Letter to Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge

Dear Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge,

Whirly, wispy, winter sits outside my window; brown tire tracks trail dirt in the clean snow. Just like the muddy tracks, I have dirt in my thoughts. I have accepted a way of writing that not only disillusions my voice, but cuts off who I am.

I never used to have problems writing. I could just look at the world, and I’d have something to say. I picked up ideas all over the place and wrote them down. It was within the words I had strung throughout every room, that I was told my writing was crazy.

My eighth grade English teacher, tall, prim, with a crooked smile, is the one who changed the way I write. He sat me down, and said he needed to talk to me. I had written about my love of words. He didn’t see it. He said he had asked me to open a can of worms, and that I did so, but then took handfuls and tossed them everywhere. He didn’t know where I was going, or what the point was. He told me to cut down, simplify, erase, revise, and simplify again. Trying to please him, I did this. I have not heard my voice since. I’ve caught glimpses of it sounding tight, sophisticated, and choked. I lost the life in my writing. I lost myself. I had a one-track train; it didn’t turn, loop, or even reverse. If I even strayed off the side, the shock collar that I seemed to wear burst with electric power.

I first read your book about three years ago, when I was nine. My grandma was flipping through it at the kitchen table one morning, and found a poem she and her sister had written. “Capricious rainbow, you do a pastel leap across the sky,” it began. I was astounded. It was fantastic—full of words! She told me your book, poemcrazy, brought out these free ideas and playful words. We read it together. I was enchanted.

Inspired to write, we threw around words, just as you suggested. We wrote them down, and tossed them into a red-hot bowl. Then we grabbed a handful of words out of the bowl, and wrote a poem using whichever ones we wanted. This process began freeing my voice and ideas. We made up words and let them come out as they pleased. We gave ourselves pen names and read our word pool poetry. I wrote: Star you fly away…beautiful like a poem, mighty like a tiger…you are my golden sky star.

I miss the freedom I had in these little poems.

Apokatas’ tasis. Out of apparent catastrophe, bring blessing, Greek. Until last night I had felt as if I had lost my voice. I told my mom, and she told me a story. My dad had rototilled our garden, and recent rain left the ground a mushy, muddy substance. I stepped outside in the dim sky, and saw worms. Everywhere. I ran inside. “You have to come see this!” I said breathless.

I want to write with worms everywhere again. I prefer them squirming under my feet, pearly light bulbs in the night. I’ve picked up your book again. I’m writing, and what do you know, here I am!

Thank you, Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge, for opening, and then re-opening my words. Your book has taught me the power of writing, and allowed to play with words—squish them like playdoh, and mix colors, just for the fun of it. I can move freely, carting more than one idea.

Ciao,

Freedom Dancer
Micaela Gerhardt

Stardust

Today as I slowly zoned out
in my science class,
I thought about how before I learned science,
before I knew what lay beyond us, the planets and moons
and stars and galaxies and black holes and dark matter,
the sky was just sky.
The stars were sparkling fire balls giving us light.
And everything was so simplistic-
this is people,
this is ground,
this is birds and fish and animals,
this is Earth,
this is sky,
here is our moon, darling.

What possibilities lay beyond those words?

Today Bill Bryson's voice comes out of the CD player in our classroom.
"At some point in time, everything, ALL things, were compacted into something so small that it was half the size of an atom. This is called a singularity. In three seconds, this singularity exploded (the Big Bang.) And, withing three minutes, our universe became. How did all matter become so small? We don't know."

We don't know. But somehow we came out of it. The earth and the waters and sun that keep us alive. Here we are, and we are made of stardust. This is no metaphor, though it could be.

We are made of stardust.

Our Summer Novel

Fall comes
And summer ends
It is no longer the burning secret
Our element of surprise
We now know
The wavering stories of our summer
When the river ran wild like the bare soles of our feet
And the bare souls of our bodies
Ready to soak up the words of those days

Yes, the winds are growing cold
The leaves are whimsical shade-changing
Umbrellas
And here we are
Standing beneath them
And the stories we lived
In those earthy, hot summer months
When the outdoors were our playgrounds
Are either stories think of,
Or trash in the crinkling leaves of autumn

Ode To Summer

We sat inside
A quiet night
trying to conquer Mario Galaxy
Oh, what nobleness

Come, she said
We are going on an adventure.


Where?
Where are we going?
What?
Where?
The expected replies.

