The Banging at the Door

Awoken by banging at the door, terror moved through my body.  From the kitchen, I heard a tea cup clank and hit the floor. For just a moment, a smile flit across my face, knowing that my cat Rufus was just as startled by the unexpected guest as I was.  I got up slowly and slid my feet into my slippers, just in case I had to run outside.  

The banging persisted.

Rufus darted past me in the hallway, certainly going to hide in the darkest corner he could find.

My heart thubbed in my throat as I tried to swallow.  The acrid taste of adrenaline made me wretch as the thunderous banging erupted once more.  I tiptoed across the creaky old hardwood floors in my apartment's living room and came to stillness a foot away from the door.  It was hard to detect a shadow from under the doorway -- which only meant that whoever was in the hallway wouldn't necessarily know I was right there on the other side.  I winced, remembering that I'd left my cellphone on the table by my bed.  I wondered if I should go and get it before I investigated further.

But the banging.  It was getting more frantic.  I moved my mouth in a silent who's there as I almost robotically made my way to look through the peephole.  

I instinctively gasped.  A loud gasp.  A there's-no-way-no-one-heard-that gasp.

The banging in the hallway stopped.

"Claire?" asked the familiar voice.

I took in a deep breath and exhaled.  "Hold on, Jeff," I said, now moving as if I were in a dream.  Slowly, I opened the door wide.  I stood firmly on the welcome mat just inside the door and I stared at him.  He looked unwashed and he smelled it too.  That pungent blend of beer and piss and sweat that I'd gotten so used to over the last five years especially.

"Hey, sis," he said, his voice sweet and steady, even though his eyes looked nervous as they darted around.  "Can I come in?"

I didn't move.  "Do you know what time it is?" I asked.

Jeff started to fidget.  "No, I lost my phone and I..."

I held up my hand for him to stop.  "Is it dark outside?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"Has it been dark for a few hours?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, his gaze dropping to the ground.

"So do you think you could guess within a two hour range of It's-the-Fucking-Middle-of-the-Night?" I asked.

Jeff scratched his head, his eyes still fixed on the floor.  "Probably."

"Definitely," I corrected him.  "What do you want."

"Can I come in?" he asked again, lifting his gaze back up to meet mine.

"I won't give you any money and you can't stay the night here," I said.

"Deal," Jeff said, the drill now more familiar than either of us cared to admit.

I moved my body out of the way and he moved swiftly past me, almost if he thought I might change my mind in that split second.  I watched him go immediately into the kitchen to sit on one of the wooden chairs at the table.  He knew I didn't want him to sit on my couch or any chairs covered with cloth -- he knew I didn't want him to soak his stink into my home that way.  

Without asking, I started to brew some coffee and then opened the refrigerator to see what I could offer him.

"Leftover pizza OK?" I asked, not really caring if he wanted something else.

"Sure.  Thanks," he said as I handed him the ziplock bag with three generously sized slices.  "What's this?" he added, looking at the floor where the pieces of the broken teacup remained.

"You scared Rufus with your banging," I said dryly as I watched my brother take the pizza slices out of the bag, set them on a paper plate, and put them in the microwave.

"Where's the pizza from?" Jeff asked.

"Satan's Butthole," I quipped.  "What, are we making small talk now?"

Jeff's shoulders sagged as we both seemed to count down the minute he had set to warm up the pizza.  When the timer went off, he pulled the plate out and sat back down on the chair.  I watched him eat with a blend of pity and disgust.  Knowing him, it could have been days since he'd had anything besides booze in his system.  I turned my attention to the coffee that had now brewed enough I could pour us each a cup.  We both took it black -- just like our father had taught us.

"Where are you staying?" I asked, sliding the mug over to him.

"With Ben and Marie," he said so quickly I knew he was lying.

I let him lie.  "How's their new puppy?" I asked.

"What, are we making small talk?" Jeff snapped back before catching himself.  "It's cute," he said.  "They named it Wrinkles."

I sipped my coffee and sighed.  "Why are you here?" I asked.

"Can't a guy just want to come see his sister?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. "But usually, that doesn't mean banging on the door in the middle of the night.  Usually it might mean sending a message ahead of time to see what time is good and that sort of thing.  You do recall some of the rules of society, right?"

It was Jeff's turn to sigh.  "Look, I fucked up again.  I needed to get off the street.  I didn't have my phone.  Your buzzer has been broken for months --"

"It got fixed last week," I inserted.

Jeff's mouth hung open before he continued.  "Well, I didn't know that.  I just knew that if I wanted to get into your apartment, I'd have to bang on the door.  So I banged on the door."

"What do you mean you 'fucked up'?" I asked.  "Details.  And don't lie."

A strange shadow flickered over Jeff's face.  "I tried to rob the dry cleaners, over on Cutter Street," he said.

"Tried?" I repeated.

He nodded grimly.  "I was loaded when I went in there and I had this fake gun I swiped from someone at the bar last week.  I went in there right before closing because I know they usually only have one person on at closing and so I thought it would be easy."  He paused a rubbed his hand across his brow.  "Mallory Jennings was working," he said finally.

I felt my breath catch.  At this time five years ago, Mallory Jennings was almost going to be my sister-in-law.  I waited for Jeff to continue.

"I didn't even know she was back in town, let alone working at the fucking dry cleaners," he said after a moment as he put his hand over his eyes, almost as if to block out the memory.  "I went in there, pointing the fake gun and yelling for the cash and I didn't even realize it was her at first..." Jeff's voice trailed off.

I watched his face contort in this very specific way that can only be described as sorrow and regret and pain all spiraled into one broken spirit.

"I was just yelling for her to give me the money and she said, 'Jeff, is that you?'"  He paused.  "Claire, when I tell you that I almost threw up when I heard her say my name..."

