Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 58, February 2023

NONFICTION NÃO-FICÇÃO

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 145 THE UNIVERSE AS A FLUKE by Greg Seitz The laws of physics have always existed. They manifest as potential energy and interact randomly. They have no consciousness or purpose. They exist outside of space and time in a cosmic dance and whenever a random event creates a spark - not unlike the spontaneous combustion of the oily rag in the closet - the spark is quickly extinguished by its counterpart and the binary universe of on-off zero-one yin-yang remains. Somehow, after a rather more forceful brane instigation, or the inevitable anomaly of mathematical randomness, the usual short song and dance was disrupted by a lone spark, a rebel without a cause, a spontaneous leap in which the haves outpaced the have nots, the mods overcame the rockers; the symmetry of the mirror image was broken and the universe and time were born. Some instant after the infusion or the quantum tunneling or the spark or the twinge or the spasm, the equanimity of low entropy was expunged and the upstart rogue called matter escaped the binary cancellation effect of its counterpart anti-matter and Pandora's box was opened. This had happened a zillion times before and the overload was quickly quelled. In fact, contrary to the fatuous statement one often hears, especially from athletes, that "everything happens for a reason", the fact of the matter is "nothing happens for a reason". This fluke, this crack in the cosmic mirror, this anomaly of anomalies, is the reason a grandmother knits a sweater on her front porch in the gloaming of a Wichita evening. Not only is the universe as it came to be, a fluke, but life itself is a rare emergence, especially conscious or technological life which, in my view, has happened only once in the history of the vast universe. A random

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 146 mathematical condition was ultimately met (perhaps inevitably) in the bubbling cauldron of potential energy to jump-start the universe and the ignition switch was turned as matter formed and jumped out to an early advantage. If this never happened none would be the wiser. Equilibrium The laws of physics inherently seek to return to the state of equilibrium - their nature commands it - but it's got a battle on its hands. It seeks the 50-50 low entropy default position but since matter has run amok it will take time, a great deal of time, to counteract. On a universal scale it's the yin and the yang, dark matter versus dark energy, a balanced equation, this is what the laws seek - in our world it projects for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction and even good vs evil for lack of better words. The laws of physics govern our lives and in our small closed pocket of increasing complexity - our nondescript star and vibrant solar system bound by gravity - in the massive stew of increasing entropy our tiny window of life and the life of our species has not, so far, been able to have true and sustained progress because of the laws of physics. We are currently in a standoff between run away entropy and the temporary defense posture of our closed off solar system. We're in a temporary state of balance of which the defendant, the counterpuncher - is trying to overcome. The universe doesn't care about a few million years but that's enough to be the end of our species. Our fight for the good, the yin, dark matter, anti-matter has so far always ended in a tie and when we return to primitive conditions we start all over. Progress has so far always been temporary or confined to specific areas, technology or medicine for example. But one turn in fortunes, one natural disaster, one global war - all can be wiped out in an instant. If we have had the delusion of progress, a correction quickly sets that to rights. During the universes quest to return to its womb, its equilibrium, its statis, its benign non-existence - it is also going through a process of selfdiscovery although this isn't inherent or intentional. In this picaresque journey, a macroscopic version of our human lives, it learns along the way before it returns to its blissful non-state, which like ours will be death. So in certain parts of a closed system, where entropy hasn't full

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 147 ascended, there will be a battle but it will be a standoff for perhaps quite a long time, so how this manifests in human life is in the one step forward, one step back reality that we often face or better yet - the law of unintended consequences. An example in our modern world: a driven maniac builds the first smart phone and it brings GPS and information and entertainment and knowledge to our fingertips instantaneously yet its counterpart, the force fighting against - whatever it may be called - creates delusional children without human contact, instantaneous obscenity, cyberbullying and social media that creates easy rioting and divisiveness and contempt at the click of a button. Neither side wins, the yin-yang is maintained and might be for millions of years. Birth Something is more natural than nothing. Something is also unstable. Tiny quarks and virtual particles flitted in and out of existence in a condition not unlike boiling water. Little explosions occurred and minor upstart energy bursts were quickly put to rest and annihilated by their anti-counterpart. This bubbling cauldron existed like an Edgar Allan Poe lyric "out of space, out of time". Each Yin was met by its Yang, each quark by its anti-quark, each pre-matter particle by its pre antimatter, each insurrection by a counter insurgency, the battle waged in a state of stasis, equilibrium - volatile but without expression, energetic but without form, unconscious but inherently mathematical, a frolic of the eternal state of something that was quantum-ly close to nothing - as there were no observers. All this, and here we're not allowed to use time references, did it's non-thing over and over until a magic blip went uncancelled, an eruption went unanswered, a volley went unreturned, a fluke categorically just a bit above impossible ignited like a twig in the desert. In this unyielding cauldron, this benign stew of potential, somehow someway, in the coincidence of all coincidences, energy ignited and the universal laws began engineering a coalescence we call matter that for the first time - outnumbered its anti-matter twin - and our universe was born.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 148 Unconscious The released energy is not conscious but seeks its former equilibrium through interactions governed by mathematical laws. There is no plan, no predetermination, no deity controlling things. There is only nature and its laws in a self-generated experiment. No consciousness would create a universe as ridiculously massive and inert as the one we find ourselves in. It may be 99.9% lifeless. If something created it with a purpose surely a few stars and solar systems would do the trick and at the outset a galaxy. What would possibly require more than a galaxy to enact some sort of test or trial. It's absurdly large expanse is proof of its lack of a conscious creator. Nothing in supreme control would be so wasteful and inefficient. Nature's eternal mathematical Platonic constructs happened upon a fluke vibration and the dance began. It didn't know if life would arise or self-consciousness might develop or that a species would create advanced technologies, it knew only laws, entropy, mathematical frameworks and potential. Its nature seeks return, return to that beautiful equation of the static universe. Godless and Pointless Why would anything in control make it so creatures eat each other to survive? (Source: Oriana Fallaci). Who would allow mass genocide, murder, rape, disease, deformities, still births, tsunamis, earthquakes, tornadoes etc. not to mention rats, roaches, snakes, stench and filth and the unimaginable suffering caused therein. Who would allow hard working species to go extinct like many of our very own ancestors who no longer grace the earth. Do they have a soul? Did the Neanderthal have a soul? At what point in the evolution from amoeba to man do we get to have a soul? Are we the only ones allowed in heaven but Neanderthal doesn't make the cut? What about our current cousins the great apes, do they get a free pass? On what date is the soul implanted? Can you now see the arbitrariness and absurdity of our belief in our own specialness in a universe that doesn't care. If an asteroid hits the earth tomorrow and wipes us all out, is there a god somewhere that's

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 149 going to care? Let's accept the truth as stated by Nobel laureate Steven Weinberg. To paraphrase "the universe is pointless". Nuff said. Only Life It seems insane but I wouldn't be surprised if earth had the only life in the universe. It almost sounds like a religious declaration except its not. My best guess is that there is life in the universe but not in the teeming millions that even seemingly intelligent scientists speculate. The life that exist might be largely bacterial or amoeba-l or in other primitive forms. If you succeed in an environment that is relatively static there's little pressure to change. It also wouldn't surprise me if more advanced or even intelligent life forms evolved elsewhere but as far as technological life, and this is a big distinction here, the kind of technological life that can harness electromagnetism (like us) I think it quite likely we are the only ones. I don't think people appreciate the kind of luck and close calls we've had that have allowed us to get to this point. I've read (Source: Paul Davies) that we were likely down to a few dozen individuals at one point and could have and still might - be wiped out by asteroids or disease or war or famine or other unforeseen-s. Not only that but to be a planet luckily not bombarded by life killing radiation and having the luck of a magnetic field that scatters said radiation - that is an enormous piece of luck that helps explain why we're here today. For all these fortuitous circumstances to happen on another world is highly unlikely. Even though there is a ridiculous number of planets in the universe, again to what point?, we've already discovered hundreds, probably thousands and even though we call a few in the goldilocks zone, we still have no evidence of life. Zero. How common is water?, ideal temperatures, lack of powerful radiation, freedom from asteroids?, competition and the pressure of natural selection? Again we don't know but I think it naive to guess on the side of fecundity when all current evidence points to the opposite. Even if all these wonderful things come together as they have in one known spot in the universe, a creature with limbs and on land is still required. How likely is this? Dolphins or squid may be as intelligent as us but dolphins have no limbs to create a tool outside of themselves and even if squids wanted to, building a stable technology in water is nearly impossible. Advanced technology needs a land creature