You'll see.
Just come.
We're going on an adventure.

Jumped up the steps,
grabbed our shoes,
here we go.

Grab some chalk.

Okay. Lets go.

In the darkness
we run across the street.
Feet flying, where, oh where, are we going?
Take me somewhere.

Lets draw.
Legal grafiti
along the sidewalks
as we go.
Waves of blue here,
pink fish,
smiling face.

Friend's driveway.
Hey Brandon,
Tom's Cool!,
face with mustache,
Welcome Home.

Preist's house.
Hi Father,
scribbled in heart,
more smiling faces.

Across the street, and to the church.
Cross in green,
LOVE,
and, what was it, Riley,
that you have drawn?

Guitar Teacher's house.
Hi Arnold,
big guitar.

And finally, to the school.
Do we love it?
No.

Run, run.
Across this blacktop you have known.
Tetherballs: don't get hit in the face.
Fake a lay-up at the basketball hoop.
Onto the playground.

I'd forgotten how big it was.
Down the slide into the sand.
You're it!
Tag.

Finally, quiet.
Except the creaky swing.
My swing.
Only now the faded blue is
cheap red plastic.
But it is still mine.
Enveloped in the light of a street lamp.
Like the lonely swing it is.

Lights

Colors began turning hazily into the sky
And the water
And the ground was just ground
Something beneath me
Holding the gravity that kept me
From blowing away

Loud crashes of bursting fireworks
Echoed through the spacious
Waves
The vast empire of water and sky
Crackling and shattering the quietness,
The sheltered thoughts we hide in

And all I had with me to mark this time
Was burning metal
Emitting sparks
And drifting smoke

And with it I wrote a simple
Thanks
Which sailed away with the wind smoldering
The heavy breaths I wore
From running into my own seclusion
At the end of the beach
That tipped point that led to the water
Where I stuck the ashy stick into the sand

My own farewell
To the greats
Who have done something
For us

For this world

This sparkler of light
For them I hold up
And twirl
And promise that I, too, will be something
Good

Storms

I have no memories
Of thunder shaking the house
And lightning illuminating the darkened skies
Dreary rain, I thought, empty, loud, scary
Now I watch it, and I gasp
At the simple beauty of rain surges
That dance on the streets
"I think it's calming down," my brother says
As if the sky is a little worked up
And just needed to let out some energy
And I believe this

I struggle to keep myself inside
There is thunder, and lightning, I think
But there is rain, gorgeous rain
Calling to me, come, come
And all I want is to dance
Like the storm outside my window
I'll be listening to my brother's
Philosophy of the skies
Like I used to do with my friend
As she pointed to the sky at reccess
And claimed that a storm was coming,
You could smell it, and see it
And I believed her
And we'd stare at that sky
As I'd tell her that someday
She should become a weather girl...

Of all the destinies we might own...

A Poem About Myself

I am a single raindrop falling among millions of others
Splitting the sky
A single shard of water gloss
Plotting the ground
Reverberating silently
And becoming swallowed by sky
Only to once again
Fall
But though I am quiet
My thoughts are loud
And sometimes I am loud
And I pour from the sky
Bringing a fresh air with me
So that you cannot help but study me
And I am called by voices, sounding voices
Chau bella
Goodbye beautiful
As I am brought back to the heights
Not to the Earth, but heading up, up
Because my thoughts, my dreams, my stories
Belong there
I am not of the ground tribe

Optimist Speech

This speech took second place in our seventh grade speech meet for and Optismists' Club. I was pretty proud of it, especially since no one helped me with revisions or anything. Mom and Dad were in Washington D.C., so it was all my changes and revisions. Hope you enjoy!

Why Me?
Why Not?

Why me? Why not? “I wish we could open our eyes, to see in all directions at the same time. Oh what a beautiful view, if you were never aware of what was around you,” one of my favorite bands, Death Cab for Cutie sings. It always gets me. Why? I believe it is the part about not being aware of everything, and discovering new sights, new views. Like opening your eyes to a new world for the first time. I don’t exactly remember what seeing and learning so many new things was like when I was little. But I like to see everything freshly through other people’s eyes. Last month we took my little cousin to a park. We sat him on a swing for the first time. I watched in-between laughs as he felt his body moving up and down, up and down, very slowly. On every back swing he laughed and on every forward swing he smiled as his dad touched his cheek. He sat in it for minutes on end. Then he saw all the action in the sand and slides and wanted out. But quickly, he reached for the swings, smiling, moving back and forth. I enjoyed seeing him experience something so new, and love it. If that is how everything was, always something new, life would be ever changing.