I felt the grip around my coffee cup tighten.  "Did you?"

"Did I what?" Jeff asked.

"Throw up," I prodded.

"No," Jeff said.

"Are you going to now because you're looking queasy," I said, knowing the telltale signs all too well.

Jeff got up and poured himself a glass of water.  "I'm fine," he said, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on me.

"Yeah, clearly," I said through gritted teeth. "So then what happened," I prompted.

"Right, so, I wasn't wearing a mask or disguise or anything so, yeah, she knew who I was and saw me pointing this gun at her -- I mean, fake gun but maybe she didn't know it was fake -- and screaming to give me all the money... What else could I do but get the fuck out of there?" he asked.

I nodded slowly.  "Do you think she called the cops?" I asked.

He shrugged.  "Knowing Mal, probably not," he said.

My mind pulled me back through the wormhole to what my brother's life was like around the time that Mallory had left him, just one month before their wedding.  They were fresh-faced and right out of college, on the cusp of new careers and an exciting beginning -- or at least that's how it appeared to all of us.  

None of us knew that Mallory had become a regular heroin user and that she'd addicted Jeff along the way.  None of us knew that she'd nearly overdosed twice in the year since their engagement and that Jeff had had to perform life-saving CPR on her.  None of us knew anything about how their addictions had crippled them, financially, emotionally, spiritually.  

Not until Mallory called off the engagement and checked in to a private rehab facility that her parents helped her find.

I still remember how shocked I was to find out that my big brother, this person I'd idolized since I was a toddler, was living this whole other life that I knew nothing about.  And while Mallory took steps to get clean and start over, my brother just continued to spiral out.  He'd tried rehab once and quit at the end of the first week.  He'd tried AA and other support-type groups but it hadn't been enough to give him the strength he needed to kick the habit.  I'd spent the last five years watching my once-hero, former star athlete, academic over-achiever of a brother turn into this gnarled, dirty, animalistic version of himself.  

I could sit here in the same room with him and have a steel look on my face.  

But inside, I was hurt.  I was scared.  I was lost.  All I wanted was for my brother to come back.  Sometimes on clearer days, I'd search his eyes to see if my brother was even still in there somewhere.  Then I'd cry myself to sleep that night, broken hearted that he just wasn't.  

Our family had gone through so many transformations since Mallory's decision to break the engagement unearthed all of these secrets.  I felt so foolish that I hadn't known, hadn't detected anything was wrong.  I spent all this time with them and I even partied with them sometimes and I still didn't know.  I never thought anything of it when they'd ask to borrow a few bucks here or there -- and even when a "few bucks" increased in value as it got closer to their breakup, I just assumed it was because the wedding was a stress on their funds.  

I will never forgive myself that I didn't know.

Looking at my brother now, I wondered if I could have prevented this.

"OK, so when exactly did this robbery attempt take place?" I asked, pulling myself back into the present.

Jeff scratched at his chin. "Maybe 6pm?  Whenever they closed," he said.

"What have you been doing since 6pm?" I asked.

Jeff shrugged.  "I went over to park for awhile," he said, referencing a neighborhood spot where we both knew he liked to hide back in a spot with a picnic table surrounded by a lot of trees.  "I didn't hear any sirens or anything, so then I went to the bar," he added.

"Then after last call you had nowhere to go so you came here," I concluded for him.

Jeff offered a tiny shrug.  "Something like that," he said.

I stood up.  "When I ask you to leave in five minutes, where will you go," I asked.

Jeff swallowed hard.  "I told you, I'm staying with Ben and Marie," he said.

I thought about calling him on his lie but determined there was no use.  "If you want to use my shower, you can.  I have a fresh set of your clothes in the bag in the hall closet where the towels are.  After you shower, you will have to leave," I said.

A light of gratitude flashed in my brother's eyes. "Thanks, sis," he said softly as he walked past me, down the hall to my bathroom.  A minute or so later, I heard the water turn on.  

Still sitting at the kitchen table, my head fell into my hands and I sobbed.  I sobbed for what I'd lost -- for what Jeff had lost -- for what our family had lost.  I'd give anything to be back to being the naïve kid who thought her brother was a super hero.  I'd give anything not to have to be the kind of sister who'd tell her brother he wasn't welcome in her home.  

I'd give anything not to be the human who'd learned in the hardest possible way that compassion comes with boundaries.  I couldn't let him stay.

My eyes were red and puffy by the time the water shut off in my shower and a few minutes after that, Jeff was standing in the kitchen doorway looking more like the version of my brother my memory always wanted to return to.

"Thanks, Claire, you're a good sister," he said.

"See ya around," I said, my voice thick with emotion I so often had to hide from him.

"See ya around," he said, walking down the hall and out my door.

I sat in the kitchen staring at the pieces of the broken teacup still scattered on the floor.  I left them there and went back to bed.

First line by Holly Disch

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar.

She Had to Start Somewhere

 Her heart was shattered after all the excuses, after the continual disappointments, she finally had to face the fact that it was time to love herself.  For so long, she had looked outside of herself for validation, for compassion, for hope -- but now?  For the first time in her life, she realized that if she wasn't able to validate, hold compassion, or birth hope from within herself, then how was she ever going to be ready to accept it when it came from somewhere else?

All of these relationships, they're self-fulfilling prophecies, her brain murmured at her as she sat alone on a park bench this chilly afternoon.

In her hand was her phone, email app open to one of the least caring correspondences she'd ever received.  It had been more than a week since it had first arrived in her inbox.  In so many ways, she was still numb to its contents.  It was hard for her brain to process why this person she valued so much was demonstrating such little value of her -- and if it was so hard for her brain to process it, she had no idea how to reconcile any of it with her shattered heart.

