life not

believing in God, and nothing terrible had happened to me, so I was content to leave it at that.

Besides, I never wanted to suffer the discomfort of talking to my mother about God ever again. That’s how I lived the next twelve years. I never brought up God or religion to my mother even though my peers were talking about it more and more. My mom and I actually had a pretty close relationship as I entered my teenage years. I would open up to her about a lot of things. I never hesitated to tell her about my friends or my grades or anything like that. The only things I never dared to ask her about were God and my father.

I didn’t know who my father was or why we didn’t live with him. My mother never talked about him, and if I had learned anything from my kindergarten graduation ceremony, it was that if my mom didn’t talk about something, there was probably a good reason for it. My mother had given me his name so I could fill out forms for school and things like that, but even having looked him up online, I couldn’t find much about who or where he was. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to know more about him and that it didn’t bother me that I never had a relationship with my father. I never had a romantic relationship to look up to because my mom was single all of my life. I know now that I love and have always loved my mom, but I didn’t even realize that until my 18th birthday.

“In Reach,” Ava Trask, ’22 Every year on my birthday, I used to spend the night in with my mom. We would cook together and watch movies. At the end of the night, she would give me presents. My eighteenth birthday seemingly was no different​ ​started off the same way. We made stuffed cabbage and watched action movies on Netflix. However, the gift-giving portion of the evening could not have been more different. I was an only child, and although

money had always been a little tight because my mom was a single parent, she would always spoil me on my birthday with several gifts. This year, there was just a single small box on the table.

“I know it doesn’t seem like much, but open your gift,” my mom said, not once looking me in the eye.

As my mother meticulously mixed the filling for dinner, I suddenly became nervous. My mother seemed almost guilty about the gift she was about to give me. I could see her hands fidgeting as she moved the cabbage to the big pot on the stove. With shaking fingers, I unwrapped the small package to reveal a small, clear jewelry box with a small solid gold heart pendant inside.

It was beautiful, but I was a bit confused. I was never the type to wear jewelry, and the pendant looked like it must have been expensive.

I didn’t have much to say. I glanced across the kitchen table but my mother still refused to meet my eyes. She was brushing her palms against her apron and tugging at loose threads on her sweater.

“Do you like it?” My mother finally broke the silence.

I looked down at the sparkling pendant and then back up at her. She turned her back to me as she hung up her apron. Her thick, dark hair cascaded down her back. I smiled as I caressed my own raven tresses. Never having met my father, I treasured the traits my mother had given me. The traits I inherited from her made me feel connected to my family that came before me.

“I really don’t know what to say, Mom. You really didn’t have to--” “I know you probably weren’t expecting me to give you a pendant like this, but there’s a story behind it. Since you’re eighteen, I figured that it was time I told you about our extended family. For years, I saved my wedding ring. I’m not really sure

why I saved it, to be honest, but I’m glad I did because I never felt relief like I felt when I melted it last week.”

“You melted your wedding ring?” I was horrified. Did it mean nothing to her?

Clearly, her marriage was not a happy part of her life, but did the ring truly hold no sentimental value?

“I melted it and molded it into that pendant. I never loved your father. I never wanted to marry him. I grew up in a Jewish family. My parents were strict Hasidic Jews.” She paused to gauge the effect of her words on me. I remember understanding my name, for the very first time. My mother went on.

“The day I turned 16, they told me that they had the best gift for me. That evening, they told me that they had found me a husband. I was absolutely shocked. I knew that arranged marriage was common in other families. But somehow, I thought my parents would let me skip that tradition.”

She stopped a moment, pretended to focus on her cabbage.

“They practiced their faith by the book, so it was foolish of me to assume that they would spare me the misery of an arranged marriage. I tried to protest, but they would have none of it. When I was 18, they threatened to throw me out of the house if I didn’t go through with the marriage.”

My entire body went numb. I felt almost guilty. Here I was, the exact age my mother was when her parents threatened to disown her. My mother spoke rapidly, nervously, afraid to think too much about the things she was saying.

“The way they saw it, I was being ungrateful. The way I saw it, I had lost the love of my parents and the opportunity to have a loving husband all at once. All at once, I was married to your father. A nice man, but I didn’t love him. I just couldn’t bring myself to love someone that I hardly

knew. The more I got to know your father, the more I realized that we just were not alike in any way.” She looked right at me

“​Friend,” Helen Potts, ’24

with her chocolate colored eyes. Most of the time her eyes were warm and sincere, but at this moment they were sad and fearful.

