My Father sleeps with his mouth open...., Kerri McCord

My father sleeps with his mouth open, drool running down his chin, Budweiser in hand, CNN on the television. Stretched out on the couch, newspapers scattered around him and on the floor serve as evidence that he continues to search for the perfection he lacks in his own life. He dwells on the rapes and murders reported, happy to have a discussion topic at the dinner table. As my father sleeps, I can almost picture his dreams. They all consist of a perfect housewife who lives to cook and clean for him and the children, and children who obey him in a snap, with straight A's and brushed hair, kids he never has to lecture, a wife who vacuums and boils water "his way". My father snores and jerks, spilling beer on his hand and the floor. He continues to doze and I wonder what would happen if I held his nose closed. I also begin to worry that he will choke on his saliva that somehow manages not to overflow onto his five o'clock shadow. Something else catches my attention; a spider is building a web around the lightbulb above the couch. The notion of my father waking up to this spidey-friend on his nose is quite satisfying.

I Believe, Sahiba Reen

I BELIEVE
It took me many moments of loneliness
to discover that I was never alone.
I call myself blessed, in a true sense
as when I ask, he replies back
talks to me face to face.
I remember having asked him "why me?"
I was shown the very next moment
everyone around me
asking the same
I got the answer.
In times as I grew,
I knew he was there
as all said but
a few actually believed .
As I walked on the path shown by my parents
I discovered more
than what they thought.
They showed me the path
to reach the satisfaction
to preach his teachings .
The Almighty, we address as God.
They showed me the path
trusting me to follow it
and carry on the family tradition.




As I walked on the path shown by my parents
I saw, still see
people doing all sorts of things
to know if he really was .

They pray
some for hours and hours together.
Some fast, religiously and honestly.
And somewhere a little child
standing next to it’s parents
watching to see, how it’s done.
Men and women don’t cut their hair,
men and women keep Rozas
men and women spell each word
of the book,
unmistakably perfect .
Sheer ignorance !
They only don’t speak
to the one they are looking for
who is so near.
I tell her, I talk
My mother complains,
I don’t pray.

For the Birds, Ashley Alongi

There are certain things a parent remembers from the child’s younger years. These memories stay with them and they often take them at face value. Lately though my parents have begun to understand that not everyone of those childhood moments of mine were like they seemed.
One particular moment was in kindergarten. The golden years of firsts. Many of my firsts happened in Ms. Eichner’s classroom. The first day of school, losing my first tooth, the first time I learned that not everyone was as smart as I was. But that’s a different story.
This story is about the day I cried in class. I wasnt upset about anything and couldn’t understand why it was happening, I just began to cry. They wasn’t any sobbing involved or loud noises. No sniffling or anything. The were just steady streams of tears coming from what seemed endless. Somehow Ms.Eichner , probably with those eyes in the back of her head she'd told us saw much about, saw . She motioned for her TA to take over while she lead me to the back off the room . Bending down to my level she sweetly asked me what was wrong.
In my five year old mind I knew a simple answer of “ I don’t know” would not satisfy her and would cause her to pry further. Maybe even take me to the “everything is sunshine and rainbows” guidance counselor who might have caused me to cry for real. I looked her in the eyes and simply replied “ My bird died”
She bought it. She gave me a hug, handed me a tissue and told me everything would be okay. At the end of the day she even told my mom, who offered the same support.
It hadn’t been a total lie though. My bird had died. A week before. And I wasn’t really upset about it. I actually didn’t care that much. But for the moment everyone was satisfied and I saw no reason to ruin
that.
Afterwards I often thought about telling my mother the truth, but as we walked home together I thought “its not like she’ll ever remember....”

An Old Man's Ramblings, John Zurz

I’ve been alive eighty-two years and I seen everything. What, are you waiting for someone? I remember when I was waiting for someone. Had to walk fifteen miles uphill to get to that dog gern restraint. It was this lady I had met the week before, we was gonna have dinner. Where was we gonna—right at Uncle Bill’s Steakhouse Beefatorium BBQ and Grill. They made a good salad. I remember the first time I ever had a salad, musta been—well I can’t remember. I do remember my mama made it for me. My daddy was sitting there next to her and after I was done they made me go upstairs so they could have a “talk”. I remember the first time they ever talked; it was at Uncle Bill’s Steakhouse Beefatorium BBQ and Grill. They made a good salad. Why that reminds me of the time I was meeting someone there. Had to walk fifteen miles uphill, didn’t even show so I had to walk thirty-five miles uphill to get back home. Then my mama called up and asked me to pick up her medicine, reminds me of that time…

Memoir, Daniel Metz

“Lucy and Mario were like another set of grandparents to me”, I loved them both. I was at Lucy's funeral saying my final words. “Although they have passed we still have their memories. Dinner at Jonathans, the dancing, and many others.” I am sure that you all know how hard it is to let go of a loved one” I said to the teary crowd. “But now we can be happy that they are together forever. Whenever I hear the song “I’ll never smile again” I remember the fun my old neighbors used to have dancing. They were at least 80 years old each and they still loved each other. When Mario died and I didn’t hear footsteps I got worried so I ran upstairs to find Lucy sitting where Mario used to sit. I asked what was the matter. She said “his is the day we used to dance”. I held her hand and said even though he’s gone you still have his spirit and the music” and on that note I pulled her up and danced, we danced to all the oldies and had fun. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time and I think she had a good time too I remember that my family went out with the Mondells every month to Jonathan’s restaurant. I would always have the grilled cheese sandwich, my brother and sister with the chicken fingers and French fries. “You’ll both turn into chickens one day” my grandma would always say eating her tuna platter. Lucy and Mario would always share a Tuscan chicken sandwich with barley and mushrooms I still remember the smell and whenever I smell it that always cheers me up inside. Whenever we have happy memories we try to pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast to the Technicolor of the moment. I think it was the saddest day of my life when Mario died. All others days seem like a cakewalk but if I had to relive it I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Some say that your brain twists and bends to deal with the hardships of life I think on that day my brain snapped in half. The year was 2002 it was nearing the beginning of summer and I had just been let out of school. I jumped from the bus and was in a particularly good mood because extended day was cancelled that day. I after school I would always go upstairs because nobody was home by the time I got there and they had cable TV and soda. After watching a little “Hey Arnold” I called “Mrs. Mondell…Hello…Mr. Mondell…Are you there?” so I walked towards the back of the house and I saw Mario sleeping on the sofa. I thought to myself “He never sleeps on that couch it hurts his back”. I went to wake him up by tapping his shoulder. It pains me even to write this. I remember after a while I knew something was wrong I ran down the hall and grabbed the phone and gravely dialed my moms cell phone. 1516…6? I couldn’t remember it so I did the only thing I could do dial 911. I hysterically plead to the emergency hotline to “come over quickly please I think my grandpa is dead” I didn’t know why I called him grandpa it just seemed right. When they finally came, along with my parents they rushed him to the hospital but there was nothing they could he’s been dead for 3 hours. I don’t know when I stopped crying that night but that night I had a dream of one that afternoon me and him were standing in the sunset and he turned to me and smiled and for one brief moment all was right in my world.