This latest round of struggle had begun over a month prior, the time and place of their latest fight.  She didn't know why she had more vicious encounters with this person she considered to be her best friend -- why so much of their dynamic could result in such mean-spirited verbal arguments whose wounds left deep scars.  She'd never had to deal with physical violence, but she could readily attest to the harm that emotional violence could cause.  Her friend could, at times, be so caring and loving and nurturing around her history of such abuse -- but with more and more regularity, also seemed quite willing to use this information against her.  She didn't understand why her friend could be so fickle -- and it would be many years in the future before she could appropriately label it also as abuse -- but back then, she felt dependent on her friend, dependent on them as a source of inspiration, a source of support, a source of unconditional love.

Later, much later, she'd wonder if they ever were any of those things.

But not yet.  So much would come later.

That's the path of healing -- in so many ways, it's simply another path of learning.  Before she could get to any of that, first, she had to block out the noise, block out the intensity, block out the reflex that in the past had always made her panic and drop her right back in the repetitive cycle of abuse.

Her friend -- her friend -- had watched her go through it with her mother, with her employer, with other people in her life.  Her friend -- her friend -- had offered hugs and paid their tab on many a drunken night.  Her friend -- her friend -- had listened, sagelike, and offered steadfast support, advice, even money when it was necessary.  She had come to believe that her friend -- her friend -- truly loved her.

But now, here she was, on a park bench, reading an email from this friend that outlined how she was out of bounds, she was demanding too much, they wanted nothing from her, they saw their relationship as about as inconsequential of a relationship as any relationship could be.

What was most shocking, though, was it wasn't the first time her friend had lashed out in this way.  This was part of the pattern.  And what historically would happen is that her friend would make her feel small and stupid and unimportant and she'd return the volley with all of the evidence to the contrary, to pick apart her friend's nonsense, point by point, until they'd be in all-out war for an undetermined length of time (sometimes a day, sometimes as long as a month or two) until something clicked them back together and it was smooth sailing until the next dust-up would occur.  

This time, though, was different, and she couldn't exactly explain why.  Something buried so deep in her soul or her subconscious, something at the cellular level was hitting the alarm bells -- the get out now or else cry that she simply could not ignore.  

Maybe it was just time.

But more than that, maybe her friend had simply convinced her so solidly of her worth that when this latest round of toxic bullshit swept through, she was finally strong enough not to be swept along with it.  She was finally strong enough to resist.

She was finally strong enough to break free.

Sitting on that park bench, she barely even registered that's what she had done.  She'd hardly even cried since she'd mentally left her best friend behind.  It would be years before she even realized she'd left without saying goodbye.  The retrospect of this time in her life would mystify and amaze the more healed version of herself.  That healed version of herself would barely even be able to remember what it felt like to be the version of herself who'd finally had enough and had walked cleanly away.  She'd sometimes think about those inexplicable bouts of strength, where someone could lift a car off a body trapped underneath it -- wild moments like those where it made no sense that a mere mortal could do something so unbelievable.  Call it adrenaline, call it mind-over-matter, call it super-heroism, she had done this remarkable, seemingly-impossible thing and lived to tell the tale.

Her future-self would be able to look back at this moment, this monumental decision, and feel immense pride and gratitude and compassion not just for having made it but for choosing to learn, to grow, and to heal from it.

Sitting on the bench, though, she just stared at the words she'd read an unknowable about of times in the few days since she'd received the message and she felt that tiny seed of self-love start to sprout as she closed her email app, shoved her phone in her pocket, and got to her feet, ready to be anywhere other than here anymore.

First line by Meredith Brown

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

Something My Grandfather Used to Say

 You have to live for the future ‘cause the past will eat you alive.  That's something my grandfather used to say, sitting on the porch swing he'd installed himself on the day he retired from the postoffice.  He usually had his plain blue trucker had pulled down over his eyes as he leaned back on the swing, gently rocking back and forth, the lulling creaks and groans of the wooden porch in agreement with him.  I'd sit there with him, sometimes right next to him but usually on the stool he'd made years ago in his wood shop and set proudly by the front door.  Never underestimate the power of what your two hands can build, he'd tell me, teaching me how to use the tools as soon as he deemed me old enough.  

I grew up two doors down from where my grandparents lived -- Jeb and Marta to everyone else on the block, even my mother who was their child.  They seemed to prefer it that way, this sort of banished hierarchy, this removal of labels.  They were just Jeb and Marta, after all.  Have been all our lives, my grandfather would say.  While he had done a stint in the Army before joining the postal service and lived every day as if he were a solider in some capacity or other Marta -- my grandmother -- had gone to law school and even spent a few years as a judge.  I was in awe of them.  They were my everything.  Nothing about them seemed to be compatible except for how much they loved each other and I spent every day of my childhood hoping I'd grow up to be so lucky.

My mother, she wasn't so lucky.  My father, he left before my third birthday, so outside of some old photos, I can't say much about him, except I'm pretty sure he existed.  My stepfather was what my grandfather called "unreliable," but, even so, my mother stayed married to him.  He wasn't a bad guy, really, just unfocused -- that's the word my mother would use.  She was mostly the one who kept down her job as a preschool teacher and a clerk at grocery store in town.  As soon as I was old enough, I started mowing lawns for our neighbors and walking dogs sometimes, too.  When I was sixteen, I got a job at the grocery store along with my mother while my stepfather mostly drank cheap beer and lazily told us he'd quit or gotten fired from whatever job he'd just started.  I loved my mother and admired her strength but had a hard time understanding why she stayed married to my stepfather.  

She doesn't want the stigma of divorce, my grandmother had said once in response to my out loud musings on the subject.  

I had to look "stigma" up in the dictionary.  A mark of disgrace.  Well, I'm not sure my mother's decision to stay married to my stepfather alleviated her of that.