“How could I love a man perfectly happy to marry a stranger? But I tried. I did try. I had figured that as long as I pretended to be fine with it, I could still see my family and live a pretty normal and happy life, but the longer I spent in my unhappy marriage, the less I felt that I could go on like this for the rest of my life. I realized I needed to divorce your father. I acted as quickly as I could. And your father actually supported me in it: He wanted children, and we had not

had any luck. A month after we were divorced, I found out that I was pregnant.”

My mom placed her sweaty palm on my shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze.

“Your father was furious. He tried to have a custody battle with me. He thought I hid my pregnancy from him in order to get the divorce. I was fortunate. I found some helpful organizations, and I won, but so many women are not that lucky. And I am so grateful to have you every day, so my gift to you will be the opposite of my parents’ gift to me. I love you, and I will always allow you to love whoever you want to love.”

I felt the pendant warm in my hand. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, and I flew into her arms for a hug. This first hug was short lived as I had almost tipped over the pot on the stove. The second hug, in silence, lasted for what must have been a half-hour.

Finally, my mom broke the silence, just as she did in the car all those years ago.

“And one more thing. There’s a question you asked a long time ago, and I know I didn’t answer it right. I don’t know if ​we ​believe in God. But I do. I don’t practice my faith the way I used to, but I never stopped believing in God. I never wanted to talk about God because I was afraid of forcing him on you, like my parents did to me.”

Was she crying?

“But whether you believe in God or you don’t, I will still love you the same.”

I didn’t start believing in God that night. I did grow more open to the idea of him, but I couldn’t find it in me to truly believe. As for love, I did start believing in love that night. And that is all that has ever mattered to me.

Sonnet on Schizophrenia Maddie Frank, ’22

I live in a constant fear of my mind, With voices swirling through my sleep at night.

Afraid of opening my eyes to find, That the voices still whisper in the light.

It’s the brain that lets us know what is real, But the mind holds a darkness that I fear.

Every sunrise I wake afraid to feel Betrayed by the one thing I hold most dear.

Knowing what’s to come is worse t han the wait.

Passed down to me by those who came before, My family history has sealed my fate.

My mind is stuck fighting a losing war.

The saying ​like father, like son​ rings true, So I will have schizophrenia, too.

“Hope,” Brigitte Lubker, ’20

Dragon’s Keepsake Brigitte Lubker, ’20

She lies now still among the scattered bones, These knights’ dear iron strikes all swung in vane Kings all now shutter in their mighty thrones The Emerald dragon, scorcher of the rain, Approaching slow, the stranger’s steps are soft, He strides by golden coins all etched in lies She’ll watch now calm, her head stands tall aloft, At last he meets her gaze with widened eyes Upon the stones his helm forever stay, The dragon’s flame had pierced his mortal heart How brave he was to venture all this way, Yet all who dare are fools right from the start Her wing unfurled reveals her kin most fair A dragon’s hope is man’s nightmare.

The Last Person on Earth Celebrates a Birthday Alexandra McCulloch, ’23

January 19, 4284 It’s my birthday today, I’m 32. Today, I’m going to start walking towards the city, to see if any of the seeds I planted have sprouted. I doubt it. Hopefully, I’ll find be able to scrape something together in terms of a cake for tonight.

The daily entries kept her from going mad. It had been 8 years since she had company, but only now her reality started to creep into her being. Her own endless thoughts and soft singing were beginning to drive her from a clear mental state, and it was always warm, plus or minus 78 in the winter months, and past 100 in the summers. Her clothes had small holes, mainly around the ankles of her faded green trousers and on the wrists on her black long sleeve. A long tear on the side of her pant leg was stitched up using white string, which had turned a brownish color over the course of the years. Of course, she had other clothes, every inch of the earth belonged to her, but she had no need to please anyone, and didn’t care much herself.

As the woman wandered across the dry grass, she saw the city in the distance, falling apart and collapsing before her eyes. As she neared the rubble, a look of shock developed across her face. Each of her seed sprouts was uprooted and strewn across the ground. With no other known life on the entire planet, she wondered what could have caused such a mess. The hair stood on the back of her neck as she heard the sound of scraping metal. Whirling around, she came face to face with a soft brown creature. The animal galloped in excitement and smeared wet slobber across her face. The women stood there in absolute shock. After 8 years of loneliness, she finally had a companion. The dog was plump and seemingly well-groomed. ​Who has been caring for this dog?​ she thought, ​Surely he hasn’t been grooming himself!​ The large fur-covered creature turned and bounded over the crumbled rubble that was their earth. Without thinking, the women leaped after it in pursuit. They ran far into the city, dodging broken glass and torn-up cars. Rounding a corner, the dog disappeared! “Where has he gone?” her mind raced.