Sometimes I wonder why I don’t have a different life. Why don’t I get to experience new things every day? Like, why am I here? Why aren’t I in a third-world country? Why aren’t I living on the streets, scrounging for food in the alley ways? Why was I chosen to be put here? I cannot understand. I feel like I’m fit for a more adventurous life sometimes. Yet I also think we are here for a reason. So, why aren’t I in some foreign country, speaking a different language, waltzing through their crowded streets? Why are we put where we are?

But, the other day I got an email from one of my friends. It was a forward, the crusty ones that tend to ask dumb questions. For example, the first question: What is your full name? Honestly, I thought. My friends know my full name. And then, yet another question: Do you like the person who sent this to you? Why do those forwards always ask that? If you don’t like the person who sent it to you, chances are, you didn’t open their emails. I was just about to close down the email, when I saw a question that caught my attention. Would you go skydiving? it read. I had to really think about it.

Finally, here is what I came up with. Would you go skydiving? No, probably not. I know I would love it, but my nerves couldn’t handle it. I am extremely afraid of heights. When I think about it, I am a writer, so I love seeing the world from different views. I wish I could go skydiving, but I know that in truth I’d be too scared. And then I realized that I knew myself. I knew my fears and what I could and couldn’t do. But I also knew my likes and wishes. Even though I don’t know why I am here, I know who I am. For me, that seems enough. I don’t feel the need to know my origin, and my purpose will arrive soon. Even if my purpose is to make a difference in one life, that is enough for me.

“Remember, wherever you go, there you are,” says Confucius. I think it is important that we know and understand who we are. No matter our situation; living in Africa on a barren landscape, or living here, in a warm house with a refrigerator filled with food. We need to understand our limits. We need to know every corner of our personality.

When I hear, “Why me, why not?” I also think…if. If I could…if I lived another life. It takes me to more words sung by Death Cab for Cutie, “If I could open my arms, and span the length of the isle of Manhattan, I’d bring it to where you are, making a lake of the East River and Hudson.” They say that if they could, they would bring Manhattan to someone. My grandma and mom used to tell me, “If you want the moon, honey, I’ll get it for you.” I don’t think we have to bring Manhattan or the moon to make someone happy, to brighten their lives. There are little things we can do. Maybe we are set down here, right here, just to bring someone joy, and to love others. Happiness can feel new every day, just like being little and learning about the huge world surrounding us. We should take in as much of it as possible, and love our life, because we only get one. We shouldn’t mull over why this, and why that, unless it might benefit someone else. I have to say though, sometimes it feels good to complain and pity yourself. Sometimes, we all have to do it, to get over our problems.

Our lives may not be perfect, but everyone goes through times that make our feelings sink, and thoughts whir. Everyone knows what it is like to lose someone, and feel crushed and hopeless. Honestly, our goal in life should just be to make someone happy, help someone, and love someone. Keep telling yourself you are enough, that love and hope is enough, and you’ll make it through.

Letter to Sharon Creech

Dear Sharon Creech,

I sit under the shade of the "singing tree" onthe Hiddle Farm, listening to a lone bird singing high in the tree's branches. No, I am mistaken, the tree itself sings to me, lulling me to sleep. I dream of something I have lost, only to return when the tulips bloom, possibly with Salamanca's mother, who's said to return then too.

Above me, on the tree are two blackberry kisses left by Sal and her mother. I believe that every kiss a parent leaves their children, no matter how long ago will remain like a tatto. Her mother is gone, but the kiss is left on the tree, forever and always. Just like love, which will reside forever no matter if the persong who loves you is gone. Love is like Sal's and her mother's blackberry kisses.

I'm most like Salamanca Tree Hiddle. I have a hard time letting go. I wish whay is sometimes and impossible thing. I love to write and tell stories. I embrace experience. I hurry, hurry, hurry, and listen to the wind. I can be brave. Sometimes I think it could be easier to pray to trees, than to God, who's so much bigger than life.

Occasionally I am Sal's mother, Chanhassen Pickford, and want to run away from my fear or anger. Sometimes I just plain want to disappear on my oen secret vacation, and get away from my jam-packed busy life. I am always glad I'm here though, and couldn't leave my family like she did, especially because I felt imperfect among them. We will never achieve perfection, and become "Hiddles," because even Hiddles aren't faultless. We are just who we are.