I spent most of my free time down at my grandparents' house, anyway.  My grandfather did most of the cooking and made his own pasta and sauce from scratch.  He taught me how when I was old enough and then I'd help him.  He taught me how to make sourdough bread and fried chicken and how to slice onions so I wouldn't cry.  He taught me how to use the washing machine and the dryer and how to replace a fuse.  He said, Some men might not do these kinds of things around the house, things like cooking and laundry, but the Army taught me how to do these things.  It's patriotic to do these things.  I nodded.  I repeated what he said to my stepfather and my friends at school.  Mostly, I got stares in return, except for the moments when I'd say something like this in front of my friends' moms.  They always tousled my hair and grinned at me like I was the most charming specimen of child they'd ever encountered.

Maybe I was.

But only because that's how my grandfather taught me to be.

I asked him once, though, when I was in college what he meant when he said you have to live for the future ‘cause the past will eat you alive.  I must've asked him at just the right moment because a tear came to his eye and he said, well, I imagine you're old enough now, and then he told me stories about when he was in the Army, right in the heart of the Vietnam War.  He told me about friends he'd made in his unit -- about some who'd fought bravely and died, some who'd deserted, some who he'd kept in touch with.  He talked for hours that night, us two, out on the front porch, drinking beer, and me learning my grandfather's history.  A few weeks later, he asked me to come over and this time one of his old war buddies was there and they told even more stories -- some somber, some that left them crying with laughter.  

See, you have to live for the future ‘cause the past will eat you alive because if all I did was remember these stories from the war in Vietnam, well... my grandfather's voice trailed off.   

I understood.

I never went to war myself, but, even so, my grandfather did -- so I understood.

First line by Lindy

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

There Were Only Two Seasons

 Belted, deep to left field, awayyy back and gone!

She sat alone in her otherwise quiet apartment, watching yet another clip from last year's baseball season.  Her team had done well -- they'd played far into October, even though they didn't make it all the way to the World Series.  Spring Training had just begun but Opening Day was still forty-something days away.

Not that she was counting.

(She was definitely counting.)

She was the kind of fan that wore sweatshirts emblazoned with sayings like There are only two season: winter and baseball or You're killing me, Smalls.  Her favorite movies were Major League and A League of Their Own and Moneyball.  She was equally as happy being at the ballpark or listening to the game on the radio.  She was a purist in this way -- the TV broadcasters were lazy, in her opinion.  The radio team had to be able to bring the game to life in a way that only being there in person could duplicate.  She'd sometimes go for long walks with the radio broadcast streaming through an app on her phone and even if she was miles away from where the action was taking place, she always felt like she was right there.

Nothing fueled her like being a baseball fan.  Nothing had better connected her to her community, her network of I truly see you people than baseball.  From the start of Spring Training every February through sometimes early November when a World Series victor emerged, she felt balanced and centered and focused.  Baseball anchored her in her world and infused her with an energy that really faltered from post-World Series November through the middle of February when her ability to hook back into her baseball network re-emerged.  

She loved this sport with a passion that felt nearly inexplicable.  She'd never been very good at playing baseball or softball, though she'd clumsily made her way through a few games here and there.  It wasn't that she had that tactile connection to what it felt like to be there on the field, the adrenaline of hitting the game-winner or the sense of responsibility that goes along with a missed catch, but even so, baseball filled her entire being with a joy that she didn't experience in her everyday life.

The bleakness of winter only compounded her sense of dread that flitted in and out of her awareness during the offseason.

That's not to say that when baseball season started back up that she was flipping a switch from black and white grimness to vibrant, unstoppable 24/7 joy -- but baseball helped recalibrate her more than therapy or yoga or any other mindfulness trick she'd tried.  

Baseball was her lifeline out to the world.

When the season went dark, she simply felt more alone.

That's not to say she was totally alone -- she was just more alone.  She had amassed a wide circle of baseball pals who were zealots like she was -- and while they sometimes checked in on each other during the offseason, it just wasn't as frequently or as connecting as it was once baseball rolled back around.

So she soothed herself by watching highlight clips from the most recent season or past seasons, historic moments and the like.  It amazed her how some of these game-winning moments still made her cry, even after seeing them a hundred times, knowing exactly how it all turned out.  Her emotional reactiveness only deepened her connection to herself -- she'd watch a clip of a game-winning moment and it would transport her back to where she was when that scene had played out in real time.  She'd close her eyes and remember how elated she was, how energized, how happy she was.  She'd remember the hugs or the high fives from when those moments happened in the company of others and she'd remember her phone pinging with excited text messages.

She'd really bask in the re-living of those moments.  They, in so many ways, filled up her hope-center, her joy-center, her energetic-center.  

Yet, it was also true that many people in her everyday life had no idea she even liked baseball, let alone loved it.  

In her everyday life, she worked in advocacy and policy and education.  She held space for people dealing with a crisis that they wanted to resolve through systemic change.  She was an activist and a writer and a champion for the communities she worked with and the advocacy she did on their behalf.  Some of the people she worked with had known her for years and had no idea how important baseball was to her.

Frankly, it's because they never asked.

While she listened to them and worked on their behalf and generated programs and projects and events based on their feedback, so few of them had ever asked her what kind of music she liked or did she have a dog or did she enjoy cooking or what's her ideal vacation.  They didn't know how many siblings she had or if her parents were still together or if she was married or if she had children.  

They knew what they seemed to need to know about her: where she went to school and what skills she had that could suit their purposes and drive their agendas forward.

Even after years of being very successful in this industry, working with both colleagues and volunteers on regular basis, there was a failure to connect beyond the surface of what brought them into each other's lives in the first place.

