A Thin Ray Of Sunshine

Amelia woke up as the strong smell of pine trees and dirt became pungent in her nostrils. Slowly, she became aware she was starving and freezing, despite the long wool socks on her feet.The snow was falling thick covering the pine trees with white dust, all the while Amelia was in her comfortable bed, thick blanket on top. She stayed still, trying to recall her dream, but her growling stomach insistently reminded her it was hungry. It was still early, and only a thin ray on sunshine covered the isolated, agricultural village.

This is definitely the worst winter I’ve had, she thought, as she pushed the blanket away, shivering. 

It didn’t look good for anyone. The snow and ice would not begin to melt for another two months. Hunting was no longer an option, never mind the growing of crops. People were struggling and, in worst cases, fleeing to nearby towns. Amelia was starving and with her the whole village.

This morning in particular, Amelia was trying to stay positive, even though she knew it was part of her body’s automatic self defense mechanism of survival. She was terrified of dying and lately had been thinking way too much about death and loss of consciousness.

A loud banging on the door interrupted Amelia’s thoughts. Her father opened the door babbling about other village men practicing cannibalism out of desperation. Some cut flesh from other people’s cheeks and facial muscles, while others removed the tongue with a knife while others extracted the brain through a hole in the skull. 

Hunger brings the worst out of people. You need to be extra careful, he said as he closed the door.

After hearing this, she decided to go on an expedition to the nearby forest to look for something to eat. Maybe I'll get lucky, she hoped. She walked for hours until she saw a light. The light led to a wooden cabin with smoke coming out of its chimney. The door was slightly opened and Amelia entered without any hesitation whatsoever.

A tall and skinny old man with a long, black cloak was standing in the room with his back to her. He chose to completely ignore her, though it was clear he’d seen her standing there, frozen. He began gathering all sorts of spices like a wizard preparing the ingredients to make a potion.

The man suddenly turned towards Amelia and looked at her straight with his big brown eyes and said, I don’t think eating me is a good idea. 

She was trembling with fear and amazement for she had already considered different ways to kill this man who was looking so appetizing. He had read her mind. Then, in a blink of an eye she woke up in her comfortable bed. It was a sunny day in New York City and her mom was screaming breakfast is ready!  

By: Susana Toro

Dear Grandma Hilda

I still remember your honey apple pie like it was yesterday, Grandma Hilda, the one that smelled like cinnamon and cream. You refused to give me the recipe, though I was old enough to bake and you were old enough for a discount at the movie theater.

You picked me up in your old pink 1953 Corvette, the only one I ever knew. On sunny days, the top was always down, our wild hair flying behind us. Yours was white and spare, mine was dirty blond and wavy. You said the best movies only came out when summer was gone. It was the world’s way of telling us to play outside while we still could. On nice days we went to the Boston Common, where you always let me eat as many popsicles as my age. We sat on the blue blanket you made me before I moved away and we watched the dogs and the ducks and the college kids getting stoned.

I regretted growing older because I never got to spend as much time with you as before. Weekends were for friends, and daddy sold your pink Corvette once your cataracts made you a safety hazard on the road.

Still, through winter storms and blizzards we stayed together in your living room and kept the fireplace lit from sunrise to sunset. We knitted blankets so long we could both snuggle our feet inside. Mine were always slightly crooked, never perfect like yours.

But even our winters got divided once I graduated and went off to school in D.C. Each month, you’d send me a honey apple pie in the mail, saran wrapped so delicately that not a single inch was out of place when I opened it. That pie made me feel close to you, even though we were far apart.

One month I didn’t get your pie in the mail and that’s when I asked you for the recipe again. You said you would send me pie any time I needed it, you said you would make it for me whenever I wanted. You sounded tired that day, but I asked you for pie and five days later it came, like you said.  

That honey apple pie was extra sweet, a little better than the rest. It tasted heavenly; I remember keeping it in my dorm room longer than I kept the other ones, eating a tiny slice each night right before going to bed.

When the pie was finally gone, I felt my childhood had withered away, gone to where I could no longer taste it.

 That was the last honey apple pie you ever baked for me, Grandma Hilda. You could have given me the recipe, but I doubt it would have tasted the same.

By: Laura Moreno Saraga

Ina Coolbrith Park

As the clock strikes 10am Ana leaves her apartment wearing her red and blue tennis shoes and holding her favorite book in hand. Ina Coolbrith Park is only a couple of blocks away, though the only way to get there is to climb a 73 stairway. Ana takes the first step with a proud but subtle smile; then, she takes the second step and with that builds momentum. One, two, one, two. After some time goes by and some energy is spent, she reaches the top, where she sees San Francisco entirely, with all its wonders below her.

Ana then takes a seat in one of the green park benches to have discussions about life and death, freedom, loneliness and happiness with her dearest friend, Herman Hesse, through his well-known novel, Steppenwolf. She knows him very well even though they never met in person and, in fact, lived completely different epochs.

She opens the book on page 115: “You should not take people who are already dead seriously. We immortals don’t like that. We like joking. Seriousness is an accident of time. It consists of putting too high value on time. In eternity, however, there is no time; it is a mere moment, just long enough for a joke.” 

As she reads, she pictures herself laughing at life and not having a care in the world. 

What if I died and came back to life? I'm certain I'd spend less time pondering about my inevitable death, she tought.

A bright and endless field of clouds engulfs her. She and Hesse are standing behind a tall tree that casts a significant shadow. Ana has waited her whole life to have the real Hesse in front of her, but does not seem to know what to ask or where to start a conversation. Nervously, she yells out: What is death like?