At times I am Margaret Cadaver, who befriended Sal and her father, stashing my secrets under a rhododendron bush. Now and again I am Pheobe Winterbottom, shyly staring out my window, silently watching. I am cautious and afraid, and imagine crazy things, or exaggerate just a little, "fishing in the air."

Sometimes I am Sal's father, vigorously chiseling away at a plaster wall to escape the hard truths we must face. Every once in a while, like him, I seek my fears, instead of hiding from them. Sharon Creech, your words habe taken me on a journey of my own. I travel through life, thinking of the mysterious messages left on my doorstep. These messages are the lessons I've learned deep down rising to the surface, reminding me what's right. They are my conscience.

Often I find myself in someone else's moccasins, walking along the street under the moon, when everyone else is unaware. Sometimes my feet tire, and instead of understanding, I find the "potential lunatic" inside us. Mysterious and quiet, we crouch beside the buildings, leaving messages for people to find like buried treasure. Maybe we scare the heck out of them. Maybe we connect to them in a strange way.

Even though we are masked and crazy, gentle and scared, we're just human. Imperfect are we, potentially this and that. We are judged by our skin, hair, and clothing. Rarely does anyone try on our moccasins, worn from the journey of life itself.

When I wake up I stare across the field at the fully bloomed tulips; Sal's mother of course, isn't coming back. We don't always find what we've lost, but what I have lost is found. I have lost someone to guide me through life. What I've found is my family, and this book: Walk Two Moons. Huzza, huzza.

Sincerely,

Micaela Gerhardt

Track Us Down

The winds whipped across my bare skin. Icy sleet stung my face, making my skin red with the darting ice that fell from the sky. My hair was wet across my face. Water ran down the back of my neck, and soaked my sweatshirt. I stood underneath the roof of the athletics shed outside the track. I huddled against the wall, my team and I rubbing our hands together, trying to get feeling back in our numb hands.



"All right girls, I need a couple of you up here, come on." Our coach called us up, one by one, lining us up, each in a different lane. "You have seven seconds to get from here to that red flag over there. Ready, set, go!" Girls pumped their legs, beating down the track. Their feet splashed in puddles on the track, spurting up, getting thier legs muddy.



"Next group, up to the white line." I stepped quickly behind the line. It felt colder will every ice particle that flew onto my face. "Now, go!" We flew off the surface of the track, straining our arms and legs to faster, just a little faster.



After my turn, I ran back to the shed, switching places with the first group, as they started on their second sprints. As I stood beside the shed, my body numb, but still shivering, I realized I loved this. I liked that we were out here, in the cold Northern Prairie winds, running, sprinting, strong. As I watched the pain in the girls' faces I discovered the real truth, we were one, running as one, but still separately, working to beat ourselves, our very best selves. Still, as their feet flew, and water and icy sleet fell down on them, us, we didn't stop. We were strong. We had the backs of the winds and the confetti of snow falling around us, above is, among us. We felt pain, and electric shocks of iciness, but we kept going. We are invincible. We cannot be beat. Just try us, I thought, just try to catch us.

Marching Bands of Manhattan

"I wish we could open our eyes to see in all directions at the same time. Oh what a beautiful view, if you were never aware of what was around you." Death Cab for Cutie's Marching Bands of Manhattan plays in my head, filling up the quietness of the windy afternoon.


These words amplify the atmosphere around me. Electric waves set a medium tone throughout the room. The empty space is filled up with words that make my thoughts protrude to the front of my mind. I am in Manhattan when I hear this song, clapping in tune with the band coming round the corner, their simultaneous stomps rythmically slapping down the crowded streets of the isle of Manhattan.

Ready to Run

Once again I am waiting to tighten my tennis shoes and slap the concrete in search of the burning joy I find inside myself when I run. The day is windy, and it cools my warm face. There is still some snow on the ground, but mostly, the brown grasses are showing through. Everything looks a little empty, like I always think it does at this time of year. Not quite the end of winter, yet not the beginning of spring. And there is a peace in this time. And patience. Here comes sun and rushing river waters, happy to be in motion after the ice thaws, just like I am. Soon leaves on the trees will liven up our days, and green grasses and vibrant skies with bring a sense of life.

As I circle the Tom O'Leary golf course I am imagining it as it was last spring, with green grass and tall trees, and people. I am waiting for this time, silently at my window, never leaving it, as my body senses the changes of winter to summer, and soon my eyes will begin to see birds flying in from the south, and notice how they cock their heads towards me.

I am doing good until I turn the corner and can see the last stretch ahead of me. I almost stop. But there is a voice inside me screaming, "Go, go, go," and so I trudge along, waiting until I am close enough to pump out the last bit of strength resting inside myself. All to soon my legs force themselves to fly, "here we go, heading forwards, heading up," they chant. And I feel like I am on top of the world, watching myself speed towards the stoplight at the end of the street. There I take two steps back and sit on the cold ground, burrying my head between my knees, praying, thanking God for that last bit of step he put into my run, the last push he gave me as stepped into the cement sqaure that was my finish. I thanked him that I could run. I wished for spring.

As I silently walk home, I am ready to run, and ready for the showcase of life spring brings. The entrance to summer. Here it comes, barely making it around the last corner, the last stretch. It is finally running towards us.

Peace in a Tree Girl

Lying quietly in my bed, night is spread across my blankets, cool, and airy. My window frames are frosted, and the huge pines laden with snow. I am trying to find within myself an image of peace to focus on. My mind wanders, and I am thinking of all the things I love, listing them, and stopping when I come to trees. In a tree I find a picture of "peace". I see a girl as a tree. Her feet become the roots, resting deep in the dark, damp soil. I think of how I love touching wetted soil, how it seems so fresh and dirty at once.

Her body is the bark of the tree, smooth and dark brown, like chocalate. The leaves, various shades of red and orange are her hair, strands and strands of leaves so long they almost touch the grassy landscape. Her eyes are knots in the bark, brown like the tree itself. She has no mouth, she is silent, forever watching, mute. I imagine her arms are the branches, reaching upward, to the sky. She stands, rooted in deep into the ground, happy to be feeling the earth, being part of the earth.

What are these images, why are they special, something we remember?

Places

We drive by St. Mary's football field, and Hoskin Meyers floral shop. A little brown house sits on the opposite curb. My mom points to it, "That is one of the places I grew up." She says she remembers the breezeway and backyard. And the house behind theirs, the "castle," she calls it.

My grandma talks about her old house as if it were a castle. It stood tall on a hill, she says. And you could look outside through these huge windows and see al the city lights. And her brother and sisters and herself would roll and do cartwheels down the hill in their backyard. She loved that house.

And then there is me. I think it is the church bells, ringing every morning, and the train, roaring by every night that I love. And the trees, tall pines, looming beside the red fence, now turning a mossy green, with the sun shining through their branches in the early morning. They shelter us in the winter snow, and are an airy tunnel in the summer months. Beside the pines is an apple tree, blooming every spring, and giving us big red apples for homeade applebars come fall. Lastly is our weeping willow tree, solitary in our front yard. It is dying. But still their.

The arches in our basement and little "boxcar" room, hidden underneath the staircase, I like them. Our red-pink, lime green, purple, lavendar, light blue, and yellow-orange walls are crazy, but fun and beautiful, like life.

I know I love my house, and my mom and grandma, they loved theirs.

So us people, we can love places and colors and sounds. We live to explore, but call one place home. This place brings back memories, and those to come. And that is where I am. In my house, or hiding among our trees. That is where you will find me.

Land

Do we love this land?

Do we, really?

Not because of oil deposits and room for more houses, new and big. But do we look at it, and are we glad we landed here?

I never have. I've thought, "it's pretty," and enjoyed its sunsets, but I never really saw it. Then, an image made me realize its full potential beauty.

Pivture driving out in the countryside on a mild december night. The sky a slate gray color, and stars bright. Our winter sun had set. The tall grasses were laden with snow, and caressed by a light wind. Black plateaus and hills rolled across the land in an endless stretch, rythmically moving with the grasses. The only light cast from our own headlights.

Later, as we climbed a hill I looked down, and saw the twinkling light s of our city. A few shrubslined the black road. the land seemed to breath with me. Its heart beat with mine. It was alive. And I felt it too.

Run and See

The sun is bright, and the snow is melting. The sounds are of cars, driving, to and from unknown places. Icy patches are scattered across the sidewalk, and my feet thump, thump, thump, on the concrete. The air is cool, but my body is warm. I am running with my friend, and we are just steadily jogging. At the moment, I am not able to go fast, but take it one step at a time.

I hear my breaths and my shoes and sense the spring-like air, even though it is January. I notice everything around me. How the pine tree's branches lean across the sidewalk, making a shady underpass. The empty streets. The few cars, heading to different destinations. And an old woman, sitting alone in a sun hat and unzipped jacket, revealing a blue sweater. On her lap a little dog rests. She waves. My friend waves back. They both smile. The woman goes back to watching.

And I wonder, what is it she watches so contently? Is it people? Or, is it just the air, so crisp, and white, and the way it feels on warm skin? I like to think she watches winter turn to summer, as though we could all sit outside our houses and experience such an event.

What would our days become if we all sat upon our porch steps and watched the sun set and rise? If we let out bodies free, and ran off everything we thought, our skin pink, and heart pumping? I feel unleashed when I run. And the things I see and hear and smell...I know I am a writer when I see these things and wish I had paper. And I know I am a runner when I love cold air and my swinging legs.

And tomorrow I might sit on our hard concrete steps and watch the things around me for no particular reason. Maybe, my feet will take off and down the block I'll fly, hearing words skitter around in my mind, and begin another story.

Summers on the Missouri River

The trees and the eerie dim light called to me. Sweet sounds came from the winds blowing the grasses. Rustling leaves, in various shades of greens and oranges and yellows blended together. Yet the sight that drew me to the very spot was the water. Like a sheet of glass, reflecting the darkening sky, clear and pure. An image unshattered by boats and people, who normally fill the air with lauging and yelling and boat motors.

That was the difference. It was quiet, except for the nature. This was the river uninhabited by children cooling off in it's shallow waters, and adults lounging on the sandbars.

I loved the river. I loved it with people, when it was full of vibrant life, throwing frisbees and building sand castles with neon shovels and buckets. I also loved it as the day drew to an end. While the summer night air warmed me, and I sat alone on a red bench along the riverbank, staring at the water's glossy surface.

The houses on the other bank of the river seemed so far away, yet I could faintly see lights glowing inside windows. A lone boat glided through the water, cutting it, yet it's motor droned quietly. A sound so small it was like a gentle hum.

This place meant so much to me. It was my summer. It was next summer. And it was always there, waiting for the time when the days would grow longer, and the sun would shine. It would wait for fall to turn to winter, winter to spring, and finally, spring to summer.

I would wait too. Not always so patiently, but I would. I couldn't wait to play catch in shallow waters, swim, grill on sandbars, fly vivdly colored kites, and be bathed in sunlight. I am aching for summer.

The Dancing Poem

The air rush of words that came out of my mouth floated dreamily in the air, like a falling feather, landing on black paper. In a thin, curved print, it appeared apon the page. And the story of her became my story too. Ours collided together without making a noise.

There she was, dancing in the dark hall, a dim light making her glow. And there I was, sitting on cold granite steps, only watching. The ache in me whispering, "Dance, dance..."

Beautiful People

My feet are numb, my cheeks flushed, and I am flying. My brown curls are frosted with ice, and my heart drums to the rhythm of my skates, cut, cut, cutting into the smooth ice rink. The sky is black like leather. Stars are scattered throughout the sky, like God took a handful and tossed the sparkling light into the darkness. I see the moon, full, with a peacefully eerie orange and green-yellow glow in a ring around it.

I move quickly across the ice. I like going fast. I feel like I'm getting somewhere. I feel so free, it's like flying with your feet on the ground. I can't really do any fancy tricks, but can swivel backwards and lift my feet off the ground-- stomp, slit, cut.

I am told my cheeks are pink like my sweatshirt, and my hair is iced, and I like myself like this, in the winter. There are times when we must think of oursleves as beautiful people. For me, this is one of those times. When I picture beautiful people, I see my mom and dad, their arms around each other's shoulders; my aunt, massaging someone's neck, her hands smooth and scented with a creamy lotion; my uncle, wearing a purple velvet suit jacket and hat tilted to the side, waltzing through the airport doors; and my grandparents smiling at us. There are many times when I take a mental picture, and label it, "Beautiful people." We need to see ourselves this way. And at this moment I do.

My mom turns on music and rolls down the window in our car, so that the jazz and piano echo in the night, and I swing my arms, gracefully, and tilt my head back, staring at the sky. I love that sky. It fills up the world, just like the music fills up the ice rink and the deserted neighborhood.