And in the very infrequent moment when someone did learn something personal about her, like the fact that she was a massive baseball fan, at least half the time, that person would wrinkle their nose and say, "Baseball is so boring, no thanks."  

It was always just that much harder after a remark like that for her respect someone who'd express such an unkindness.

She couldn't tell you why she'd fallen so in love baseball, but she could tell you that the sting of unnecessary commentary about something she'd just confessed was incredibly important to her damaged relationships.

Now in the quiet space, just forty-something odd days away from Opening Day, she scrolled through Twitter, turning the sound way up on the video highlights from season's past as texts from her baseball-season friends started gradually to populate her inbox.  

So close, she murmured to herself as she watched another mobbing at home plate.

So close. So close. So close.

Just forty-something odd days until she could return to being fully alive.

First line by Landon Wolf

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

The Apartment

 The dog sprang off of the bed with a growl rumbling in her throat.  I sat up in bed and watched her move slowly and intentionally towards the room's open door.  The hallway was dark.  My roommate either wasn't home or was already asleep.  Everything felt still and quiet, except for the dog, who continued her guttural noise.  The air around me suddenly felt cold, like the air conditioner had just kicked on.  It was the dead of winter, though, so I knew it wasn't that.

She must be here.

I pulled my covers up to my chin and watched the dog.  He was a boxer/doberman mix who belonged to my roommate's boyfriend and so whenever they came over, my roommate tucked herself in with her man and I tucked myself in with his dog.  Only seems fair.  He was a sweet dog, even though he shed like a beast.

And also, ever since this new snuggled-in routine of ours began, she started showing up.

My roommate and I had moved into this apartment at the start of the semester.  We'd lived in a different unit in the same building last year and had liked how conveniently close it was to campus and liked the layout and liked how chill the building manager was and liked how so many of our friends lived nearby.  It was just like being in the dorms, except without any supervision.  

While last year, it had just been parties and shenanigans, this year had a completely different vibe.

Because of her.

The dog's growling remained at a steady hum.

I gently called his name but it only made him growl a little louder, every hair on his body standing at aggressive attention.  I knew that all he was doing was protecting me.  But it honestly scared me more than she ever could.

Have you ever lived in a haunted house?

When I was a kid, I swore my house was haunted -- but living in this place now?  I know that was just my imagination -- a real haunting is like this.  Objects would move from one room to another, distinct footsteps would be heard in the hall, lights would flicker even when the power was off.  

She had a bit of magic to her, if you ask me.

We first noticed her on the third night we were living here.  My roommate, her boyfriend, his dog, and I were watching a movie when a picture we'd hung earlier that evening suddenly crashed to the ground.  We heard glass shatter and everything -- but when we went to pick it up, it was perfectly intact.  All we had to do was hang it back up on the nail, which was exactly as we'd hammered it in a few hours before.

"That's weird," my roommate said before we all shrugged ourselves back to the couch to finish the movie.

Later that night when we'd all gone to bed, the dog had done exactly as he was doing tonight: he started to growl.  But that time when I woke up, he was standing over me in a protective stance, as if I were about to be brutally attacked.

That's when I saw her, a shadow lingering in the hallway.  I could see the outline of long hair and a flowing dress.  She had no legs, at least not that I could see.

I blinked and when I went to focus in on where I'd seen her, she was gone.

Even so, it took the dog another few minutes to lay back down and stop seeming to need to protect me.

The next morning, I told my roommate and her boyfriend about what happened.  Her boyfriend got a strange look on his face and said, "I wonder if this is where she lived."

"Who?" my roommate and I asked in unison.

A shiver seemed to travel through his body.  "Haven't you ever heard the story of Shadow Woman?" he asked, his voice dropping low, as if he didn't want to be overheard.

We each shook our heads.

He went on.  "I'd heard that one of the apartments in this building was haunted," he said.  

"From who?" my roommate asked.  "We lived here last year and never heard about that."

"You lived on the third floor, though, right?  Not this apartment," her boyfriend asked.

"Well, yeah," my roommate said.  "But even so, we never heard the building was haunted."

"It sure seems like it might be," I chimed in, goosebumps popping up on my arms.

Her boyfriend nodded while he pointed at me.  "Right, whatever happened last night wasn't exactly normal.  Like, if just the picture had fallen or just the dog acted a little strange or you just thought you saw someone with no legs hovering in the hallway, that could be a coincidence.  But all three?"

My roommate and I looked at each other.  

"Pretty creepy," my roommate confirmed a moment later.

Nothing else strange happened over the next few weeks, though, so much so that I nearly forgot anything had happened at all.  Then came a night when it happened again -- the dog woke me up with a growl, ready to protect me.  Maybe I saw the Shadow Woman in the hallway again, but I couldn't say for sure.

What I can say for sure is that the next day, my roommate and I made a point of going by the building manager's office to ask if he'd ever heard any of the units was haunted.  We fully expected him to laugh, but instead, he got very serious and lowered his voice, just like my roommate's boyfriend had done.

"She's harmless, probably," he said.  "But she's around."

"You rented us a haunted apartment?" I squeaked.

He paled for a moment before clearing his throat.  "Well, you two took a long time to make up your mind about signing the lease.  There wasn't another unit available."

"And you didn't tell us?' I squeaked again.

He shrugged apologetically.  "Not everyone who lives there, ya know, sees her," he said.

My roommate and I looked at each other, our jaws gaped.  Maybe this explained why we'd never heard this rumor before.  

"Who is she?" my roommate asked.

The building manager leaned back in his chair.  "She was a student, too, like you two.  No one's really sure who she is exactly but sometimes people who see her see her hunched over a table, like she's writing a paper."

"Are you serious?" I asked.

The building manager nodded gravely.  "The rumor I always heard was that she killed herself."

"In our apartment?" my roommate asked as she instinctively grabbed my arm.