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 150 and how common are these in the universe? Again, who knows, but my guess is if life exists most of it is underwater and essentially on lockdown in its fluid environment. So you need land creatures with limbs and the forces to evolve intelligence which is no guarantor of success. A lot of what ifs here, flukes, fortuities, happenstances and incredible luck. Multiple planet yielding life forms may be too much to ask (multiple technological intelligences) even in an infinite universe since it appears 99.9% of all matter is lifeless and therefore useless. Return So the beginning of the universe was due to a break in equilibrium or yin yang or binary stasis and since its genesis, the laws of nature seek to return to that preferred low entropy virtual energy state. The universe will either neuter matter's one upsmanship vis a vis anti-matter by achieving maximum entropy and hence declawing matter so to speak or will return to something approaching its initial state through a big crunch by the overpowering of dark matter. Regardless, along this very long drawn out ride, there will be locales where for extremely long periods of time - a solar system or group of stars or even a galaxy or galaxies - will remain in a dead even battle between the forces of equilibrium, the yin-yang or zero-one such that for every action there is an equal an opposite reaction. Physics. Two to Tango. In other words, for periods of time that might as well be infinite for a short lived species like ourselves, the unyielding laws of physics may prevent, at least for any significant length of time, real sustained human progress. This is an idea that demands exposition. No one in their right mind would deny the technological progress of the last century or two, it goes without mentioning, but what has been its costs? We know there's been great advances in medicine, and big strides in space exploration and giant leaps in gadgetry and startling advances in communication but on the downside let's consider the following - at currently 7.6 billion personnes we are stressing the world's resources, the biggest problem may not be global warming or plastics pollution but a shrinking of the water tables for example. I needn't extrapolate on what a scarce quantity of potable water would mean for our avaricious species. Wars rage, diseases spread, terrorism escalates, mass murder trends - contempt is at an all-time high. Which side is winning? There has been

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 151 progress in the past - all of which at some point reverted, de-evolved, digressed, returned to primitivism. One must take a Macro perspective, peaks and valleys aren't steady progressions. That old saying "bomb you back to the Stone Age" comes to mind. Greg Seitz is a part-time writer, artist and overall generalist.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 152 XIFAKI, A SOUTH AFRICAN SOCCER GRANNY by Jean Duffy “I am eighty-six years old. I don’t know what my mates say when they look at me. Most of them do not even believe that I am that old. They think I’m exaggerating.” The wiry Xifaki perches on the stadium bleachers in the rural town of Nkowankowa in Limpopo, South Africa. She wears a red-beaded headband and a traditional blue wrap tied across one shoulder. “It is because of soccer and exercises. Even now, I am telling you if I start running, you will not believe your eyes.” Xifaki belongs to a squad of older women, affectionately known as the Soccer Grannies, who started playing in 2007 to improve their health. At first the women played in skirts because it was not appropriate to wear short pants. Townsfolk scoffed and told the women that they belonged at home caring for the grandchildren. But the Soccer Grannies were having too much fun to abandon their new passion. I, too, discovered soccer as an adult. I transitioned from a 40-year-old soccer mom cheering on the sidelines to a player huffing and puffing as I dashed up and down the field. I learned of the Soccer Grannies during the leadup to the 2010 World Cup that was hosted by South Africa. The Grannies team was thrust into the international spotlight as an endearing human interest story—just the kind of story my Massachusetts soccer team devoured. Drawn together by our common passion and a few

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 153 miracles, our teams met to play on both sides of the Atlantic. I would eventually come to hear their inspiring life stories. “Soccer has changed my life,” Xifaki declares. The benefits of regular exercise have enabled these women to jettison walking canes. Some have eliminated medications. What’s more, the team camaraderie and mutual support helps them face and conquer life’s challenges in this impoverished area. The Soccer Grannies are stronger together. Xifaki grappled with poverty throughout her long life. She was the first born of seven and the large family often did not have enough food. “There was a lot of hunger in the country,” she says. “We mostly got by with what mother plowed.” From a young age Xifaki worked shoulder to shoulder with her mother preparing the soil, seeding, and grinding the harvested maize. While her full name is Gingirkani Mirriam Mushwana, her family and friends have always called her Xifaki. Her nickname means ‘mealie’ or ‘maize’ in her native Xitsonga language—a testament to her skills growing the life sustaining crop. “I remember when my father left home to seek work. He just left with nothing in his possession. When he finally found work, he stayed there because it was too far from home.” Although Xifaki’s father sent food through the postal mail, it was never enough. Besides helping to grow crops in the field, young Xifaki also cared for donkeys, goats, and cattle—a job usually done by boys. “We also went to the grazing land to collect cattle dung.” The manure would be mixed with water, and once softened, would be lovingly applied as plaster to the floors and walls of her home. The Tsonga people had thrived in Africa for centuries by hunting, fishing, and farming across their communal property. The arrival of Europeans in the early 1800’s would disrupt their traditional way of life. Traders were followed by missionaries and settlers who established farms in the most fertile areas. Over time White landowners put up fences and took possession of large tracts of land, somtimes charging half the Tsonga’s harvest as rent or forcing them to move elsewhere.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 154 In the 1850s, about the time when Xifaki’s great-great grandparents were born, the discovery of gold and diamonds drew even more Europeans to South Africa. Black men flocked to the mines for work despite the barely tenable working conditions. The White supervisors at the mines organized soccer games, in part to teach teamwork skills to the Black laborers. For many, soccer became a welcome opportunity to run and forget the stresses of life for a time. The British and the Dutch fought bloody wars for control of the territory at the turn of the 20th century. In 1903 the two European powers signed a treaty, forming the White-minority-ruled Union of South Africa. Just ten years later when Xifaki’s parents would have been small children, the Natives Land Act was passed. Ninety percent of all land was designated for White ownership—even though Whites were only twenty percent of the population. The remaining fraction of the less-arable land was set aside as Black homelands. The Tsongas and other ethnic groups who had lived off the land for generations were left in a precarious position fighting for their family’s survival. Xifaki’s parents and their peers would have resettled, tilled the unyielding ground, and foraged for wild spinach. More fathers were forced to leave their families to seek work in the cities. Despite Xifaki’s painful recollections of hunger as a youngster, she cherishes many happy memories too. Like girls around the world, her friends pretended to cook by mixing soil and water in a pot. She swam with other girls at the river. “We would go out as separate groups of boys and girls to enjoy ourselves. It was frowned upon for boys to mingle with the girls.” Xifaki took pride in respecting her parents and following their rules. She gathered with her girlfriends after sunset for singing and dancing. “My most joyous time of my youth was praising the Lord at church. I loved the church.” While the family relied upon Xifaki’s labor in the fields and in the cattle enclosure, she was fortunate to attend six years of school. “I was a hard-working pupil.” Her diligence in reading and writing attracted the attention of a young man. “Little did I know that he had told himself