Although Hesse never answers her question, she comes to realize something important. She does not need to meet the author in person because she already has something better, his story. Through his story she is able to know what he thinks is good, noble and beautiful; about death and the universe; and about why we are here.

A big whoosh of cold wind sweeps her hair and lifts her skirt. Would her tunnel be made of dark clouds or would it resemble a big well? It does not matter for she is beginning to feel that love, warmth, kindness, and unity are all she will feel at the end of her life.

Two men walking a dog bring Ana back to that green bench at Ina Coolbrith Park. One of them has the leash of the dog in his hand and the other is holding at least a dozen yellow balloons with happy faces on them. She believes the dog to be a Labrador but isn’t sure. As she looks further, she is able to see the Bay Bridge light up behind the trio. It's getting dark, perhaps a sign to start heading back home.

Before she leaves, Ana sees a brown garbage bag swinging up and down, playing with the wind. The two men are talking yada-yada-yada when the bag lands on the possibly-Labrador's face, who quickly reacts wagging his tale and barking. The two men don’t seem to notice or care, and Ana feels lucky to be the only spectator witnessing what she believes to be a beautiful scene.

Making a little dance in the air, the bag disappears from view for a moment. The dog calms down and then the bag returns to surprise him. Ana can’t help but smile and think of the great way her day has ended, with a joke, just as Hesse would’ve liked. She stands up and walks towards the stairs taking a closer look at the bag. It is filthy and slightly ripped.

By: Susana Toro

Winding Watches

His top hat was green and made of felt. They don’t make them like that anymore, thought Jordan. His skin was pale, the kind that doesn’t get along with summer sunshine. No, his cheeks were designed for long and harsh European winters, Jordan decided. They took a reddish hue in the cold - I'm convinced people who get red cheeks in the winter feel less cold. It was summer that day, but the old man’s leaves were long gone. Down in the prairie the grass shone green still, but the man in gray would have no summer.

Jordan sat down next to him and an inexplicable wave of sorrow engulfed him completely. The man looked down at his intertwined hands and didn’t seem to notice that a young man had entered from left stage.

Jordan’s sadness focused on a few scenes happening that day in the distance. A man his age in full army uniform hugging his new wife goodbye. Jordan thought of the pile of rejection letters under his pillow and sighed, wondering if the man in the green hat was a veteran or a college graduate, or both.

On the opposite side of the baseball field, a man in his early forties carried half a cardboard box with the petty belongings of a long and stagnant office job. Everything was becoming automatic, everyone replaced by machines. Not the man in the green hat—he winded his watch every day. But not lately, not lately.

Jordan rubbed his eyes and stared at the old man’s grey eyes, attempting to discover what hid behind his two pearly eyes like Uranus. The man averted his eyes and dug into his breast pocket for a pipe made of briarwood. He took his time, filling the pipe with tobacco, never blinking eyes behind his round spectacles. As the man lit up, the sweet smell of pipe smoke settled pleasantly inside of Jordan’s nostrils.

And then, Jordan understood—a lonely park without sunsets, a hopeless summer with no news, a smoking man without his wife.

“Martha passed away today.”

Jordan turned his head to the old man who had just spoken, impeccably and unsuitably dressed with a gray suit and green hat.

“Forty years ago today,” he said.

By: Laura Moreno Saraga

Prélude in E-Minor

Sarah's heart races as she runs hand in hand with her boyfriend Andrew towards San Francisco’s Opera House. They’re celebrating their one-year anniversary as a couple with a classical Piano Concerto that is scheduled to start at 8PM.

The night is made bright by the full moon and electric lights that shine the Greek godlike statues. The attending men and women, with the latest fashions, go up the stairways and through the doors into a big room where they chat and drink mimosas.

Antonina Petrov is the piano composer and interpreter for the concerto. She has played compositions from some of the greatest “masters” of classical music such as Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and Chopin.

Sarah and Andrew sit in row H seats 12 and 13. They look around and see white hair and shaved heads. They are the youngest ones there and can’t help but feel sophisticated.

The room goes silent as Antonina comes in. She bows and sits in front of the piano while the crowd claps. Then she takes a long, deep breath and starts playing Chopin’s Prélude in E minor. A few seconds into the composition, Andrew begins imitating the interpreter with his hands. Then he stands up, closes his eyes and begins moving his whole body as if he were playing the piano himself. He longs to feel stronger as the powerful melody inside his skin bursts with energy. Sarah pulls him into his chair again, but now tears start rolling down his eyes. He begins sobbing, first silently and then uncontrollably. Suddenly, Sarah joins him and also starts crying, as her emotions take control of her. The noises make everyone around them uncomfortable, but Sarah and Andrew don't care. They are deeply touched, feeling miserable and wonderful at the same time.

One by one the audience bursts in tears, making Antonina uncomfortable as she keeps glancing at the audience while continuing to play the piano. As Prélude in E-Minor ends, all the lights are turned on. The organizers are furious and decide to cancel the rest of the show by leading everyone toward the exit doors. The audience leaves the auditorium excited, alive, and deep in discussion.

I’m serious, says Sarah wiping the tears from her eyes, why must we swallow our feelings and not express them? And why do we feel uncomfortable when we see people laughing out loud or crying? I loved being able to feel without thinking about what’s appropriate for just a moment…taxi!!

A cab stops in front of Sarah and Andrew. They get in and Sarah continues, I think we experienced a great thing tonight; it made me reflect on the astonishing miracle that is to live and feel connected to other people and to music.

The rest of the cab ride seems smooth and silent to the untrained viewer, but this couple is feeling more connected to the universe than ever before; they feel relevant, like active participators of the world.

By: Susana Toro