The building manager held up his hands defensively.  "Nobody said that.  Can't even confirm she was a real human -- like I said, I've just heard the stories.  She seems to be a friendly ghost, if not a bit studious," he added with a chuckle.

We were not amused.

The smile dropped from the building manager's face.  "Look," he said.  "If you want to break your lease and move out, I won't penalize you."

My roommate and I looked at each other for a long thirty seconds.

"We'll stay," she said, representing the results of our silent meeting.  

"For now," I added.

And now?  It's a few months later and she has become semi-regular fixture in our home.  The dog still growls at her.  But the rest of us have learned to offer her a sleepy hello and return our heads to the pillow.

I called the dog's name again as a chill runs through me.  I'd gotten so used to this that it barely even bothered me anymore.  The dog's spell finally seemed to have broken so he scampered back up and curled himself at the end of my bed.  If I squint, I can see a figure fading slowly down the hallway.

Her.

I laid my head back down and pulled the covers up to my chin.  As I drifted back to sleep, I wondered if we'd ever learn her name.

First line by Meredith Brown

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

With Love

“With Love”

               for Liam

You almost died

during RuPaul’s Drag Race

on a frigid Friday

night in Boston.

The same cancer

that killed my father

threatens your, life, too

and all I could picture

was my childhood body

rushing, love-fueled,

straight towards

a hospital bed,

stark-white 1980's health

care that left him wired

and tubed in a way

that paralyzed my brothers

lingering in the doorway.

But I wasn't scared.

I ran right in.

I found out

it was time to say

goodbye to you

while I sat

at a brightly lit restaurant

in Cleveland Heights

where I was dipping 

my kibbie into its sauce.

I didn't know

what to do with my hands

or my face or my voice,

after that brief phone call

where I'd had the fortune

to turn to my friend, someone

who'd met you

only once, and she let out

a gasp when I shared

this grave news.

Context, though,

is everything, and what

we'd been discussing

was pre-birth planning

and souls and the awesome

power of everlasting love,

the pillars and powers

of all that exists exponentially,

far beyond what our human

brains can begin

to comprehend.

You and I,

we had our moments,

our evens and odds,

our tough disputes.

Your partner is the one

who partnered us,

who brought us into

each other's lives

and left us there

to figure it out

while he mixed cocktails

and set out the snacks

on Drag Race nights

for so many years.

I'll always think of you

snugged on the couch

in my old office, piled

with yoginis guzzling

whiskey in cheap glass

carafes.  A singalong

begins, you, our pied piper,

belting out of the classic

I will always love you

while your partner sulked

in a chair outside the door,

impatiently ready to leave

this party you and I

had only just begun.

I'll always think of you

with love.

Set free now

from the pain

of your human body,

attacked by the very same

malignancy that took my father's life,

I spontaneously wrap

my arms tight around my body,

invisible-you I sense in this

embrace as I say out loud,

Thank you, you are loved.

It's quiet here, six hundred

fifty-odd miles away

from where you will draw

your last breath.

I hear that, though,

that final sigh.

I see it pulse

through this

white light --

2/4/2023

A Safe Space

The girl sucked in a breath and dried her tears, glancing over to her mother.

"It's OK, Shirley," her mother said with a slow, gentle tone. "You can tell us what happened."

Shirley nodded briefly at her mother and then looked over at the principal sitting behind his looming desk, stacked with folders and colored post-its and plastic bins full of pens and paperclips and rubber bands.  She'd always been so afraid of this man and of this office, a person and a place you were only sent when you were bad.  

"Yes, Shirley, this is a safe space," the principal said in a reassuring tone that more confused the young girl than set her at ease.  Wasn't this the same man who had not so long ago yelled at her best friend Margot for running in the hallway or who suspended her friend Kevin for talking back to a teacher, even though the teacher was mean to him first?  Was this the man who created the safe space in the school?

Shirley looked at the floor.  "I don't want to get anyone in trouble," she murmured in a barely audible voice.

Her mother reached over and took her hand.  "It's not about getting someone in trouble," she said.  "It's about making you feel safe here at school."

There it was again -- safe.  Here, at George P. Barnes Elementary School.  The same place where they had to routinely participate in drills that taught students how to survive an active shooter or that forced the teachers to focus on standardized tests instead of simply focusing on learning what the students were interested in and making an average week in the classroom about that.  Safe, ha, what a farce.

Shirley looked up and locked eyes with the principal.  "Chloe Jackson put a note in my backpack that said, Your dad died probably because you smell bad," she reported, feeling more and more numb with every confessionary syllable.

The principal's eyes grew wider for a moment before he leaned forward and asked, "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago," Shirley said.

"How do you know it was Ms. Jackson?" the principal asked, his neatly folded hands starting to twitch.

"She signed her name," Shirley said. "And I also know what her handwriting looks like because we have been in the same class almost every year." She paused before adding, "She usually sits right behind me in class, because of alphabetical order."

"Right," the principal said, awkwardly clearing his throat.  "You have the note?" he asked.

Shirley's mother pulled it out of her pocketbook and handed it across the desk.  "I found it in her backpack when I was looking for her lunch bag," she offered as a preemptive means of explanation.

"Right," the principal repeated, this time the syllables dragging out as he examined the torn half-sheet of paper that did, indeed, contain the exact message described.  He seemed to read it a few times before setting it on his desk.  "You didn't tell your mother about the note when it happened?" he asked the girl.

Shirley shifted uncomfortably.  "I didn't see it until she found it," she confessed.

The principal nodded.  "Well, I'll need to investigate this a little more before I can make decisions about what actions to take," he said.  "I'm just so troubled that this happened, Ms. Jablonka."  He paused and looked over at her mother.  "And I'm so sorry for your loss as well.  This isn't the sort of thing anyone should have to be dealing with during a grief period like you're experiencing.  I will keep you informed as my investigation continues."