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 155 that I was not going to elude him.” Smitten by this young woman who was so engrossed in her studies, he proposed to her. Xifaki refused his advances as she wanted to enjoy her youth rather than get locked into an early marriage. He begged for her love and promised to wait until they reached their 20s. “When he said that, I agreed to have a relationship.” Xifaki belonged to a church that had strict procedures for men and women to marry. She attended khoba, a training conducted by older community women to prepare the teenage girls for marriage. “One day his elders came to my home to meet my parents. I was so surprised,” as she had understood that they had an agreement that they would not marry until she was ready. Xifaki and her persistent suitor wed soon after. They were blessed with three children—a son and two daughters. Her husband worked locally at a White-owned farm planting mangos and avocados, but the couple still struggled to care for their children. She looked to the Lord for assistance. “My family has always been a God-fearing family,” Soon like her own father, Xifaki’s husband decided to move to Johannesburg to seek a better paying job. She recalls, “When the kids were small, it was tough; my husband was far away from home and I was raising the kids alone.” She takes a deep breath before she continues: “When my husband was working and living far away from me, he did not take care of me.” No food or money came in the post. Xifaki, like her mother, plowed the fields to put food on the table. With a stoic attitude, she persevered. She is rightly proud that she raised those three children. By herself. From the time Xifaki was 14 until she was 60, South Africa was in the brutal grips of apartheid. The racist policies and oppressive rule of the White minority kept the Black population in dire poverty. Three and a half million South Africans were forcibly relocated to remote territories because it had been decided they were Black. The evaluation was so arbitrary that families were often split because of different skin tones. In 1953 the Bantu Education Act segregated all schools, effectively dismantling the primary ladder out of poverty. The curriculum for Black

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 156 students was limited to skills that would make them better manual laborers. Physical movement for Blacks to travel outside of their homelands or designated city areas was controlled by passes that were issued only if their labor was needed at White businesses. Black people caught without the proper credentials were often arrested and harassed by the police at gunpoint. Like the workers in the mines, playing soccer provided a healthy distraction for Black men working in the cities. Women, not yet venturing onto the playing field, organized social events around the games. Just like the White-designated train cars, stretches of beaches, and hospitals, soon access to soccer pitches was severely restricted for Black teams,. Like many South Africans wrestling with the atrocities of apartheid, Xifaki turned to Christianity to draw strength and comfort. “I believe in the God of Christ. He is my caretaker. I am His child.” Although her husband had deserted her, she stood by her Christian marriage vows and forgave him. “I was thankful that he came back home to me as a pensioner after a very long time, so sorry for having neglected me and the children for years.” Their time reunited as a couple growing old together would be short lived. In 1995 her husband returned to Johannesburg for a visit, but he would not return. Xifaki speaks softly, “He was shot dead.” At the time the grief and the pain were almost more than she could bear. She called again on her long-practiced faith and the passing of time. Almost thirty years have now gone by since the untimely death of her husband. “I don’t feel alone because I am with Jesus my Savior. I overcame so many problems in my life. God was always at the forefront fighting for me. He has given me a heart of perseverance regardless of how hard the situation was.” Xifaki taught her children to pray and to know Christ and to give all their difficulties to the Lord. They now live with her grandchildren

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 157 a four-hour drive away. Xifaki sees them when she can and teaches the next generation that they must trust in the Lord. “Every day the first thing I do when I wake up is pray to God to be with me. In the mornings I also exercise. I have a flower and a vegetable garden that I attend to and water. At midday I pray again to let Him know that I have survived until midday.” She cleans the house and does other chores. She often visits people or just reads her Bible. After the decades of struggles to put food on the table for her brothers and sisters and then her children, Xifaki finally has time to enjoy herself. Her choice of recreation is one that few 87-year-olds would choose. Xifaki is still pushing herself physically. “Eish! I love soccer and our team so much.” Her face lights up at the thought of running and kicking the ball with her friends. “Actually, I get crazy whenever it is time to go for practice.” Soccer energizes her soul. A collective spirit of resilience blossoms as her teammates exercise, sing, dance, and pray. Xifaki’s expression fades to one of reflection. She leans forward and imparts her wisdom that has served her so well—a lesson for all of us. “The secret to live to this age is to take care of oneself.” She mentions exercise, eating healthy foods, and keeping indulgences to a minimum. “Take care of your body until God decides to take you.” Jean Duffy is the debut author of "Soccer Grannies: The South African Women Who Inspire the World" to be published by Rowman & Littlefield in May 2023 in advance of the Women’s World Cup. She is grateful to all the Grannies who shared their life stories with the interviewer and translator, Happiness Maake, in September 2021. Jean plays soccer and writes in Somerville, Massachusetts. She can be found online at https://jeanduffy. com/.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 158 THE COUNTING OF LITTLE BIRD by Deena Goldstein (excerpt from OK, Little Bird) After two months of observing the pandemic visitation restrictions, I learn I’m able to visit my father through the screen of his private group home patio. I think my heart will burst from utter joy that I’m finally allowed to see him. Knowing he craves a taste of home, I go to task crafting a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread (his favorite) portioned into four squares. I add applesauce and Lay’s potato chips (his other favorite), fantasizing my paper plate feast will be a home run. Along the way, I stop to pick up his favorite McDonald’s vanilla milkshake to accompany his lunch. I round the corner to my father’s private patio, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I think it will knock me over. As instructed, I call nurse Lisa to signal my arrival. “Marc, your daughter is here. Do you want to sit up?” There is a moment of silence and then a rustling noise. “Deena,” she says, “He wants to come to the door.” I’m breathless with excitement. Exhausted and drained of color from his transfer from bed, my father sits hunched in his chair, his arm dangling lifelessly from the plastic armrest. Suddenly, I begin to see him slump. His blood pressure plummets. I watch him begin to pass out. Lisa rouses him and gets him to drink his milkshake as he rights himself in his chair. The pain of seeing my father in such a state goes beyond anything I’ve ever known.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 159 Time is of the essence as I can see he is completely wiped out already. I say to him, “Hi Dad, thank you for getting out of bed for me. I know it hurts to move. Oh my god, it’s so good to see you. I miss you so much.” I know better than to ask him how he’s doing, as it’s obvious. He nods, still panting from the exertion. His spindly elbows rest on the handles of his transport chair as he hangs his head and stares at the ground. Then he asks in a raspy, breathless voice, “How is everybody? I catch him up quickly, sensing the limit to his concentration and ability to hold himself up. During our brief visit, he intermittently sips on his cold milkshake. He’ll never be able to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which I understand. I’m just over the moon to see him in person. After a long gap of silence, he says, “OK, little bird.” I know this heralds the end of our brief meeting and his need to get back in bed. This is a phrase he’s never uttered in his life to me before, but one that has more impact than any I’ve known. I’m no longer the little monkey with moppy hair dangling in her eyes or even “baby girl,” which seems ill-fitted to this moment. Once “little bird” escapes my father’s lips, I know in the deepest sadness of my soul he’s letting go. Letting himself go. Letting me go. Telling me it’s time to fly. My father’s faint and feathery words set in motion the surreal undoing of my world as I know it. In time, they will become the very underpinnings of my strength. In all the loved-filled exchanges between us, never has he uttered such a meaningful and transformative phrase. And with that, we exchange I love yous and Lisa wheels him back to bed. I feel like I can’t breathe yet again. I’m witnessing in real time the existential loss of my father, the most devastating loss of my life. “Little bird, little bird, little bird” is what I will hear in my head all the way home and for the rest of forever. One Year and Four Weeks, But Who’s Counting… It’s July 22, 2021. It’s been one year and four weeks since my father’s passing. In actuality, it’s the culmination of two years of counting. The

