LIVING PAST STAGE 4 By Katya Bakal-Schlomann This piece contains explicit language and may not be suitable for younger or sensitive audiences
Friday morning we waited in my aunt's car- me, my cousin Remi, and my dad– in one of the rare parking lots you find and the cemented world of New York City. My aunt Emilie and cousin Sofia went into Trader Joe’s to pick up the wonderful unleavened products for Passover. My fingers continuously tapped the tinted window as my cousin flicked through New York radio pop stations in hopes that a pop star would one day develop an astounding song. “Just warning you, Amy looks like shit.” Remi’s indifferent tone was disturbing. “Oh really?” was my dad's attempt to continue this conversation. I just put my headphones in and raised the volume of my alternative rock music. As we walked into the rather modern style building that did not quite fit in with the 1940’s vibe of the Bay Ridges old brick houses, I couldn’t help but think no child should have to enter through this door. The smell of cleanliness greeted us as we walked in. Not the cleanliness of visiting your neat-freak grandmother's house, rather the sterile smell of the doctor’s office. Upon entering my aunt’s room, the second thing I noticed was a huge window facing the glistening water that tricked the eye into thinking it was a glorious summer day, instead of a cold day in early April, just weeks before my seventeenth birthday. The first thing I noticed was my aunt Amy. She did not “look like shit” as Remi had said, but I still found myself biting my lip and crushing my tongue to prevent streams from rolling down my cheeks. Though her cheekbones protruded much more than when I saw her seven months ago, and her gray hair convinced