Shirley felt a bit stunned as she sensed this was the end of their meeting.  "Don't you want to know why she wrote this note to me?" she asked, her tiny voice growing stronger with every word.  "Don't you care?"

The principal looked at the girl with some confusion.  "Of course I care," he said defensively.

Shirley turned to her mother.  "Chloe's father is on the school board," she said.  "He has a lot of money and so Chloe never gets in trouble, even though she bullies a lot of kids."  She turned to the principal. "Did you know that Chloe was a terrible bully, not just to me but to a lot of kids?"

The principal seemed lost for words.

"She's mean.  She writes mean notes to a lot of kids," Shirley went on. "She's written other mean notes to me, too, but I usually just throw them away.  The only reason we're here today is because my mom found the note and she said we had to come have this meeting.  But Chloe, she is mean a lot.  And I don't think she's going to get in trouble for this, even though saying my dad is dead because of me and not because of cancer is pretty mean and terrible.  She won't get in trouble because her dad will make sure she doesn't get in trouble."

Her mother turned to face the girl whose face was puckering once more as tears started falling again.  "Shirley, I'm sure Principal Morris will take this seriously," she said, smoothing the girl's hair.

"I don't even smell bad," Shirley said, her tiny fists now resting in her lap.  "I didn't make my father die because I smell bad."

"Of course not, sweetie," her mother said.

"I can assure you I will look into this," the principal said, his voice sounding more and more hollow.

"She's just a mean bully," Shirley said.  "That's all you'll find out when you look into this. But what will be different?  She'll still write mean notes.  Even if you decide to punish her this time, she'll still keep doing it because she's not nice.  She'll probably be smart enough not to write another note to me but she'll find other ways to be mean because she knows her dad can yell louder than a little girl like me.  He has power and I don't."

"I will speak with Ms. Jackson and her father, if need be," the principal said, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"When you do, will you tell them both that this school is supposed to be a safe space where all the kids and the teachers and everyone actually is safe?  Will you tell her and her father that the reason this school will never be safe has to do with people like them?" Shirley asked defiantly.

"Ms. Jablonka, I will investigate the matter," the principal repeated, his once calm face now looking tense.

Shirley stood up quickly, causing her chair to push back on the tile floor and make an awful screeching sound.  "Thank you," she said, spinning on her heels and walking out of the office. "Thank you for your time," she heard her mother say as she heard the principal say, "I will be in touch as my investigation continues" as he closed the office door after her exit.

Shirley's cheeks were flushed and her entire body trembled as her mother reached down and held her fingers wide for her to grasp.

"Want to go get some ice cream?" her mother offered as their hands interlocked.

Shirley felt her mother's love course through her as their palms pressed together.  "Yeah, OK," she said.

In the car, the girl looked out the window from her spot in the backseat as her mother drove.  Everything about the view was predictable and it calmed her down.  Later, when the girl and her mother would sit across from each other at Parish's Ice Cream, each with two large waffle cones full to the brim with multiple flavors of their choosing, she would find herself savoring this moment as one of the safest she'd ever feel, just a girl and her mother and a couple of ice cream cones existing in their own trust-bubble that could never be popped, no matter how mean the outside world could seem to be.  

First line by Nicole Hatcher

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

The Upgrade

 One day, I showed up at the ballpark to watch my favorite team, and the staff at the gate said my seats were being upgraded to sit in the dugout with the players.  At first, I thought they were kidding because I'm typically the opposite of the luckiest guy you'll ever meet, but, what the hell, if they were beckoning me to follow, who was I to turn it down?  So I'm walking along with the guy -- he told me his name was Bruno, like Bruno Mars, the singer?  You heard of him?  Anyway, this guy Bruno is walking me down to this tunnel I never even noticed before, even though I come to maybe forty games a season and have ever since this ballpark opened back in '94.  I'm just walking along with Bruno down in this tunnel and I'm trying to, ya know, make small talk and whatnot but he seemed kind of distracted, so I didn't want to pester him.  That is, until we got right to the path that was gonna take me up to the dugout and then Bruno turns to me and, you'll never guess what he said.  He said, "Mister, I picked you out of the line because you look almost exactly like my Uncle Donny.  No one loved this team more than my uncle Donny and it was actually him who was supposed to get this opportunity, but he had a heart attack and died last night."  Bruno, my new buddy Bruno, he got a tear in his eye while he's telling me about his poor Uncle Donny and I patted his arm to comfort him, ya know, but all I could think was goddamnit, I've never been so happy to be a bald-headed bearded-man before this very moment.  Uncle Donny, god rest ya!  So, Bruno, he tells me that he got permission to have his Uncle Donny watch this game from the dugout with the team to celebrate his retirement or some situation like that and as it so happened, I also just retired, so me and Uncle Donny have that in common, too.  Luckily, my ticker's a-tickin', and I been vegan for the last twelve years to make my wife Sheila happy so I don't think I'll drop dead like Donny did anytime soon, but, well, now I feel like I should knock on wood or something...  Like I said, I'm not typically the luckiest guy you'll ever meet, so I don't want to put it out there in the Universe that I couldn't possibly fall over dead from a heart attack like Bruno's uncle Donny, but, well, let's just say it's more likely my cat would push me out of a window than I'd have a heart attack.  You should see my cholesterol! So anyway, Bruno's all teary-eyed about his Uncle Donny while he's escorting me into the dugout and, I gotta tell ya, I almost did have a heart attack, right then and there, because you ain't never seen a view as pretty as this one.  The smell of the grass!  The bats all lined up and the batting helmets all arranged and everyone just going about the business of getting ready for the game.  Bruno took me over to meet one of the coaches and explains who I am and all the coach said was, "Sorry about Donny," while he kind of eyed me like I was going to rob the place or something.  Anyway, Bruno shows me where I can sit and shows me the secret bathroom and I'm just watching the TV guys get set up and the players start to meander in.  They didn't really pay any attention to Bruno or me but that was OK.  One or two came over to say hi and offer us some gum and, I mean, I don't chew gum normally but I did when a pro ball player handed some to me.  I guess if he'd said it was cool to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, I'd've gladly done that, too, it was just that neat.  Anyway, as the game started up, I pulled my radio out and turned on the broadcast -- with headphones because sometimes the radio guys rag on the players and I was just trying to be respectful -- and I gotta tell ya, it was just the most terrific time I ever did have at the ballpark.  Bruno, he sat there with me all nine innings and when the game was over, he and I had become so buddy-buddy, I thought he was gonna start calling me Uncle Donny.  Ha! Well, I'm kidding about that, but we did get to know each other and he accepted my friend request on Facebook so I guess you could say me and Bruno are pals now.  It truly was just the best day I ever did have, and all because I kinda looked like a guy who dropped dead from a heart attack, poor bastard.  I saw a photo of Uncle Donny sometime down the line and, truth be told, I don't think anyone would mistake us for the other but, hey, who am I to second guess Bruno's decision?  After that day, grass never did quite smell the same to me, either.  Just never did smell the same.