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 160 counting began at the outset of his decline. It is not only in loss that we tick off days and hours but in the very anticipation of loss. Steeped in the beginning of his end, as my father’s illness progressed, his life was marked by counting and monitoring. How many Ensures did he consume, how many doctor’s appointments did he attend, and what was the outcome of his bloodwork? How many hours did he sleep, how many times did he call, and how many parts of our lives were diminished because of his inability to be present? Everyone was counting. Counting became coping. Somehow, each day would provide a formulaic calculation for what was to come, or how much longer he had. Even hospice was counting. Breaths, pulses, and other vitals. We counted along with hospice looking for answers to questions that essentially answered themselves. Down to my father’s very last moments of life, we were forced to count his respiration to determine if he was no longer with us, as his breathing was erratic and at moments it seemed he was gone but was not. Andrea and I sat beside my father and waited one last time, hoping we had something more to count. No breath came. My father passed at 7:01pm on June 22, 2020. Immediately, as if not already bone tired from tallying moments prior to his death, I began counting how many minutes have passed since my father left me. In the span of one minute, the tear in my insides is so deep, it’s unthinkable. With all the counting and emotional logging of his life, there was nothing left to count. And now, the very man I counted on my entire life is gone. I counted on his evergreen presence, I counted on his warm shoulder, on his laughter, his hugs and his unconditional love for me. I counted on him being witness to my life. I can no longer count on the act of counting, the life raft that kept hope afloat. He is gone. In these first moments without my father, I can hear his voice telling me once again, “Deena, you can’t tell someone that everything will be OK, because it’s not. It’s not going to be OK.” And I wasn’t, Mom wasn’t, Andrea wasn’t, Michael wasn’t. None of my father’s kids, spouses, grandkids were OK. We are heartbroken and lost.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 161 Through the unnatural separation caused by the pandemic, through a year’s worth of holidays, firsts, administrative tasks related to his death, and just pure grieving, a year came and went. It’s July 22, 2021. Not only is it a year and four weeks since my father died, but it’s my mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. In my home, the adult children gather around my mother at the dinner table to celebrate her milestone. As I sit at the table surrounded by my family, now gathered for the first time since my father’s passing, I’m keenly aware of both my father’s absence and his presence. My father’s absence is keenly felt in the places in our home where he would regularly roost. Ifeel his absence from his designated seat at the table, his quips, stories and bearing witness to everything the family did and experienced. Whether I was showing him my new car, or he was sitting with me as I recovered from a surgery, my father was always a witness to my life. Life was somehow validated if you could share it with my father. Michael shares moving and funny stories. We laugh and allow space for feeling each experience. It’s beautiful, sad and a testament to his legacy. As I scan the table taking in the safe circle of our family, I know things will never be the same. Over and over, my father’s words ring in my ears, “Things are not going to be OK, Deena.” I understand his words and feelings to be true. But I also understand the strength of the souls seated at the table. I realized we would be OK in a different way. A new way. I’ve learned to live with the loss. I’m a new version of myself and have found an OK place. In classic Deena fashion, I’ll push the envelope and be fearless to the deep pain and loss I’m experiencing. I’ll laugh through it, cry through it, paint through it, and move through it. Some days the flowers look the way they did before I lost my father, but then without warning, a Mack truck of emotion washes over me.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 162 Like a ghost in Harry Potter’s library, I allow the feelings to pass through me. There will never be a new wallet or purse I won’t anxiously await my father’s reach into his pocket for a crisp dollar bill to “bless” it with. There will never be a warm shoulder, on the corner most part of the purple couch to lay my head on and a rough hand to cup my chin and smile at me with all the love in the world. I cannot drive a new car over to show you, or tell you how our businesses is doing when you ask, “You make any sales today?” There are no feet to sit by, no warm hands to hold, no pop-overs to bring you a sub. There is no “you” anymore. Exhausted from counting and hypervigilance, after a year, I believe my counting has come to a much-needed rest. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do, one last time. I counted on the strength my father gave me to help me move forward. To help me help my mom. To help me be there for my husband, daughter, brother and sister and to help me heal the most painfulexperience of my life. “Everything is not OK, Dad, but it will get better. It’s getting better. It’s not OK. It’s just different.” I never feel alone. My father is always with me. And on this hot, summer evening on July 22, 2021, in my backyard, as I have many nights since his passing, I gaze up toward the sky, searching out the star that is my father and think, OK, Little Bird. You got this.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 163 Award-winning artist and former stand-up comedian and writer, Deena Goldstein pens her debut memoir “OK, Little Bird”. Deena’s artwork has been featured in solo and collective exhibitions, receiving numerous honors for her original acrylics. Now “Little Bird” shares the unique, irreverent and touching relationship with her quirky, loveable cowboy father. Deena’s flair for humor and all things offbeat makes this book a memorable debut.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 164 SACRIFICE: A DOCTOR’S STORY by Seth Guterman I was a new doctor in 1997 when one of my patients suffered severe swelling in the throat after being given medicine in the emergency room at the hospital. I tried unsuccessfully to place a tube so the patient could breathe. I was in trouble. Dr. Thomas came to assist. He did not speak to me. He successfully placed the tube in the patient and left the room. A brilliant physician, he towered over people at 6 feet 4 inches. An ex-college football player, and a seasoned physician at 56 years old, he demanded perfection from hospital staff, but at the same time, was extremely kind to people from all walks of life. We worked in a poor Chicago Hospital, but despite the limited resources, we always provided the best care possible to our patients. Years later, we were working again, when he suddenly collapsed onto his wheeled doctor’s stool. He said: “Seth I am having chest pain”. He then said, “Seth, I cannot get up.” I rolled him on his little stool to an examination table. I picked him up in my arms and laid him on the table. Four minutes later, he stopped breathing. I called for all staff and resources. A test showed a heart attack. Despite many factors in his favor – being at the hospital, immediate CPR, heart doctors present, and a new room for heart surgery, my friend and colleague, died. While I could not save him, he taught me how to help patients survive and how to live. After the first encounter, my next memory of Dr. Thomas was Christmas. We were working at a Catholic Hospital, so the ER had a Christmas tree and excessive decorations. I showed up for my shift, and

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 165 sitting on my work desk was a giant beautiful glass Menorah. Somehow, Thomas found out I was Jewish. He understood I was left out of the holiday festivities and bought a menorah so I could celebrate Chanukah. We placed this Menorah next to the Christmas tree, acknowledging both holidays. The Menorah lasted two days in the ER. It was removed by a Christian administrator. After a few years, I formed a company that provides ER doctors to hospitals. I asked him to join the company. Over the next 7 years, the company provided ER physicians to hospitals in some of the poorest areas in Chicago. I would get to know him, professionally and personally. I witnessed first-hand his commitment to providing quality medical care. He fiercely advocated for society’s most vulnerable patients (the poor, elderly, and chronically ill). He had a wonderful bedside manner. He never made a medical mistake. Often, I would see him give patients money to buy medicine if they could not afford it. If an administrator was unprofessional with any of the ER staff, he put his job on the line to defend his colleagues. Apparently, we grew up next to each other in Ohio. He was 16 years older, so we never met. He was a football star in high school. Woody Hayes, the legendary coach from Ohio State Football tried to recruit him, but his father said, “absolutely not, you are getting a real education”. He was accepted at Duke University. Once he asked for time off because his mother needed heart surgery. After surgery, he noticed she was very white. She was losing a lot of blood due to a mistake during surgery. A nurse called the surgeon. On the surgeon’s arrival at the hospital, her heart stopped beating. No other surgeons were available, so Dr. Thomas was called upon to assist. After the surgeon had opened the chest bones, he had to squeeze and release his mother’s heart with his hands multiple times to keep the heart pumping blood while the surgeon tried to stop the bleeding. Despite best efforts, his mother died. He would not tell his family about the mistake during the surgery, and he refused to file a lawsuit. He fell in love with and married a nurse. I had never seen him happier. A year later, he was dead.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 166 Hundreds of thousands of patients’ lives each year have been saved from heart attacks by doctors using standard medical treatments that we used that day when he collapsed in my arms. He had no medical problems, but his father died of a heart attack at the same age. The Fire Department, who admired and respected Dr. Thomas’s heroic commitment to patients, sent ambulances to sit guard over his body 24 hours a day until he was buried. At the funeral, hundreds came to say goodbye to this physician. He kept in touch with everyone from his life - including his football coach from when he was 8 years old. He wanted friends and family to celebrate his life with food, alcohol, and stories. We honored his wishes by drinking the afternoon away and telling stories about his life. It sounds crazy, but I had so much fun at his funeral. One year later, a patient called me looking to find Dr. Thomas to thank him for saving his life from a heart attack. Apparently, this patient’s heart stopped beating; he died several different times in the ER. According to the patient, Thomas would not give up on his life. I share Dr. Thomas’s story to honor, remember his sacrifice, and inspire others to live a purposeful, generous life and to be a beacon of light even in death. Seth Guterman: President of Emergency Care Physician Services (ECPS)-An ER physician staffing company for Chicago hospitals. Now a retired Board Certified Emergency Medicine Physician and past Department Chairmen for 25 years for several emergency departments at hospitals in some of the poorest areas of Chicago.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 167 THE MISBEGOTTEN TEAM by Paul Perilli This came back to me years later when my brother and I were moving my mother to a smaller apartment in Waltham, Massachusetts. I was cleaning out a drawer when I came across a batch of newspaper clips from a summer basketball league I played in when I was nineteen. My team was called Sky’s the Limit and my teammates were a group of guys in their mid to late twenties who worked as engineers and managers for high end companies like Polaroid, IBM, and Honeywell, and who lived in the better areas of Waltham and out in Lexington, tall, jocular guys with solid hoop skills, confident and outgoing. Making a lot of money too, I assumed from the standpoint of what I was taking home working in a graveyard and what my parents made and the stellar reputations of the places they were employed at. I met them one night in North Waltham, on the court closest to that apartment in Gardencrest, a low-rise development across Lyman Pond from Bentley College (now Bentley University). On Trapelo Road, I went there when I didn’t feel like going across town to Bicycle Park, where the competition was better and the summer league was hosted. I’m struggling to recall my teammates’ first names and I suppose that says a lot about me and them. I’m sure I hadn’t seen them at the Trapelo Road court before that night, so it was likely I’d been back from school a few days only. Basketball was a consuming activity in my life at the time. I played almost every day. Despite my size, five-eight (and a half!), too short and thin-boned to entertain any ambitious hoop dreams, I was quick, had a good shot and that evening at Trapelo Road I must have been deep in the zone, lighting it up at a high intensity, because

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 168 after a few games my soon-to-be teammates broke away and huddled on the grass. They came out of that and over to me with the news they had registered a team in the summer league and wondered if I wanted to be on it? I was hesitant to agree. I mentioned I usually played on a team with my friends. It was called Bombers, and even though we hadn’t talked about it, I assumed, and was sure they did too, that I’d take up my usual spot at guard. But the tall blonde guy, the most vocal of them, was insistent. The Limit, as they called themselves, would be competitive and a penetrating guard with a killer outside shot would make them better. “And that’s you,” he said with a pointing finger. That bit of flattery got my attention. With only a little more stalling I said yes, but only if I started. Obnoxious as that might have sounded, why would I leave a starting position on one team for a seat on the bench on another? The assurance came. Of course that’s what they had in mind. And after that the smiles and hand slapping went around. I was officially on The Limit. “All right, all right,” the blonde guy exclaimed with a pumping fist, showing all his teeth. He, and they, were sure The Limit would tear through the league. And while they were respectable players, a few of them better than that, it was a notion I didn’t bother tamping down. They’d find out soon enough. The summer league drew teams from all over the area. With names like Mean Streets, Jaws, and The Crush, their rosters included high school and college players, top-notch ballers and bangers from the playgrounds, more than a few of whom could violate the laws of verticality, and the overall competition they, we, would face was sure to be tough. That didn’t matter right then. After a few games that night in North Waltham I saw myself getting a lot of minutes. I saw myself pounding the ball up the court on a fast break. I saw myself taking plenty of shots. I had seventeen or eighteen points a game in mind. No way I’d have to share the pumpkin as much as I would have with Bombers, a team I scored twelve or thirteen with. I wasn’t a ball hog. I liked to dish and deal the pill to my teammates. Most of all I liked to win. But I also liked

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 169 seeing double digits next to my name in the box scores printed in The News Tribune. And I liked a boldfaced headline now and then, small as they were for summer league sports coverage. While I’d enjoyed the thought of meeting new people and making a spur-of-the-moment decision, my friends, the friends I’d known and played with and against all my life, were pissed I’d gone off the rail. What was wrong with them and Bombers? “That was much of a street unwise thing to do,” Michael said after I told them. He was Bombers' starting center. Kell, a lanky six-three kid with reddish hair, who was strung tight as a mousetrap, sniffed each of his armpits. “What the fuck?” he said, a comment I could only interpret as wondering if something had changed between us while I was away at school? “Nothing,” I was adamant. “We’re cool. We’re cool as ice.” Well, no, we weren’t cool. My tautological reply didn’t keep them from threatening a big-time payback when my new team and I met them on the court. It would be slaughter, they assured me. An in-yourface disgrace. Thomas M., we'd called him The Bomb years before we named a team after him, connected a thumb and index finger to indicate how many points I could expect to score against them. “Zero,” he filled the empty space in case I didn’t get it. “You have a better chance of seeing god,” was my reply. The Limit’s practices started a few days after I met them. They were organized sessions that might have come from a high school playbook and right away I wondered if I’d left a team with an exciting wide-open game for a boring one? The answer was always yes, I had, but I did my best to appear eager and try to fit in. I did my best to listen to the coach as he pulled in the reins on my improvisational, run-and-gun game. The game that had impressed them enough to ask if I wanted to play for them.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 170 Coach was a big dude. He carried a brown clipboard and paced the sidelines pointing out this and that: a screen had to be set at the top of the key on a certain play; a cut to the basket should be made sooner on another. He wasn’t a very good player, but his friends trusted his plan of a slowdown offense and dig-in defense and that meant getting me, the guy running the offense, to agree to it. That was a lot easier said than done. My up-tempo style, a style I had a hard time applying the brakes to, and the coach’s restrained approach clashed. I might have tried to talk it over to nudge him, and The Limit, to my way of playing. I might have upped and left and went back to Bombers, a thought I had many times. But I knew my friends. I knew the torture they would put me through. They might have said no. They might have said maybe and left me hanging. They might have said yes and let me rot on the bench. I’d made an impulsive move. I had to stick with it. This is all another way of saying The Limit never got its act together. Chemistry, those inexplicable bonds that make teams better than the sum of their parts, or worse if there’s a lack of it, was missing. The summer league was better than ever. We lost as many as we won and missed the playoffs. My place on the team was what I’d expected. I did what point guards in those days were supposed to do. I dribbled the ball across half court. I set up the plays the coach called from the sidelines. I didn’t like it. I was frustrated. The coach was frustrated. My teammates were frustrated. I did get my share of shots and scored in double digits most games. But we weren’t good enough to beat the best teams. And that included Bombers. Kell, The Bomb, and my other friends distributed a lethal dose of cruel and unusual punishment both times we played them. After each game they let me know just how much they enjoyed it. And they’d enjoyed it a lot. Back to those newspaper clips. In one game I scored 27 but the guy I covered, a former player for Holy Cross, had 41 and we lost. I did get a headline for popping in 19 and leading The Limit to a win. But we were such a dysfunctional cast it was likely the team we’d played was just as bad. Whatever. Bombers took me back the next summer. What humiliation might have been imposed on me to reclaim my spot, I’m not sure.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 171 Whatever it was, and however much it cost me, wasn’t a problem. No way would I ever play for anyone else in the Waltham City League. And that was probably one of the few mistakes I didn’t make a second time. Paul Perilli lives in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared in The Transnational, Numero Cinq, Thema, Overland (False Documents issue contest winner), Aethlon, Jerry Jazz Musician (contest winner), and many other places. His recent fiction appears in The Write Launch (a novelette, "Roman Days"), Zin Daily (speculative fiction, "Vacation Time"), and Fairlight Books (a long story, "Vino, Vino"). His short story "His Name's Not Ben" is forthcoming in The Fictional Cafe and an essay "Public Works" is coming out in Rabble Review.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 172 CAGED CITY by Kristal Peace a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage Several years ago, I visited Detroit, Michigan. I have no plan to do that again. Ever. Driving into Detroit from a surrounding city, the highway does a wonderful job of hiding the upcoming, insidious poverty that weaves its way through Detroit, and turns everything it touches gray. Once you arrive in Detroit proper and leave the highway, which I would advise against, you almost choke on the desperation and complacency that defines the city. And if out of shock and fear, you get back on the highway and begin driving towards Canada, you’ll notice that the highways that stumble into downtown Detroit, unlike their sisters, make no pretense of hiding the disease-ridden skeleton of the city. You find yourself wishing that they would; the atrophied structures seem to cry out. Scream. It is difficult to pretend you don’t see the misery. It is difficult to ignore the lump of fear that is expanding in your throat. It is difficult to accept that people actually live in Detroit. Detroit: a place that wants to be, struggles to be, but also seems to have given up on ever being, a respectable city. It has accepted and

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 173 embraced – even taken an absurd pride – in being a ghetto. It was hard for me to make sense of that city. The sidewalks in Detroit are unlike any that I have ever seen. Disemboweled sofas expose the last of their innards and lie collapsed on the sidewalk. Having relinquished their will to live, they lie helpless, slowly bleeding to death. Twisted chairs, battered dining room tables, and the bones of toys: all seem to sprout up from between the cracks in the concrete, like weeds. People walk around them, on them, and past them, as if they don’t see them at all. The trees in Detroit are also unique. Leafless and starved, their arthritic branches point accusing fingers at the residents who seem to have forgotten to feed them. Or perhaps there isn't enough food to go around. Every man for himself. The trees await death by drowning in a sea of parched dirt and trash. Trash. It seems to be the touchstone of neighbourhoods in Detroit. He who has the most wins. Amidst the trash, there are structures. Tired buildings that meekly present themselves to the onlooker, fearful they won’t be able to meet the definition of a house, slouch on gray, derelict streets. Some are clothed in irrepressible weeds that ascend desperately up their front and sides; a frantic climb to escape the poverty on the ground. The windows of these buildings are like defeated eyes that stare at you, plead with you. Eyes that are tired of, but have long ago gotten used to, days and nights littered with violence and vagrancy. Accepting eyes. Tired eyes. Gray eyes. The stores in Detroit either droop like their cousins that parade as houses, or they perch on the land fearfully as if they do not wish to be there and wish even less that a customer should notice them and then want to come inside. But some stores are aggressive; encased in a sinister promise, they dare you to come inside. They blast angry music from

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 174 their store fronts, announcing a message that I would rather not guess at nor contemplate. Detroit’s poverty is powerful, flexible, and athletic; so much so that it reaches up and transforms the sky. Driving in a neighbouring city of Detroit, the sky is blue and pristine. It stretches far and away, sharing its beauty with other cities. Then it reaches Detroit. It recoils and becomes nauseated until it is at last a pale, sickly gray. But it cannot leave Detroit, and having no choice in the matter, for it must float over Detroit like it does all of the earth, it seems to show its aversion to the city by refusing to turn blue. Truly blue. Sometimes, here and there, a patch of blue appears; it is as if the sky is peeking to see if Detroit has changed, and disappointed at the city’s refusal, its nausea returns and it turns gray again. After years of exposure to Detroit, the sky that hovers above it seems terminally ill. Sidewalks, trees, houses, stores, the sky; everything in Detroit seems gray and depressed. And many things in Detroit produce fear. Detroit, Michigan, is the place where I intentionally ran a red light for the first – and hopefully the last – time in my life. Needing gas, I pulled into a gas station and was astonished and mortally frightened when, trying to pay for the gas, I was accosted by bullet proof glass that sat defensively between me and the attendant. Bullet proof glass in a gas station? Leaving the store, monoliths were stationed at the gas pumps: SUVs sat on rims that sparkled and twirled provocatively as they awaited the return of their owners. In their interior, stereos vibrated offensively as an earth shaking crescendo mounted and eventually spilled out of each vehicle. Boom. Boom, boom. BOOM! Immune to this deafening noise, voices screamed, and laughed harshly. They didn't know that Detroit is a ghetto. Or maybe they did know. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 175 but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. Having escaped the gas station, I sat at the light, waiting for it to change. A car was suddenly next to mine and the driver, a man, was shouting. He was angry. From the corner of my eye – I thought it imprudent to turn and look at him - I could see that he was gesticulating furiously. And that ridiculous light preferred red to green. I ran the light. But I fear that I have been unfair to Detroit, and you are expecting the truth. Here it is: My visit to Detroit was brief, and I got lost in what I imagine was – but may not be – one of the worst parts of the city. And for all I know, the man at the light may have been trying to tell me that my tire was going flat (but it wasn’t). In truth, I never made an effort to discover the city. The section of Detroit in which I got lost was frightening, overflowing with maleficence, and the only discovery I wanted to make was the on-ramp to the highway that led back to the pristine, the familiar. Admittedly, there may be beautiful neighbourhoods in Detroit, but after my unintentional tour of one of its more depressed areas, I lost any interest in seeing them. This visit to Detroit about which I have been speaking occurred several years ago and it wasn’t until I chanced - through link hopping on the Internet - upon a poem by Maya Angelou that I began to understand what I saw in Detroit. Prior to that, I had no recollection of ever reading any of Maya Angelou’s work, but poetry is hard to see and not read. I read. I thought the poem was nicely written. Powerful. But I had no idea what it really meant. I guessed, and after a few guesses, I forgot about the poem. But I didn’t.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 176 Hours after I’d read the poem, standing in front of a large bay window, I was watching birds fly across the sky. I smiled and took a deep breath. I looked out again and was mentally reconstructing the view in my mind when suddenly – unexpectedly – my mouth formed a small ‘o’. Oh. In that moment, I think I understood something about the poem that Maya Angelou wrote. In that moment, I think I began to understand what I saw in Detroit. A city in a cage. A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. Detroit’s cage is poverty, despair, resentful submission. Its residents have stalked down its streets in rage, and they have destroyed their own neighbourhoods; the city is barely alive. But their loud, aggressive language and their attempts at indifference are betrayed by their longings, their dreams. SUVs that they cannot afford, the tires of said SUVs hugging rims that a year’s worth of my salary could not hope to pay for, and the wearing of clothes that require an income earned by the middle class: the American Dream longed for. Still. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 177 of things unknown but longed for still (1) There is one other thing I noticed about the city of Detroit. One last thing. While I was lost in Detroit, I do not recall having the impression that its people wanted anyone’s sympathy; they wanted something more. Kristal Peace enjoys autumns coloured with russet, lavender and red, winters obscured by snow, and books. Her poems and a short story have appeared in the Pennmen Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Scrittura Magazine and Ink Pantry 1 Angelou, Maya. “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.” Allpoetry. com. Web. 14 Nov. 2013. < http://allpoetry.com/>.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 178 MY BODY IS MY MEMORIAL by Barbara Ann Bush I was 14 when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded on January 28, 1986. I was glued to the classroom television because, like other school children in the US, I was actively taken along on the journey of teacher Christa McAuliffe, as she prepared for her launch into space. The dawn of civilian travel was upon us, and it was female. I knew women like her mattered to my future, to everyone’s future. She wasn’t, of course, the only crew member. Years later I still feel deep shame that I cannot remember anybody else. I have to Google them so I can memorialize them somehow: Francis Scobee, Michael Smith, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Judith Renik, and Gregory Jarvis. I was in my first period class at Sam Brannan Middle School in Sacramento, CA. The TV was brought in to broadcast coverage of the event. The novelty alone of the television rolling into the classroom brought us to rapt attention. I felt the silent but electric pulse when we heard the officiating of NASA’s control center and saw the Challenger on the launch pad. I vividly remember the blue sky, the launch, the officiating of the takeoff, and then my confusion as I watched the shuttle disappear in what looked like a volley of explosions. Billions of pieces chaotically rearranged the lapis vault above Cape Canaveral, Florida. But my brain couldn’t put together the crew, (who mere hours earlier had been waving on the tarmac) with nothingness. And more importantly to me, Christa McAuliffe, the person I had watched for months get ready for their moment, was not longer alive. In under three minutes, the young cable network CNN, had captured

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 179 7 astronauts vividly present in their historical assent, vanish into vapor shards. That invisible line between life and death with a spectacular failure of human hubris. And human grit. I realize now that my very wondering at what was happening, was itself a sign of death. Had the shuttle launched into space like an arrow into the outer darkness, this would have been "normal". There would have been no need to attempt to understand it. But now somehow my imagination failed me. I know that might seem strange. It was an explosion; how much imagination does it take to understand that? NASA’s silent ground control, reporters searching for words, and the faces of the crew’s family members watching the launch, live at Kennedy Center, all are lodged, in no particular order, in my memory. Mostly though it is the sick feeling of realizing what those plumes meant, a feeling that has always been easy for me to recall. From 1986 forward, I gave any Challenger memorials wide birth, and steadfastly avoided any other NASA launches or re-entries. I still can’t watch footage of the Challenger. Nor could I, after that day, watch any other shuttle launches of re-entries. The instantaneous and unexpected explosion I had witnessed seared me at the molecular level. I was turned inside out by the magnitude of the spectacle. According to NASA’s website there were 135 missions total between 1981 and 2011. Between January 28, 1986, and January 16, 2003, I steadfastly missed all shuttle footage. In 2003. I decided to heal myself from the Challenger trauma. I was at a Communication Studies conference in Albuquerque, New Mexico in February of 2003. I was feeling accomplished in both attending the conference and presenting my first academic paper. I would be speaking about former first wave feminist icon Inez Mulholland, a rehabilitation of her memory and place in history. It was the dawn of a new era; a sense of power, purpose, and adventure accompanied me on my flight from Sacramento. I rented a too expensive Ford Mustang convertible, and my presentation was well-rehearsed.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 180 News reports prior to leaving for my trip suggested that the re-entry of the space shuttle Columbia would be clearly visible in the morning hours of the desert skies of New Mexico. The weather was going to be perfect. It seemed the right time to face my fears. I was in a cheap motel, my favorite kind, and in a city I had never been. The weekend brimmed with new beginnings for me as I immersed myself in this graduate school experience. Yes, I was with a man I should have broken up with a year earlier. He was a dangling modifier - awkwardly adding details to my life, but he was always good for an adventure, which is why he was there with me at all. We enthusiastically set the alarm in order to be up in time for the re-entry the following morning. I went to bed with nervous anticipation, both because of the conference and the Columbia viewing. The desert morning was chilly and fresh. Wrapping myself in the thin blazer I had brought for the conference, I aimed to hold on to the snugness I had attained in bed. Not just the warmth, but the safety too. I was nervous again. Anxious really. We waited. My core was trembling. Cups of coffee in hand, made in the motel room, we stared up at the wide and empty morning sky. And then it appeared. The shuttle. But it was not the shuttle. What seared the sky was those streaks. Those damned awful streaks, long and vicious. The plumes of white. So many of them. The same ragged braille left by aluminum and fire. This time I knew how to read the marks in the vast blue sky. I felt sick. My body trembled. I was undone by the magnitude of nothingness beyond the shuttle, and the finality of the fall as the pieces were sucked back to Earth. Gravity is a relentless master. I felt responsible. I had broken the covenant with myself. With the universe. I shouldn't have watched. And if my promise to the gods of human adventures hadn't been enough, my apprehension should have told me. Later I found out the crew had been doomed from takeoff, a tile or something had been broken off and had left the body of the shuttle vulnerable upon re-entry. On my knees, I wept. The concrete was icy

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 181 cold. Like the Challenger years earlier, the lines in the sky faded. Like the Challenger, it was so goddamn final. In the years since each of these disasters, when I unexpectedly stumble on pictures of the Challenger or the Columbia I feel an ache, a tightness across my torso, a sudden weight in my stomach. My heart rises up and floats against my rib cage. I avoid the media anniversaries. I don't need them to be reminded. I cannot forget those shattered vehicles, and how sharp and clear death is, even when it baffles and exceeds the imagination. The sky is both banal and stunning in its vastness. When I look up with purpose to really notice it, an overwhelming infinity pressing me against the ground even as my center flutters from my vision. In milliseconds my sight projects me miles above solid ground. I don’t need to look at Apollo 17’s famous photo of Earth to know just how alone the universe might feel if we thought about it too much. How endlessly grand and awful it would be to hurtle towards that cold horizonless pitch above. When I watched the Challenger and the Columbia, I imagined being suspended with them in an aluminum tube, breathing recycled air, vulnerable, and yet chatting brightly as we hummed through an increasingly thin atmosphere at cataclysmic velocity. I also imagined their returns. To safely return to Earth. To find relative stillness and a center again. That sublime embrace of more days to tend. Another day of tasting salty breezes on the Atlantic Coast, smelling roasted coffee wafting from our local café, worrying the knot in our dog’s cotton depths of fur, or feeling the warm and tender skin on our loved one’s inner wrist. This is the final lesson for me. One that I have nurtured with the attention of a monastic. Christa McAuliffe, Francis Scobee, Michael Smith, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Judith Resnik, and Gregory Jarvis taught me about abiding love as etched into my body. They are the invisible marks of ghosts that still haunt my cells. So, I don’t need to see another anniversary marked by images of an exploding shuttle. My body is my memorial.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 182 Barbara Ann Bush is a community college professor in the Communication Studies department at Big Bend Community College in Moses Lake, WA. She is originally from California and often travels to Switzerland where much of her family is from. She loves teaching, breathing fresh air, riding her horse on challenging trails, and taking any chance she can to get into bodies of water.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 183 LETTING GO OF “WHAT IF” – OUR PARENTING STORY by Cynthia Damon “What if” questions, especially for parents, can be terrifying. Children’s books can help. “What If…” When my wife and I were informed by the fertility clinic that she was pregnant, we spent several months in expectant bliss. What colors should we paint the nursery? Should we use cloth diapers? Which children’s stories should fill his bookshelf? But as the due date crept closer, “what if” questions - as insidious as Voldemort’s Nagini - slithered their way into our consciousnesses. What if our baby boy grows up to become a serial killer? A psychopath? A cult leader? To fend off these questions as valorously as Round Table Knights, we started preparing the only ways we knew how: researching, collecting data, and analyzing. Being two highly educated women working in the field of education, we were certain that this methodology would squelch the siege of “what if’s.” I watched TedTalks on child psychology. I listened to podcasts on parenting. I read Bringing up Bebe, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, Positive Discipline. I read magazines, studies, and citations of citations.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 184 My wife collected data on the safest cribs, strollers, and car seats. She crunched numbers on the prices of Diaper Genies, wipe warmers, and Boppys. She created a spreadsheet of questions to ask pre-schools. At the same time that we were waging war against an imaginary future, my wife was struggling with pre-eclampsia, nine months of all-day “morning” sickness, and (what we’ll euphemistically call) hormonal imbalance. The Giving Tree was already giving its leaves away. But… the moment Harper entered this world as a 9-pound, roundheaded, pink-faced baby, our lives immeasurably improved. Elated is too weak of a word to describe the feeling in that delivery room. Some Hurdles As the hours that our newborn son spent with us turned into days and then weeks and then months, the initial “what if” questions took a back seat to new “what if’s” as we encountered some hurdles. Harper wouldn’t latch. “What if he loses weight and becomes malnourished?” my wife asked me. We dreamt of having a Winnie the Pooh sized baby, not a piglet sized one. Our pediatrician advised us to find an over-the-counter organic, non-GMO formula. Harper took his bottle voraciously! We found the honey pot! But then, Harper became “colicky.” He never seemed to be comfortable. He was always stiff, as if every muscle were flexing. “What if his distress leads to more serious health problems?” I wondered. If You Give a Moose a Muffin proves how one thing will lead to another, so, we consulted a gastroenterologist and an allergist who discovered that he was lactose intolerant. The dairy ingredients in the formula gave him acid-reflux and bloated his stomach and intestines. The doctors gave us a brochure featuring the Rolls Royces of nutrient blends. We chose bi-weekly delivery of a non-dairy, hypoallergenic, scientifically-proven, powdered formula that had a monthly price tag that put our Prius payment to shame. Harper’s inflammation reduced, and we added an exercise regimen of leg peddling that massaged the explosive excess air out of his intestines. He could finally sleep horizontally!

