THE SPIRE
2025 Literary Magazine
The Spire is The Governor’s Academy student literary magazine. Students submit their short stories and poetry to student editors who then decide whichentrieswillbepublished. The Spire has been a voice forstudent literarycreativitysince1966.
Winners of the Murphy Mercer Short Story and Poetry Contest are also included in The Spire The A MacDonald Murphy Short Story and Thomas McClary Mercer Poetry Contest was created more than two decades ago to honor the work of the two English masters, whose combined service to the Academy totaled more than 65 years, and to encourage students’ pursuit of creative writing. Students submit entries whichareread and voted upon by the English Department. First prize winners in each category receiveabookprizeand their works appear in the annual publicationsofTheSpireeachspring.
StudentEditors:
AdrianChen’25
KrynFortune’25
KhanhVu’25
ScarlettZhao’26
ReneeTse’26
AdityaShrivastava’26
EnglishDepartment
FacultyAdvisor: TomRobertsonP’16,’19,’24
CoverImage: JoshuaXiang’26
Specialthankstofacultyandstaffin thedepartmentsofEnglish,Arts,and Communications
A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST
2025 Winner
Le over Spaghe
Bella Duong ’27
Mymothercollapsedinfrontofme. One second, she was muttering something about needing the restroom. The next, her body crumpled like paper down onto the cold concrete. I sat, frozen, strappedintothebackseatstaringat my mom through the foggy window. My little sister, four years old at the time, was crying beside me. Thegarage is lit by harsh headlights from a passing car. My heart pounded vigorously, drowning everything elseout.Icouldn’t move.Couldn’tthink.Juststared.
I wasn’t sure what had frightened me more. Whether it was seeing my mom so fragile or realizing I hadn’t eaten a real meal in days either. That moment, raw and terrifying, did not come out of nowhere. Years in the making, tangled in the quiet war we fought with our imageandthefoodwe let,ordidnotlet,inside.
Growing up,eatingwasneversimple. I never considered myself picky, but I lived in extremes. I would stress eat or avoid food entirely, overwhelmed byhowIlookedandnumbingwhatever feelings I couldn’t name. Some days were the worst, I’d stare at food like it was the enemy, counting every bite, every calorie. I didn’t know then that I was mimicking the woman who raised me. From as early as I can remember,Ifeltlikemybodyenteredthe room before I did. I stayed in the shadows, quiet, less sensitive, or needy, distorting my perspective on myself clinging to me likeanotherlayerofmy skin. I rememberoverhearingmymom and grandma discussing in Vietnamese about me, not bothering to keep their voicesdown.
“Saoconbéothế?”
(Whyisshesochubby?)
Even if I hadn’t understood the words, I would’ve known from the looks. Unfortunately, I did understand, and theirwordspiercedmedeeperthan they probably realized. My stomach clenched with shame and embarrassment. Worse, I started saying the same things to myself. I started to criticize myself, telling myself I was the “fat friend”, the one who smiled in group photos but cried alone in her room comparing thighs and faces and waistlines. I tried to understand why I couldn’tbeasskinnyorasprettyasthe girls around me, believing it could never happen and I would always be less than. I stopped eating for periods of time. The hunger tortured me, but the idea of starving felt like the only way to be seen as enough. My only hope. Myonlysolution.Ihadofficially convinced myself this was the only way to be beautiful. At every family gathering, thecomplimentsnevercame unless I had lost weight. And if I hadn’t? They told me to eat less. Told me I’dbeprettyifonly.Isawfailurein
the mirror and the more I tried to be perfect, the moreIsawmymomtrying too. She had spent the past weeks talking about dieting again, how her clothes didn’t fit, how she felt ugly. I saw her skip meals, complain about bloating, skip out on meals she clearly wanted. The cycle continued for my aunt’sbirthday.
The restaurant smelled like hot fried rice, sweet and sour pork, crispy duck, making my stomach ache at the scent. I hadn’t eaten properly in days, only grazing on snacks. It was hard to ignore so I gave in. Guilt crept in as I looked across the table at my mom, picking atherplatelikeitoffendedher. She looked at my food andsmiled,but refused when I offered her a bite.Iput down my fork too, but my body begged me not to, and then my brain said otherwise. If she could go without, why couldn’t I? I put my hands over my stomach, tryingtosilenceitsgrumbling. Trying to be strong. Trying to mirrorherrestraint.
Afterdinner,weventuredintothe
garage. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and I heard the muffled sounds of voices. My mother’s grip tightened around my shoulder, her gait unsteady. I thought it was due to fatigue from our night out or lingering back pain. Her grip was cold and slippery on my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. In the car she looked impossibly miniscule in the driver’s seat as she utteredinaweakandshaky voice that she was feeling unwell and excused herself to the restroom. It was a routine gesture. She never made itto
the restroom. As she tried to step out, her body betrayed her, collapsing before she could even close the door In that instant, it felt as if my world had stopped.Timefroze.
I sat paralyzed in the backseat, staring out of the window, staring at my mother on the ground, frozen with no sign of life in her body. My heart pounded fast in my chest. My aunt rushed out to my mom, her footsteps heavy on the concrete, her voice cutting through the fog of my panic. My aunt’s voice broke through the stillness, shouting in Vietnamese, words I barely understood on a normal day, nowdrownedbypanic.
“Giúptôivới!”
(Helpme!)
“Coichừngemgái!”
(Helpyoursister!)
“Làmgìđóđi!”
(Dosomething!)
I couldn’t. I just sat there. Her sharp tone contrasted with the usual softness of her voice. My sister was sobbing beside me, loud and scared. I
could sense the tenseness and severity of the situation. The panic in my gut alongside my hunger created a nauseating mix. I was unsure whether to comfort her or run to my mom. The weight of responsibility crushed me. My stomach churned again, this time fromfear.
Cars came by, their headlights shining, offeringhelporassistance,but my aunt waved them off. I’m not sure why. Maybe, it was because of financial constraints or a desire to maintain control over the situation. The weight of responsibility came down to my shoulders, a burden I never had anticipated. Mercifully, my mother’s eyes opened. She remained ontheground,a fragile figure, small and trembling. I had never seen her like this. My mom had never been what you would call weak, but in this moment she shed tears and apologized to me for what I had witnessed, for worrying me, for everything. I couldn’t form words to say anything, only stare at her, scared thatthesamemighthappentome.That
our hunger, the one we shared in silencemightonedayconsumemetoo. WecalledanUber
The ride home was quiet. The engine’s humistheonlysoundasabackground noise to my worried thoughts. My mother wassleeping,herbreathing uneven, and my aunt and I constantly checked in on her. I could hear my stomach again, loud and demanding. I had denied it, just like she had. Just like she always had. Back home, my aunt and I brought my mom up to her room and my sister to their beds. I sat by my mother as she slept, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Her strong-willed image,oneIhadclungto my whole life, looked more fragile than ever. Suddenly, for the last time that night,mystomachgrowled,louder this time. I looked at my unhealthy motherlayingnexttome.
I realized my body had never protected me, it only made meweaker. Quietly, I creptdownstairstothekitchen and ate leftover spaghetti, each bite anecessity.
Joshua Xiang ’26
A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST
2025 Runner Up
A Unique Person with a Unique Name
Emaad Virk ’28
My nameisEmaadVirk,butpeople commonly call me Emmad,orEmad,or Imad, or Imed, or Aimad, or Imaad, or
My name is an outlier, it doesn’t rhyme with anything. My name is unique, just likeme.Itconfusespeople when they first meet me. My whole life, people have beenpronouncingmy name wrong. When they first hear it, they give a quick glance at me. But I don’t care what they think anymore. My name is beautiful, and my name is the best word in the universe because it’stheonlywordthatmatterstome.
My name tastes like water, sleep, and books. When you touch my name, you feel the coldgrasssurroundingmy house in Pakistan. You feel the broken wooden slide in my family’s backyard at our house in California.Youfeelthe cold,unforgiving,unlovingpavement that surrounded the motel we lived in in Texas. You feel the damp green grass surrounding our house in Andover after rainy nights. When you hear my name, you also hear the echoes of laughter from my three brothers. You would hear my dad yelling my name for the 5th time in a row telling me to go downstairs, or to fetch him something. You would hear my mom reciting an islamic prayerfor safety You would hear the hum of airplanes from when we would go on vacation to Pakistan. You would hear me and my brothers playing tag together. You would hear the silence from those three hour walks I would take when I wanted to be alone. You would hear me blasting music in my room whenever I was studying. You would hear every experience that has definedmeinmylife,becausethat’s 9
what plays in my head whenever someone says my name–thegoodand the bad, everythingthatmakesme,me. When you smell my name you smell naan, daal chawal, butter chicken,aloo paratha, kitchari, and biryani. All of thesethingsdefinemyidentity. My name comes from Pakistani and Islamic roots, where I was born, my mom says. Mynameisthesameas Muslim leaders, conquerors, doctors –inspirations for me, people I wish to become. My name means pillar, a support for others. I am a pillar of strength, and support. Just like my name, I stand tall, an unwavering column of strength, like a tree in a dangerous storm. I offer my branches as a safe place to the birds who seek refuge. I am a lighthouse, guiding those trapped in a dangerous stormy sea. My middle name, Irfan, is the name of my father. It means knowledge, my mother says. My father and my name combined means a pillar of knowledge. My name supportsmetoo.
It’s unique, helps me realize I’m special.
I am 0.01 outof100,000peoplein America. I am estimatedtobeapartof the 28 Americans named Emaad in America. A part of 88 Emaads in the world. I am a blue moon. I am a total solar eclipse. I am rare. But most importantly, I am me. No human smiles likeIdo,lookslikeIdo,crieslikeIdo. No one else is me. I am me, nothing else. ✦
Isabella Gomez ’26
Aidan Bouton ’26
THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST
2025 Winner
Li le Rebellions
Kevin Yu ’25
Manhattanexhalessteamthroughthegrates, theslowsighofthecityawaking.
Amaninatailoredsuit stridestotheturnstileandpauses. Inonefluidmotion,heleaps totheotherside–hisBurberrybriefcase swinginglikeagateleftopeninthewind. Hedoesn’tlookback,doesn’tcare, asifdodgingthe$2.90fare isjustpartofhismorningroutine, likecoffee,emails,andcrushingsomeone’sdream.
Iglareathim, thisturnstilegymnast, silentlycondemninghisarrogance–hiscompletedisregardoftheorder. “Who does that?"Ithink asIshiftmyweightandadjustmyscarf. Withtherighteouswarmthofarule-follower Istridethroughthesteam tothecoldManhattanstreet.
Ayoungwomanjaywalksinheels, 13
herstridecuttingthroughFifthAvenuetraffic likeit’saparadethrowninherhonor.
Instinctively,Ifollowher
NotbecauseIneedtocrossthestreet, butbecauseshemakesrebellion lookssoeffortless.
Manhattanexhalessteamthroughthegrates, theslowsighofthewakingcity. ✦
Tavi Marsh ’27
THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST
2025 Runner Up 《You’ve Never》
Yve e Liu ’27
You’veneverheardthepredawnbell’scrackedporcelaincry
Aswestitchourselvesintouniforms—stillslick
Withyesterday’sbrine—limbscracklinglikekindling
Beneathdormitorywindowsveinedwithfrost.
You’veneversprintedorbitsonheelsgnawedrawbywinter,
Forty-sevenfogdragonsexhalingproof
Intowinter’smaw,eachpantcrystallizing
Intotheoremshungbetweenearthandironsky.
You’veneverchokedondawn’scatechism
WhereConfucius’swordscinchourthroatsinironclasps—
Ink-stainedpsalmserectingcellblocksoftext,
Lipssplittingchrysanthemumsofbloodonglacialdesks.
You’venevercountedseveneternities
Asclockhandspetrifymid-swing,whilechalk
Scrapesblackboardtombswithskeletalfingers,
Eachscreechbirthingpyramidsofbone-dust.
You’veneverseenmidnight’sdismissal
Wheremoonlightshattersagainstgatespikes—backpacks
Saggingwithunbornconstellations,tomorrow’s
Incineratoryawnstodevouroursketchedgalaxies.
You’veneverwitnessedrankingsswaylikecarcasses
Glazedinvermiliontears,LiHua’sname
Nailedatthealtar’sbase—hisparents’verdict
Etchedinancestralscript:“Betteranemptycradle.”
You’veneverworntime’sirongaiters,
Neverdangledaboveoblivionbyapercentilethread—
Thusyou’llneverdecipherthecipheretched
IneveryChinesestudent’sspine,norfathom
Thecalculusofscarsmappingmymarrow. ✦
Jerry (Shengxi) Zhang ’27
THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST
2025 Runner Up
Unseen
Hafiza ’27
Igrewupwheresilencespokelouder thanthevoicesofgirlswantingtolearn.
Wheredreamswerequiet, heldbehindwallsthatnoonedaredtoquestion. Andnow,hereIsit, amongotherswhodon’tknow howheavythisroomfeels, howmuchitmeanstobehere.
Theysitintheirseats, sosureofwhattheyhave, wonderingiftheycanseetheweightIcarry— thejourneyItooktogethere, thethingsIleftbehind.
Whycan’ttheyseethatthiseducation, thissimpleright, isnotsosimpleforme?
Isitinsilence feelinglikeI’mintwoworldsatonce—
thatthisrightwasstolenfromme—
howpreciousthismomentis, howdifferentitfeels
thatforme,thismomentiseverything, andeverythingwastakenjusttobehere?
Andstill, Ikeepwondering: whydoesittakesomuch justtosithere andlearnliketheydo? ✦
Joshua Xiang ’26
Moon Walk
Katherine Chung ’25
Ourstomachsbrimmedwithspoonfulsofriceandsoup.Father,drunkoncanned-beer, Playingdrumsonhisbelly,dancedwithgluttony.Mother,eyeingthenightsky, Pinchedfatonherwaist,whispered:let’sfindthemoongoddesslivingonthecrescent!
I,beamingbrighterthanSirius,donnedmysneakers Holdingeachother’shand, Wewalkedswiftly.Thenightbreezeliftedmother’scheeks,ironedoutherwrinkles, Herslick-backbununyieldingagainstthewind.Shesmiled;Iadmiredherwhiteteeth. Wefrolickedthroughhoneysuckletreesandgazedatthewaterfall Infrontofthepeony-coveredtemple.Thesmellofseasaltfreedusfromthelingering Stenchofstinkysoybeansoupspilledonmother’sDefineJacket Bythetime
Wereachedtheculdesac,mygriploosened,butmother,determinedwith Herstep-countingwatch,pulledmeintothewoods.Justafewmoresteps.There, Thegoddesssleptbeautifully,hercrescentwelcomedusflawlesslyshimmering!
Fromthen,everynightafterdinner,mothersoughtthecrescentmoon. Herbungrewslicker,herjacketcinchedtighter,thewatchboundtoherwrist. Ifollowed,cravingthecleanseofourjourney,captivatedbythegoddess’beauty. Butmother’shandsgrewbonierastheautumnleavesfell,andhersteps
Turnedurgent Wetookthelongerroute,ourpacefastened Mylegs
Numbedfromtheroutine,butstill,shepressedon:herfacehollowed,thighsthinned, Stomachflattened.Whenwepassedthericefields,shestomped Andcrushedeachgrainbeneathherheel,killingthecarbsinsideher.Yet,herbeam Atthecrescent,slim,pale,long-hairedgoddessnoddingwithapproval, Remained Evenonmoonlessnights,shekeptwalking, Believingtherewassomewheretobe,somewaytolook.
Ifinallyprotested.“Whatarewechasingafter?”Tootired Toholdmetighter,sheletgoandslippeddeeperintothewoods.
Finding Oneself Through Being Content
Anthony Silvestro
’26
The Train Between Fires
Scarle Zhao ’27
The train movedlikeaslowwound through the countryside, its whistle wailingasitcrossedfieldsofash.JiaLi stood near the center of the second-class car, her fingers curling around the cold pole as the train jolted beneath her. The car was full to bursting, bodies pressing against each other, the air heavy with the smells of sweat,boiledeggs,anddampwool.
Outside the window, blackened fields stretched endlessly Someone murmured that the fires were a tradition, an annual cleansing of the earth. Another said it was punishment for last year’s bad harvest. A man near the window shrugged, “It’s nothing. Happens every year. It’s just what happens.” Jia Li let the words wash over her. Not all words were meant to reachher.
Her legs achedfromstanding.Her back pressed againstaman’sshoulder. But she didn’t complain. Complaining
was for people with room tobeheard, andJiaLihadnoroom.Shethoughtof hermother,crouchedbythehearthlast night, her hands moving deftly as she stirred the rice. “You’ll get used to standing,” her mother had said, her voiceflat,asthoughrepeatingafactof life. “Girls’ legs were made for standing.Mensit;womenwork.”
Jia Li stayed silent. Her mother didn’t meet her eyes, her focus trainedonthesteamingPot.
“You’re lucky to be onthistrain,” her mother added.“Ittakesyoutouniversity, doesn’t it? Not every girl gets that.Whatmoredoyouwant?”
The fire cracked, its glow making her mother’s face look older than it was.
Jia Li gripped the pole tighter as the train lurched forward, her feet aching. The car was filled with tired faces, some murmuring over lunchboxes orintophones.Thetrainslowed
for its next stop, and themovementof people shifted, bodies surging toward the exits like water seeking a crack in adam.
A girl in a red jacket appeared nearher,herfaceflushedbutcalm,her hair tied back in a neat braid. She smiled.
“You should take my seat,” the girl said, her voicelight,asiftheoffer costhernothing.
JiaLihesitated.“Areyousure?”
The girl nodded. “I’m getting off. Youlooklikeyoucoulduseit.”
Jia Li sank into the seat, her muscles relaxing with a relief that felt almost dangerous. The girl slung her bag over her shoulder, giving Jia Li a small wave before stepping off the train.
The space she left behind was temporary. Not ten minutes later, a man loomed over her–not broad but heavy, with a presence that crowded theaislewithoutwords.
“That’smyseat,”hesaid.
“It’snot–”JiaLibegan,butthe wordscaughtinherthroat.
The man didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He stood there, his shadow pressing down on her until she rose. He lowered himself into the seat, the vinyl creaking beneath his weight. No one said a word. Jia Li returnedtoher place near the pole, her fingers brushing the cool metal. Itwasasifshehad nevermoved.
The attendant appeared quietly, his uniform neatly pressed, his eyes scanning the car with practiced efficiency.Whenhisgazelandedonher,it softened.
“You’ve been standing for a while,” he said, his voice low enough to feel private. “Come with me. There’sspaceintheservicecar.”
JiaLihesitated.Shethoughtofthe stories she’d heard–the whispers, the warnings–but her legs ached. She followed him through the narrow corridor, past rows of passengers who barely noticed her. The air grew quieterastheywalked.
Jenny Hwang ’27
Nothing, except everything
Renee Tse ’26
Backfromtheairport, wepassthroughthecity’sarteries, accompaniedbytheoccasionalhonkingofpulses. Theheartbeatsarefaintyetelicit, reminiscencesrunningthroughlikebloodpassingveins.
Iopenitseyelids,andbuildingstightlyside-by-side pass,soonoutofsightasifitwerethemanythingsI shouldhave, wouldhave, couldhave, donewithtime.
Itakeaglimpseateachbuilding, scenicbaroquerevivalarchitectureamidstthecrowdof touristsandlocalscenteredatitsheart.
Thesoundofyellingandinsultsarepleasinglyfamiliar–thesmellofjasmine,taintedwithawhiffofsmoganddust thesmellofsmoganddust,taintedwithawhiffofjasmine. Iamsafeandsound, cornersofmymouthunconsciouslytuggedintoasmile.
“Whatareyousmilingat?”asksmymother. Nothinginparticular,excepteverythingthatmakeshomehome. ✦
Saeeda ’27
Not Your Fault (Excerpts)
Annie Demaso ’25
TheBeginning:2007in2024
I focus on thepictureinmyhands. Frozen in time for my admiration and reminiscence is a Shutterfly photo of our first moment together. In the lefthand corner of the image, I can only see half of a hospital bed, and at the center, my father is cradling my small, swaddled body in his embrace. I can tell nothing is movingintheroom,and there is a calmness to the cool-toned hospitalroom.
I frown at his weary gaze and the dark circles under his eyes that reveal his lack of sleep. His head is tilted as he stares straight into his delicatebaby girl’s eyes. With his expression, it is easily perceived that he knows ourlife ahead won’tbeeasy.Healreadyknows I am going to be anything but an amenablechild.
Although I can not comprehend the multitude of emotions that engulf thehospitalroom,Istarebackintothe
eyes of a father who loves me morethanthebreathinhislungs.
III-Flights:2015
He wants to travel the world with us. He dreams of taking us to Italy, specifically Florence and Naples, where ourfamilyisfrom.Ilovethathe wants us to know our family’s history. But it’salltalk,onlyhypotheticals,and never reality. His suitcase is packed, sitting in front of the garage door. The exhaust from his car was already contaminatingthefrigidearlymorningair. Luke is right next to me and we stare out thewindow,beamingdownat our dad’s windshield. We wave our chubby hands forcefully back and forth, waiting to see his reciprocated goodbye from down below. I don’t know where he is going. Is he going to one of his dream locations to ensure it lives up to our expectations?
VII-Couch:August,2016
It was a day like any other. Summer wasstartingtoslipawayfrom my grasp. The nights came sooner and the breeze became brisker. I was in a sour mood because Luke and Dad had a sleepover, and I was told I couldn’t join in the fun. However, when they emerged fromLuke’sroom,Icouldtell mydadwas“off”asIliketosay.
When my mom came upstairs, she told us that we all neededtotalkabout something important.LukeandIsaton the couch near the window, and our parentssatacrossfromus.
My mom spoke first, saying, “Maybe you have noticed, but we haven’t been as happy recently. There isgoingtobeachange.Itwillbebetter for everyone, even if it is a little sad right now..” My dad tried to addtothe conversation, but no words cameout.I saw a single tear appear on his cheek that slowly slithered down his jawline, dripping off his chin onto the collar of hisshirt.ItwasthefirsttimeIeversaw himcry.
My heart felt like it had been stomped on. Why is he movingout?Is it my fault? Were they fighting, and I justneversawit?WaitifDad’smoving out, does that mean Mom is keeping the house? Do I have to spend some days with him? I don’twanttodothat. Cantheymakemedothat?
X-October2024
Hot air is blowing my hair in a million different directions. My sobs and sniffles soften with the sound of the radio. But the radio is another problem.DadandIusedtolistentothe Bobby Bones Show every morning on the way to school, and having it on is flooding my mind with memories of the two of us. I know I could turn on the ignition and drive the ten minutes down the road to his house, but I have ignored him for so long that I don’t thinkhewantstoseeme.
I see the light from a notification on my phone radiate in the reflection on the window. It isn’t but a few milliseconds later that I feel the buzz
on the seat in which I have planted myself. I only move my eyes in the phone’s direction. There is a new messagefromDad.
At this, I weep, feeling guilty. It isn’t his fault that we don’t talk anymore. Allthistime,Ihaveblamedhim, saying if he wanted the distance between us to disappear, he had tobethe one to fix it. But now, I knowIamthe one to blame. He has never stopped trying to stay in contact. He has never given up on me. I gave up on myself, andindoingso,Igaveuponhim.
Sweat drips down my forehead as the Bobby Bones Show comes to an end.It’sallmyfault.Ineedtochange.
XI-TheEnd-ish
“Hey Dad, just thought I would call. I know you’re probably busy or maybe you’re not but ya. Just wanted tosayhi.”
“Hey peanut! I am so happy you called.How’syourday?”
“It’s good. I mean I didn’t dowell onatestandIhadabadskatebutother thanthatitwasgood.”
Silence.
“Dad?Areyoustillthere?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Sorry, I’m just on a Zoom call on my computer for work but I haven’t talked to youin monthsandIdon’twanttohangup.”
“Oh, well, I can call later if you want?”
“Ok, let’s do that. I love actually hearing your voice. Talk later. Love youso,somuch.”
“Loveyoutoo.” ✦
Jake Shin ’25
Bridges
Anja Suomi ’27
Contemplatingthethingsofyesterday,Istareoutthe brittlepaneofglass.Asmiletugsonthe cornerofmylipsaswemergeontothebigroadwiththe littlesign.Itmakesmerememberthe firsttimewedroveoverthebridge;my 8year-oldselfwouldtripoverthesyllables PassassawakeagRiver,noPassagassawakeag, mydadwouldremindmeinateasingtone.Wecross ontothebridgeandIpeeroverthe edgeoftheguardraillikeI’vedoneamilliontimes.I followthecapsoflittlelazywavesglintingwith thesunlightastheycaressamenagerie ofshipswithsails,lobsters,androwers.Myeyes drifttothepebblesofpeoplecrossingintotowntowalk belowthosefamiliarrooftopsandtreetopsandthat triangleofthesteepleIseenestledintotheshoreline.Somewhere wherepeoplewillstopyouevenifyoudon’tknowthemand eveniftheydon’tknowyou.
Ialwayssayit’ssomethingaboutthe air,aslightchangethatnooneseemstocatchbut me.Theairaswespeedoverthatbay,so free.Somethingthatmakesyou lighter,somethingthatmakesyoubelieve.Likeyoucanleaveyour worriesontheothersideofthatshore,
knowingthewaveswillsoftentheiredgeslikeseaglass andcarrythemthroughthetides,bringingthembacklike sunkenpirateshipsandburiedtreasure.Thatair, yourlungsventilateandloosenso nowyoucanbreathe, youdidn’trealizeyoucouldn’tbreathe. Butasthewindwhipstowardsyouthroughthewindow, andthefamiliarsightbelowgazesup, youbreatheoutandin. Doeseveryonehavesomewhereorsomethingorsomeone wheretherockinyourthroat lifts,andthespiralinyourchest unravels,aplacetobreathe withoutthepollutionof worry,apersontolovewithoutthefearof loneliness,abedtosleep withouttheroadsofthought?Soasthewaves wanderoutofviewandtheboatsmaketherewaytosea, Ibreathethisboundlessnessandbuoyancyand praythatweallhaveabridge. ✦
Lana Hardin ’27