First line by Laura E.

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

I Know Differently

 As the sun rises over the horizon, I pull my collar up to keep my neck warm from the chill.  I'm not the sort who prefers the cold but I am the sort who prefers routine and ritual and this daily trek to see you is part of that.  Sometimes, though, the rain does keep me away.  Cold, though, cold I can confront, mind-over-matter, and even make a game of seeing the smoke of my breath cut through the air as I exhale.  This morning's frost makes my breath crystalize but what brings hope into my soul is that cut of sunbeam, slicing through the frigid morning.

Sunrise makes me think of you.

But you already know that.

You know everything there is to know.

Every day -- well, most every day -- I make my way here, to this spot, to tell you everything, though, just in case you're less able to know me as well as you did once before.  I come to this bench with the tiny silver placard with your name engraved on it and that heartbreaking reminder of the date you were born and the date that you died.  Our son, he doesn't like to say you died, even after these two years since it happened. He likes to say that you left us but I know that's not what you did at all.  He and I got into a bit of an argument over it not that long ago, when I said it was insulting to say you'd left us, like you'd said you were going to the corner store for cigarettes and milk and just never came home.  I said it wasn't good for your grandchildren to hear him talk like that and he'd slammed his fist on the table and said he'd talk about you leaving however he saw fit.  We had an awful time sorting that out.  I mean, you probably remember -- we talked about it after and, to me, you were right there beside me during the whole... event.  I like to think you took him aside, too, because he calmed down quicker than normal and even came with me on my walk to see you the next day.  Remember?  We just sat on the bench in the cold, our hands shoved in our pockets, staring at the spot of ground at our feet.  It was nice, though.  Calm.  It felt so serene.  And after awhile, his elbow jutted over and tapped my arm.

"I'll make you a grilled cheese when we get back to the house," he said.

Made me laugh because he'd never made me so much as a bowl of cereal before, but you taught him your grilled cheese trick and I think that he meant it as a peace offering.

Most days, though, I come here alone.

Today, I'm alone.

It takes me about seven minutes to walk to this spot in the park, your favorite spot, or so your granddaughter decided.  We let her decide, within reason, of course.  She picked this spot and us "elders" gave it the green-light, and we worked with the city to install this bench with the placard on it.  It's here in that clearing where you and our granddaughter liked to play Spirit-Fairies, at least that's what she told us.  With me, she always makes me act out a farm animal or a circus animal while she acts out the role of farmer or lion tamer or whatever suits her game the best on any given day.  Anyway, sounds like what she played with you was more specific.  She said that you'd chase around this clump of trees and jump over the flower beds and say things like, "Abracadabra, green grass!"  Just silly things like that.  Well, we had to approve her idea to put your memorial bench here after all of that. We just hoped you liked it OK.

I think you do, though, because whenever I come here, I swear I smell your perfume, just faintly.  Some days, I could swear I heard your laughter, especially once those flowers bloom.  I much prefer my visits to you on those warmer days.

But, well, I come even in the cold because it's only a seven minute walk and it's good for me to have this routine.  I was always a man of routine, as you know, but I do fear that tendency has...advanced since you died.  You were always the one who brought my spontaneity out.  Before you, I didn't think I was anything but rules and order and this-after-that.  But you were so the opposite of that, I think we balanced each other out.  Now that you're in spirit -- that's what I try to tell our son to say, just like you taught it to me before you died -- now that you're in spirit, I feel you with me but I also feel your personality dropping away.  You warned me this could happen and so I am doing my best to roll with it but it's strange to have this ritual of talking with you every day and still knowing that it's less you as time goes on.  It's still you, but...  How did you teach it to me?  You're less ego, more soul.  I only think I understand what that means except that maybe I kind of feel it these days.  

Every day -- well, most days -- at sunrise, I come here to this place to catch you up, just like I promised I would, but I also do it because it's nice to see you in every season -- I can't explain how I know it's you when I see you except to say that I know that it's you.  It's why I still come, even in the cold.  It's why I'll always come, until I cross into spirit, too.  

Until then, I will keep telling your children and grandchildren as many stories about you as I can think of, even if they've heard them a hundred times over.  I will bring you into every conversation I have and I will resist any individual who says you're not here anymore.  I know differently.  Even on the coldest days, I know differently.  

I see you in every sunrise, after all -- just like you promised I would.  

First line by Susie Bowers

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar