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Issue 4 is part of a mini summer series exploring the activities people do on summer break. The first of which deals with the theme of travel in a spiritual and physical sense.

About us

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We strive to create to a welcoming environment for writers of all kinds to convene and share their ideas outside of an academic setting. For the majority of its existence, the Penchant has been only made available through our various websites—the newest being https://penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/. Only recently was the Penchant transformed into a compiled magazine.

To submit writing, artworks, and photography, email penchantlitmag@gmail.com. To get notifications for when new issues are in the making go to the previously mentioned website and see “submit to” or follow our page on Facebook @penchantlitmag and snapchat @The_Penchant for updates.

Lily Yang CWC President Editor

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A NOT SONNET TO THE GRAND CANYON

By Sashrika Pandey The light of dawn frames it against the sky, Instead of stone you feel the sounds of life, Hues of red and gold await my eyes, Carved from clay or stone with a knife.

Deep and deeper my eyes watch the abyss, Unable to find the bottom - it does not end, Standing on the edge, nothing amiss, Yet I can’t tell if it’s foe or friend.

They call it grand but I still disagree, Not that it is not nature’s own gift, But at first sight it didn’t fill me with glee, Instead I stared into the depths of the rift.

One knows that a thing is worth the wait, When its first sight fills you with awe.

Not joy not woe not love not hate, But true shock at this thing you saw.

A sonnet of sorts does not succeed in depicting a canyon’s glory, But perhaps one day you shall stand at its rim and hear its song, its story. .

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WHY LEAVE

By Pia Parekh

What good is a home away from home, when your heart is always elsewhere?

When your heart is with the sea, yet your feet are in the jungle.

When your head in in the clouds, but you're stuck deep in the valley.

HOMELY TREASURES

By Pia Parekh

When she leaves her home, she realizes what she has, who she has, and best of all, why she has it.

She has warm food on the table, authentic recipes passed down and amended by each recipient.

She has close friends, within walking distance, with whom she can spend hours with at the park.

All these treasures, all these privileges she has because her parents left their home and travelled to find a better future.

Funnily enough, when she travels back to those places from which her parents left, she finds all those same treasures, right by her side.

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A COMMON PERSPECTIVE

By Pooja Bale

It’s finally your turn.

You’re next in line. For the past few minutes, you’ve watched the planes in front position themselves and finally speed down the runway. They move into the sky with such force and grace, veering left before disappearing altogether in the great blue above. You feel that familiar feeling as you speed down the runway, that feeling of “have we left the ground yet?”

And then, you have. Wheels up, and you’re off.

You see the life below you becoming increasingly small, and as the plane tilts once more, you feel like there is no window, no thin slab of aluminum between you and a 5,000 ft drop. No matter how much your neck hurts from being craned to one side or how much your head pounds or your ears clog from the change in pressure, you cannot look away. You stretch further to take in every inch of the land in your vision and more.

Then you rise above the first layer of clouds, the fluffy ones that take on a new dimension as you breeze past. The world gets blurrier. Another layer is passed, the majestic thunderheads that rock the plane and engulf you in gray nothingness. The last layer, the wispy clouds you thought were painted on the blue, shift from 2D to a form beyond. All are now below you. You’re on top of the world.

That’s when it hits you. You’re gone.

You’ve left base. You’re travelling away at 600 miles per hour. You cannot help the twinges of sadness that strike your heart.

But you’re also travelling towards somewhere at 600 miles per hour. A new sentiment pierces the sadness, a feeling of excitement, adrenaline.

Where are you going? Away from home to, perhaps, a new one? Maybe to a world never seen before? Fear of the unknown that has been lurking at the back of your mind suddenly makes itself known. It could be that you’re finally returning home against your will after being wrenched away from a place that you’ve grown so attached to in the past 10 days. Maybe you’re looking forwards to being among familiar sights, sounds, and smells once again.

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The bell dings that you’ve reached 30,000 ft and you push these thoughts out of your head as you busy yourself for the coming hours. You find your eyes wandering to the window again. What might you see this time? The mighty Mississippi?

The Great Barrier Reef? Icebergs off of the coast of Greenland? Bikini Bottom complete with Spongebob and friends? No, all you see is darkness because you’ve somehow fallen asleep.

You come to as the pilot announces that you will be beginning your descent shortly. Your eyes find the window and stay glued there for the rest of the flight. The earth rises up to meet you. The airport and then the runway come into view. The plane shakes slightly as the plane is positioned for the smoothest possible landing. You feel that familiar feeling as the wheels near the asphalt, that feeling of “have we touched the ground yet?”

And then, you have. Wheels down, and you’ve made it.

Whether it’s home that awaits or a glittering new world, your mind drifts to where you came from. What have you left behind? Have you made a dire mistake? Is it too late to turn back? Perhaps you can hide back on the plane and hope no one sees you.

But alas, you are no longer where you were once before. You are somewhere else. What does the future hold? How fast can you get off this plane? Where do you go from here? Much to your dismay, you’ll probably need to wait a while for first class and the countless passengers ahead of you to disembark before you can.

So many questions, but where are the answers to these mysteries of travels?

Maybe you need to get on another plane to find them.

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FUTURE FORTUNE TELLER

By Pia Parekh “Let’s travel to the future…where our worries are no more and our dreams are realities! Let’s travel to a world beyond working hard and being realistic!” encouraged the woman, who stood on the foot of the stairs leading to the prestigious science academy. She continued, “I’m tired of living in a world where I work and work and try and try, yet someone or something gets in the way of my life. I want to finally see where I end up.

Don’t you?”

The large crowds of people passing by barely glanced at the lady with the bright red hat and dark green coat. She resembled a Christmas tree— without the festive merriness or good spirit. She seemed more like a beggar, like the ones on the streets that asked for a dollar to call home.

Everyone knew it was illogical for homeless person to want to call home, yet most pitied them and gave them the dollar anyways. Thus, the lady sparked a feeling of interest among the few that actively turned their heads. They thought to themselves, This woman seems out of place. Does she know where she stands? Does her haggard appearance bely some hidden genius? However, after a few more minutes of listening to her redundant cries of traveling to the future, those people shrugged and walked away, all with the same thought. This poor woman thought she has travelled to the future.

Then, there were a rare few who actually stopped and stood in awe. They asked if she could really travel to the future. The interrogated her with a flurry of questions like a cop in a closed room.

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These few were the disappointment dreamers, who always got so close but missed the mark. They always wanted to travel beyond and see their impact, to see if they could make it. If they would make it. She told all of them the same thing, “You make it. You make it big.” They looked at her with dubious, yet hopeful eyes, “But how do you know?” And her consistent response was always, “I recognize your face. I’ve been there myself, and I recognize you from the news.” “And me? Can I travel to the future, too? I won’t interact with anyone. I just want to see…” She smiled at each of those dreamers and shook her head, “Your future is here. Keep working, and you’ll get there. Trust me, in the future, when you get there, all this work will so have been worth it.”

These few people who stopped leave and travel along their merry way back to their routine. They leave with a sense of revelation and work with renewed rigor. Although in the back of their minds, they doubt the woman’s ability to travel to the future, they keep working in hopes that the woman had spoke the truth and that she was right.

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THE NEXT TRAIN

By Euonymus

Time ends when the sun falls from the sky.

The worn passenger sets down his satchel and life folds back into the earth.

Darkness swells to swallow itself.

From the abyss, a storm of color exhales blood back into flesh. The cloak of smoke shifts away as the silhouette straightens, yawning. But it falls back asleep.

When he jumps to his feet, he is too late. He caught the train yesterday, but today, he must walk. He runs.

He gleams under the sweating sun. He carries himself up the mountain and looks back to recognize the path he has broken. Yet, time flies faster than his feet.

The sky erupts into dusk. There is too much ground and too little light. The figure yawns and leans back.

It waits for tomorrow's train to arrive.

The worn passenger sets down his satchel.

Time ended when the sun fell from the sky.

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TO THE EAST

By Athena Xue It’s miles away, on the other side, A realm of things unknown.

I think I’m the explorer in a fantasy book, Endless valleys and mountains to roam.

So I embark on my journey and I find my seat, And I sit, consumed by wanderlust, Thinking and thinking about this perfect day.

In my head I imagine boundless sky above, Opulent blue waves and silver-laced sand.

I wait for the white foam to tickle my toes, But before it does, my impatience prevails Then there’s a raw chill, an ice-kissed bite, A wintry wonder in the summer.

Dark drops land like whimsical flurries of snow And in delight I keep stomping, But the fun ends when an arc of flying blue Morphs, Becomes an icicle army attacking with full salty force.

I splutter and almost choke.

Later I go to the park to prance and skip, A city of tiny green skyscrapers dancing in my wake, Prickly spears giving way to my trampling feet.

And with a spool and string in hand, I run, A butterfly all the way up there, following.

Wherever I go, it goes, proudly flaunting its Redorangeyellowgreenbluepurple.

Those who spot it flitting and bother to follow with their eyes,

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Down the string, down, down, down, Would see that at the end of the rainbow There’s no treasure.

It’s just me.

And finally the sizzling sun tires, Dipping its head and melting, releasing Fiery beams of scattered crimson Until the last tendrils of blue wither away, And the image of vibrant autumn flowers and blooms, A ripe fusion of grapefruits, lemons, strawberries Splashed together into a watercolor tie-dye kaleidoscope.

Another kind of rainbow.

As night draws in, the image vanishes.

My head clears. It’s dark.

Then I realize I’m still miles in the air, Each passing second bringing me closer.

So I sit, silent and waiting, Waiting for this perfect day.

But when finally I arrive, I find myself standing, Amid sharp gray knives of lashing rain.

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The looming darkness crept through the barren sky. Explosions of reds, yellows, and blues receded into the background of silence, leaving a lone orb of pale light glimmering mournfully in the distance. Flickering, its daughters speckle the expanse. What little light this divine family showered over the forest was reduced into glowing shards, peeking through gnarled branches and wilted leaves.

I sighed as I held the two slips of paper marred with the grime beneath my feet to the beams. The endearing oil and coffee stains on the more worn piece out of the two was immediately visible. But, written in pencil, the letters seemed almost indecipherable. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need to read it again. The single line scrawled recklessly onto the slip is one that has haunted me for years. It was also the last words I’ve heard from her.

Find me when it’s over.

*** I’ve always wondered how something so short and so common could be engraved into me with such gusto. Now when I look back, I barely knew her. But I know. I know I loved her beyond human description.

You see, my mother was of a different kind.

The dishes in the house were always piled in a disjointed mess, dotted with uneaten remnants and shining bubbles of grease. The halls were lackluster, coated in the dust of morose sighs instead of the many oil portraits left waiting in the basement.

The curtains, always pulled tightly across the windows, seemed like imposing giants standing, watching to protect, but more to restrain. Grey. Black. Brown. These were the only hints of color echoing through the halls, taunting the restlessness in the second bedroom on the right. Crimson. Splattered across the walls in the second bedroom, the murky glow of something once vibrant giggled at its viewers. A single desk sat plaintively next to the barricaded windows, and a bed made too precisely was in the center. Mounds of canvas spotted the floor, along with forlorn brushes encrusted with dried paint.

She used to sit in that room, crouching in a corner and laying loads of paint furiously from day to night—leaving only to make meals in silence. Tufts of black locks were missing from her head, torn out by the five protruding bones enameled under transparent skin of her right hand. Her eyes were constantly adorned with a tint of red and glimmering diamonds of her lonesome.

Her cheeks were sunken and lines were emerging from the edges of her lips. A deep darkness crawled under her eyes, making her seem far older than she truly was.

Sometimes, I could see rows of scratches along her arms and on her far too prominent collar bones; the underside of her fingernails were often filled with dried blood and pieces of skin. If anyone else were to see her, they would immediately call for the asylum.

Despite this, when I would visit her, she radiated the warmth and color that the house seemed so inclined to suppress. She

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would hold her hand around mine, guiding it across the canvas as thin streaks soon matured into gallant horses, whimsical towns, or grandiloquent views. When I would cry on days I returned from school, she would hold me tight and paint pictures of ducks wearing shoes or clowns falling from the sky until I laughed the tears away.

Our form of communication was through our eyes and the works we made, but rarely ever through writing.

But as I got older, I started questioning why our windows were always shrouded by three layers of curtains, why there was a lock to every opening in our house, why our house had no lights, why the mail was the only sign of my father, why I was never permitted to visit my friends, why, instead of slipping me lunch as I left for school, she handed me a knife. Why. Why was it this way? She tried to sign her explanation to me—hands moving frantically, eyes bulging in pulses, and lips making no sound. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand. It was then when she let go of her paintbrush in exchange for a pencil for the first time. The plinking of wood against wood and wet splatters from that moment seemed to last for an eternity, though she would never be able to hear it.

She wrote about a man who I thought I knew.

A tale of wickedness spurred from her hands. The man who she loved and dwelled in this very house with was the same man that wanted her dead. After the

two years of marriage, my father began to leave for prolonged periods. She told me at first she thought nothing of it. Disguised as business trips, these wanderings were my father’s method of stocking up on the guns he valued and of disposing the deteriorated bodies he accumulated from his chain of murders. My mother continued to tell me that she never suspected anything until she woke up to a gun pointed at her temple when she was pregnant with me. Glistening drops welled up in her she told me the horror she felt as she realized that the piercing blue eyes staring down at her during that moment were my father’s.

Miraculously, she bought herself another day as she twisted away and phoned for the police after sprinting far away. A restraining order was made. My father was sent to jail after his illegal possession of guns and hidden dismembered body parts were discovered. But my mother remained forever changed.

Her fear of him coming back overtook her, creating a demon that she frequently illustrated and thought was inside of her. She told me of her hallucinations of blue eyes appearing in every corner of the house, of people choking her, and of guns casting their orange glare in a cascade of smoke. She was shaking, convulsing on the ground as a puddle of tears pooled around her.

I recall that when I looked at what she wrote even closer, an unnerving chill spiralled down my spine. The handwriting here was the one I’ve seen in the mail signed by my father. Then it hit me. My father never wrote to me. Those sweet words I savored were given a false voice, enclosed in a package I never hoped to uncover. A mixture of pity, sorrow, thankfulness, love, and anger brewed inside of me as I stared blankly into the apparition in front of me. I

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saw a liar. A mentally disturbed woman. For a while, she was everyone but my mother.

One day, the hallucinations that existed in my mother’s head were realized.

It was summer and I haphazardly left one of her windows open to relieve her of the heat.

The midnight gusts whispered warnings, rustling the branches of trees and stirring the heavy cloth hung next to the glass pane. But I, blanketed by the false security of time, did not heed this omen, choosing instead to close my eyes and melt into the silence.

The next morning, the familiar sounds of brushes gliding across canvases, of paint dripping guilelessly, of my mother’s sighs seemed to have lost themselves in the night like I had myself. The somber qualities of the house were amplified, almost as if they were finally satisfied of having a distant goal accomplished.

Fists clenched and stomach in knots, I remember I ran to her room. The door was locked like it had always been. For a moment, a rush of relief dispersed within me. I didn’t see that my hands were trembling uncontrollably. I didn’t feel the hot streams of liquid creeping down my forehead. I didn’t know what my body knew and what my mind was trying to masquerade. All I could see was the silvery glint of the rounded knob. All I could feel was the cold metal grooves of the room key pressing against my skin. A gear turned and fell into place. The wood groaned. I stepped inside. All I could know was that she was gone.

The paints that she treated like her children were spilled onto the floor, mixing into an unpleasant shade of brown as it ran over the thick layer of dust underneath the bed. The canvases were punctured and the brushes broken. I saw it then.

The usually neatly made bed had its covers strewn like a limp weakling. A deep scarlet splattered on the pillow, leaving a trail across the bed sheets toward the desk.

Blood. Though my memory falters at the exact image of this room, I distinctly remember the piece of paper featuring the idiosyncratic curves of my mother’s handwriting bearing that single line lying crumpled on the edge of the desk.

Find me when it’s over.

At that moment three years ago, I made my resolve to fulfill her request. *** I took one last look at that piece of paper. Why did it feel wet? I touched my face, realizing the source. Finally folding it along the middle, I hastily stuffed it back into my breast pocket. The earthy breeze through the forest wafted up my nose and created a moment of clearing, moving the obstructing branches and giving way to a patch of light. I held the second piece of paper up. This one, much more intact than the other, had bolded print boring the words: Eden Express.

Eden Express. How ironic. I screamed into the dark void of quivering shrubs before me, digging my fingernails deep into my skin as I threw aimless punches at unsuspecting trees. I breathed heavily as sweat and tears mixed on my cheek. The gritty bark gnawed at the surface of my knuckles until it finally ruptured my skin. Cursing, I repeatedly kicked the leafed giants until I collapsed into the dried vegetation, hearing the crunches of a million leaves and twigs as my face made impact with the forest floor. All I could do was sob.

Alone.

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I held onto the dirt, feeling my fingers sink deep into the damp chill of the boundary between the living and the dead.

Would it had been different if I chose to forget about her like I have done with my father? Enveloping my mother into woven dreams, burying her in memories from long ago, laying the thought of her to rest in a forgotten chamber of my mind—these were all tantalizing options slithering against me.

Each seemed to inject a little more of the sweet venom into my veins than the last, numbing my will and blinding my fate.

As the metallic scent of freshly drawn blood wavered into nothingness and the taste of salt disappeared from the corner of my mouth, I regained the strength in my arms, pushing myself away from the mat of fallen life. Finally, I let the train ticket join its brother in my pocket with the picture of my mother, while I bared the soil, creating the camp site for my 1183rd day of my journey. A glowing orange ignited in the center, flickering madly until the breeze soothed its volume as if it knew the tragedy that stood within it. I touched my face again as coarse bristles grazed against my open flesh. Then, I moved to the ragged blanket of black that was my hair and attempted to comb my fingers through it as it surpassed my shoulders. For a brief moment, when a spark stood still, I saw him glancing back at me from the metal of my lighter.

His eyes were piercing pieces of glass against the darkness. He looked like a beggar, clothes ripping in too many places and covered in a crusted array of dirt and blood. He had lips that seemed fixed in a permanent frown. He was broken. Afraid.

Lost. He was I.

I quickly chucked the lighter back into my canvas bag, hoping I could erase the time that has passed, the number of roads I have taken, the different cities that let me in, and the people that shook their heads when they saw my mother’s picture. Pulling the bag closer to my body next to the fire, I laid my head down and let my heavy lids fall shut. *** The sun’s radiant fingers tickled the forest, slipping through groves of stoic trees and accompanying shrubs. The colors, dulled by the night, were once again revived under the pale mist of the morning. I awoke to the echoing calls of ravens and the smoldering fire. Slowly, I arose from my bed of leaves—an accumulation of children blown away from the loving branches of their observant mothers. Burying the blackened wood from the fire and kicking dirt to properly extinguish what was left of the flames, I whispered a goodbye to my temporary abode.

I grasped the bag containing my lighter, a few coins, a tin can, and a small palm-sized cube of soap while slipping a grin at my necessities. Placing my hand on top of my breast pocket, I bellowed out the

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words Eden Express so loudly that rustles of frantic fowl dissipated into the horizon. A new sense of hope wriggled itself beyond the bars of my self-imposed prison.

With a burst of vigor, I trudged through miles of uneven paths littered with rocks of various sizes, contorted roots springing high above the ground, and lurking undergrowth sprawling among the forest floor. Many times my foot was misplaced and my body lunged forward,

falling and adding new strokes to the painting of myself. Even more so, I felt hunger’s claws clamping against my stomach, taunting my existence. But something about this day kept me going.

To be continued in the next issue.

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We course like rivers thirsting for the sea; From lofty peaks we plummet down and flee.

The humble pilgrims found their promised land.

Faith triumphed over death and disarray; But they were champions of legends grand, And we are only mortals and afraid.

The endless globe revolves under our feet.

So where we pass we may not tread again; But one day we will trace the path complete, And stumbles of the past will smooth and mend.

At last the waiting river meets the sea; In all directions we are truly free.

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“To learn the seven continents Think of the letter A, And when you're down to only one An E will save the day.

There's Africa, Antarctica, Australia, Asia, too; The oceans run between them With their waters deep and blue.

There are also two Americas-North and South, you see.

Now we're coming to the end.

Europe starts with E!” My mother finishes the song with a flourish before offering me another spoonful of mashed carrots. She follows my intent gaze on the world map that is pinned on my bedroom wall. “Hawaii must be nice this time of the year, right, sweetie?” She coos as she wipes my drool-covered chin. Yes, Mom, I wish I could shout eagerly as I lock eyes with her. Instead, I can only grunt and nod my head vigorously to convey this simple message. My mother laughs and dabs at my mouth with a napkin before getting up. “Just you wait, Hope. One day, you’ll be able to see the whole world and go anywhere you want.” Bowl and spoon in hand, she leaves me alone to think to myself.

Since I was a little girl, I always had the desire to travel. The fact that there existed a myriad of places, filled with millions of different cultures, fascinated me.

I longed to see the Great Wall of China, to taste the finest gelato in Italy, to scale Mount Everest and put my own flag at the top. I wanted nothing more than to hop on a plane and explore the world. But like it is for most people, dreams are not at all easy to accomplish. And like it is for most people, realizing this is painful.

I know it was hard for me when I finally understood at the age of thirteen that it wasn’t normal to still have your mother help you use the bathroom, that it wasn’t normal to only be able to eat semisolid foods, that it wasn’t normal to lose control over the movement of your hands and legs.

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Much too late did I finally understand that I wasn’t normal.

I don’t understand why I was born like this. Doctor Gillian has a simple explanation ready at hand: “poor blood flow to the brain during pregnancy.” But is that really why? Is that explanation sufficient to give reason as to why I face crippling embarrassment when I can’t control my sporadic movements? Is that enough to explain the bouts of depression I go through when I desperately want to tell my mother that I love her? And is it enough to tell me that because of “poor blood flow,” I can’t ever leave home and see the world as I wish?

I pull my mouth away from the straw with a pop and grunt as I clumsily smack at a part of Asia. My mother smiles. “Japan, huh? Did you go to Arashiyama?” I nod and smile, hooting like the monkeys I saw just a few minutes ago.

The room is silent. Then quietly, my mother says, “Do you know why I named you Hope?”

I shake my head.

I sigh softly and close my eyes. The closest I can ever get to seeing the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower is by shutting my eyes and placing one finger on one of the different-colored shapes that are the continents on my map. If I concentrate hard enough, I can just barely register the scents of sandalwood and street food that are home to India and the buttery smell of freshlybaked croissants found in France. These moments, while precious to me, are shortlived, which is why I try my hardest to salvage what I can from these respites. Just small things, like noting what aromas fill the air or how the ground feels under my toes.

Things that people don’t really pay attention to. In due time, too soon, I lose my grip on these images that flutter out of my grasp like frightened butterflies. I am left sitting here in my wheelchair, reintroduced to the harshness that is my reality. I now open my eyes and see that my mother has returned with my favorite drink, a cookies and cream milkshake. I part my lips and clamp my teeth on the orange rubber straw, enjoying the sweet taste.

“Where did you go this time, Hope?”

“Because even with all the complications that I had when I was pregnant with you, I still had hope that you would come out alive. And now look at you.

You’re so beautiful.”

We both smile at each other. Then I turn my gaze back to the map. My mother moves to stand behind me, resting her hands on the handles of my wheelchair. “One day, I tell you, Hope, one day, you’ll finally be able to see the world like you want to. Trust me. There is hope. Which reminds me.” My mother moves the wheelchair so that I am facing her. Then she reaches up behind her neck and unclasps the silver chain before placing it in my hands. “Look closely at it.”

I carefully turn the necklace about in my trembling hands, trying my best to calm them. The chain is delicate and thin, and there is a small pendant. Raising it closer to my eyes, I see that the pendant is a tiny globe inside what appears to be a clam. As if reading my mind, my mother smiles. “It’s an oyster.”

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I look confusedly at the necklace before looking back at her.

“There,” she says, smoothing my hair. “Now the world is your oyster.”

“There’s a quote by Shakespeare.

‘The world is my oyster.’ Do you know what that means?”

I grunt and shake my head, looking at her expectantly to explain.

“In life, it’s important that despite whatever challenges you may be facing, you make the best out of them. The world is filled with oysters -- challenges -- that you must overcome by working hard and remaining optimistic. Eventually, you may succeed in finding a pearl -- a reward -- for your fruitful efforts.” She pauses before continuing. “You, Hope, already live a troubled life. It’s hard for you to talk, let alone to eat and to move. But you shouldn’t let that bring you down to think that you can’t achieve anything. Because you can.”

She moves to take the necklace from my hands and pushes my hair to the side before clasping it. I look down at the pendant that now rests against my skin.

I hoot happily, grinning from ear to ear, feeling pretty with the necklace on. I then point to the map questioningly. My mother smiles knowingly. “One day, that will be your pearl, Hope.”

I smile and take another sip of my milkshake. Maybe she’s right. Life is strange and sometimes, miracles do happen.

Until then, I’ve just got to keep waiting.

Who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll finally be able to see the world in person. With a sigh of content, I grab the pendant and hold it in my fist. Then I close my eyes and let my mind take me to another place, preferably one that allows me to indulge in a glass of cookies and cream milkshake.

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ALL WE HAD

By Jaime Wang I’ve always loved road trips.

To me, road trips were getting settled into the passenger seat, cozying up with a blanket and a pillow pet.

It was speeding down the freeway, watching orange groves and vineyards whiz by.

It was noticing the mountains in the distance morph from dry patchy landscapes to lush forests to snow-topped peaks.

It was blasting music on the stereo from my phone, and feeling the atmosphere morph with the music.

It was examining the digital map, navigating, and deciding which route was the best to take.

It was being able to spend quality time with my dad, to be able to talk about whatever, whenever, because we were all each other had for those hours, how we were all we had our entire lives.

And when he died, road trips were never the same.

Road trips are settling into the driver’s seat, checking and doublechecking the route before taking a deep breath and hitting the road.

It's confining my eyes to watching the road, only able to see glances of passing scenery out of the corners of my eyes.

It's only noticing that the environment has changed during rest stops, but not caring nonetheless.

It's playing whatever came on next on the carelessly thrown together playlist, and feeling tears well up during his favorite song.

It's only being able to examine the map after getting hopelessly lost, because the GPS is stupid.

It's being to spend quality time with myself, and the silence, and my thoughts, because now I was all I had, for the rest of my life.

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_____________ Santa Barbara

_____________ Santa Barbara

_____________ Los Angeles

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Yosemite National Park