Suddenly she noticed a small opening at the base of one of the buildings. She crawled through to

find the dog sitting obediently to the left of another creature. The man immediately looked up-- and he and the women locked eyes.

She was no longer alone!

Ekphrastic Poems Inspired by Salvador Dali’s “Woman at a Window” (above left) and Kadir Nelson’s “Heat Wave” (above right).

A light breeze is felt on the face of the dreamers, as the women gaze at a view that is beyond the scene outside their window.

With closed eyes they see their hopes blowing in the wind, as the air stands still their now open eyes realize, equality is in dreams.

Maddie Frank, ’21

The ocean is calm today.

A calm before the storm I need to paint it before the tide picks up But I can’t focus on the ocean when there is so much happening Too many beautiful sights to see I take in the sights and scents around me Thanking God as I do For the ocean, either calm or wild Is just as beautiful either way So I must capture it in this painting, so that I can savor this day.

Maureen Maguire, ’22

Ekphrastic Poems ​(continued)

“Jeannia,” Elizabeth Armenti, ’21

My hair’s tied up, my fan is on My head’s out the window, and has been since dawn I shut my eyes, with skin all a glow Awaiting a cool, summer breeze to blow The air outside is thick with heat Not a soul roams around, out on the street The​ ​ice cream’s a treat for my little canine] I pull it away, “Hey silly, that’s mine!”

No work today, and nowhere to be I’ll stay here for hours, with my time that is free.

Meghan Gallary, ’21 Fan blaring, air swearing To cool off someone as hot as I. Could it though? I doubt it Due to the magnitude of the sky.

The sun melting everything in sight, Leading to the dog’s and the plant’s plight.

A window should be enough to keep cool, Yet the heat persists and I’m again the fool.

I guess I’ll wait for the wave to pass.

With a tiny little fan and an eye on the forecast.

Kiera Chambers, ’21 The window: the vessel of things desired, the physical separation of our two worlds.

The lingering humidity of a crisp, salty ocean breeze, the gentle hum of voices on the sidewalk below, the rhythmic panting of a nearby fur friend, the temper of the waves released against the tranquil, eroded rocks: All cravings satisfied through this rectangular portal.

The best part? These portals are not universal.

One leads to the meeting of the gritty sand with the toes, Another to the rows of skyscrapers intermixed with residential highrises.

To each their own.

Grace Rivers, ’20

To the World Blow, O wind, and rustle Move the otherwise stagnant fabric Sweetly, bitter scent of salt, Pull me through the window Out to sea O beautiful window, Be my escape Ransom me from the beige box Which is my keeper O beautiful things, pull me to the world Meg Arfaa, ’20

Window to the Past Kassie Clark, ’20 A strong gust blows salty Aegean air in through my window I run the comb through my long curls as I look into my own eyes I feel the silk of my dress brush against my ankle as I stretch I dip my finger in and smudge crushed mulberry across my lips Slowly the pale night sky begins to drip with shades of orange The sun in her magnificence floats above the marble houses Slowly, slowly, but beautifully It is just the two of us I look back to my face, now a peach glow instead of the moon’s white I touch my cheek, the soft skin blushes for a split second I fix the sleeve that is slowly slipping down my shoulder And I pin my strawberry curls up above my temples A dragonfly flits through the doorway.

Her tiny head and iridescent wings sail by behind me I’m looking through a window at life backwards.

Hand mirror from ancient Greece

Digital art by Eva Stillwell, ’24

Address to the Virus Ella Canavan, ’21 Before you came life was challenging But before you came the challenge was rewarding Before you came the challenge was full of life Before you came the people were not thankful for challenges that brought life with them Before you came it was easy to not be thankful Before you came it was easy to complain about the challenges that brought life with them Before you came the people did not see the simple joy in driving home from school, or work Before you came the people did not see the simple joy

But then you came, and the challenges remained.

But when you came, you took away the rewards.

When you came, people wanted to take back their complaints.

When you came people grew angry that you took away the things they once wanted gone.

When you came, people wanted to erase complaining about their long commute home When you came, people wanted back the daily challenge that brought life with it. ​“Travel,” Serena Xu ’20

Below: ​“Corinthian,” Maeve Pinheiro, ’21 Back cover art, ​“Trellis,” Meg Arfaa, ’20