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 185 Ear infections were the next hurdle. Harper suffered from 11 ear infections before turning 3 years old. During many sleepless nights, I wondered, “What if he loses his hearing permanently?” The ENT prescribed him a teal-colored, neoprene headband to cover gummy, orange ear plugs that Harper was directed to wear at bath times. I was as confident as Sheila the Great that this magical headband would work. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Evidently, ear infections are as persistent as Thomas the Tank Engine. But, ear tube surgery proved a success! Then, we noticed that Harper’s right eye was not always aligned with his left eye; he had intermittent exotropia. “What if he grows up and has no depth perception? How will he drive? Catch a frisbee? Avoid walking into doors?” I was as filled with worry, just like little Clementine. An optometrist tried to train the eye with glasses and strengthen it with a Captain Hook patch, but that wildly loose peeper stayed as untamed as the Lost Boys. What worked was an ophthalmologist surgically tightened the muscles around his! And… since we don’t share the Hardy Boys’ cunning powers of observation, we didn’t notice the correlation between Harper’s fears of the future and his incredibly inconvenient irritable bowel syndrome. As it turned out, he began manifesting generalized anxiety disorder at 4 years old. We bought him a calendar. We lengthened transition time. At this point, we felt like the Boxcar Children, in a perpetual state of overcoming challenges. Coupled with GAD, Harper was showing signs of having AttentionDeficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. We called a psychiatrist. We took tests. The Vanderbilt Assessment Scale. The Child Attention Profile. The Conners Rating Scale. Harper’s inattention, hyperactivity, hyperfocus, impulse control, lack of time management, difficulty with social cues, and delayed development of fine motor skills were explained with a diagnosis of ADHD. We wondered, “What if Harper’s difficulty focusing causes him to fail out of school?” I imagined being stuck inside a No David! book for eighteen years.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 186 As It Turns Out… As it turns out, all my “what if” questions were the clinging shadows of Chiro’s world in Night Song. Had I seen them for what they were – as controllable products of anxiety – perhaps I could have tamed my emotional stress earlier. Focusing on what was immediately before me would have been enough. Today, our beautiful, spirited 11-year-old boy has now danced in his 7th Nutcracker. He has an impressive English and Chinese vocabulary, and he loves taking guitar lessons. The confines of the public-school environment are a challenge for him. For the majority of days, his antics mirror those of Junie B. Jones. But, more importantly to us, he loves, he explores, he laughs, he inquires, and he gives. That’s a story worth writing – and reading. Cynthia Damon is a freelance writer, editor, and teacher. She lives in Southern California with her wonderful wife, loving son, and loyal Labrador. https://cynthiadamon01.wixsite.com/home/writing

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 187 THE FOUR OF US LOST THE STREET by Hellen Albuquerque Nós quatro perdemos a rua Por Hellen Albuquerque Quando eu tinha 11 anos, me mudei de escola. Novo uniforme, agora azul escuro com listras amarelas laterais que me faziam parecer parte oficial dos Correios. Novos nomes para decorar. Outros lanches na hora do recreio. E por sorte, em pouco tempo, novas amigas Com os meses nos tornamos um grupo de quatro. Eu, Aline, Paula e Tabatha. Aline era a mais bonita, loira de olhos azuis, com um sorriso cativante muito branco. Paula era a talentosa, tinha inclinação às artes e desenhava incrivelmente bem. Tabatha era a chorona. Ou sensível, se decidirmos pela sutileza. Era doce de forma enjoativa e chorava ao menor sinal de contrariedade. Não sei bem o que eu era. A mais pobre, com certeza. Eu morava em um bairro afastado da nossa escola, enquanto elas viviam poucas quadras a parte uma da outra, e chegavam às aulas depois de poucos minutos de caminhada. Eu era talvez a que lia mais. Não por querer ser culta, mas para fugir do meu mundo. Todas éramos boas alunas. Não causávamos confusão, nem alarde. Dia desses, os posts gradualmente me informaram: todas estão noivas. Prestes a se casar. Sou um ano mais nova, mas estou a uma vida de

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 188 distância de tal marco social. Todas estudaram ciências. Aline, além de bonita se tornou médica. Paula me surpreendeu trocando lápis por brocas e virou dentista. Tabatha algum tipo de bióloga, a que me fez mais sentido. A imagino ensinando crianças com o mesmo preparo emocional que ela deve ter desenvolvido. Suas vidas parecem perfeitas nas fotos que postam. Uma vez ao ano viajam para alguma praia paradisíaca suficiente para ser ponto turístico, e elitizada na mesma medida para que não tenham nenhum contato com quem realmente mora por ali e vive da natureza que os cerca. Todas terão festas, com vestidos brancos, valsas e champagne estourando, talvez até Dom Pérignon. Eu me encontro em uma paisagem diferente. Mesmo que tenhamos partilhado anos nas mesmas carteiras, com as mesmas tarefas de casa e discursos professorais, o cenário depois das horas de estudo eram fundamentalmente opostos. Elas voltavam para famílias minimamente equilibradas. Que sentavam em volta de uma mesa nas refeições, perguntavam como tinha sido seus dias, as abraçavam se elas sentiam medo. Nunca devem ter pensado no valor da conta de luz até se mudarem para seus novos apartamentos que em breve dividirão com os maridos. Enquanto eu, sabia desde muito cedo que caso o boleto não fosse pago, minha leitura noturna aconteceria à luz de velas. Por isso ou apesar disso, vivo em movimento. Tracei uma carreira que muda todos os dias e me permite mudar com a mesma frequência. Escrevo. Uso minhas infinitas horas sentada em chãos de bibliotecas como fundamento da minha existência. Tenho horror a ideia do matrimônio - que rima tão bem com manicômio, e nunca achei que fosse descuido linguístico. Coleciono voos, enquanto elas rotinas. Sou livre e elas aprisionadas. Ou seria o oposto? Em algum momento das nossas vidas, nós quatro estávamos exatamente no mesmo lugar. Me lembro de um desenho que Paula fez e que guardei por muito tempo. Éramos nós, em traços que destacavam nossas particularidades - o cabelo loiro de Aline, as sardinhas de Paula, as bochechas de Tabatha, meus olhos muito grandes - abraçadas e

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 189 sorridentes. Acima de nossas cabeças estávam nossos nomes e um título: BFF. Best Friends Forever. O tipo de declaração que só tem sentido se você ainda usa canetas de gel com glitter. Paula fez cópias com papel carbono para todas nós. Por anos mantive esse desenho ileso em uma caixa na casa da minha mãe, guardado como tesouro. Uma prova de que independente de onde eu tivesse vindo, por alguns anos eu fiz parte de algo maior que meu exílio recebido como herança. Não me lembro quando joguei o desenho fora, imagino que quando assimilei a ideia de que nada é para sempre. Quando vejo suas fotos me pergunto qual curva tomamos que nos levou para lugares tão distantes. Teria eu perdido o mapa, ou elas seguido uma trilha já antiga, mas que traz algum tipo de segurança? Será que quebrei a matrix de metas detalhadamente traçadas para manter o capitalismo? Aquele que diz que o casamento e os filhos trazem propósito para vida, quando, na verdade, apenas criam mais mão de obra para manter a mais valia do protelariado e dessa forma garantir a estabilidade das instituições no poder. Ou teriam elas resolvido seus traumas de infância com mais afinco que minhas incontáveis sessões de terapia? E por isso, ganharam como recompensa relacionamentos héteronormativos aparentemente saudáveis. Como medir felicidades? Ou ao menos, as diferenciar de um contrato com o sistema que nos coloca em espaços medíocres, mas suportáveis? Sempre que alguém escuta que matei escorpiões antes de caminhar pela praia em frente a minha casa do mês, para onde vim sozinha, carregando malas de mais de 20kg, recebo as mesmas perguntas e elogios. “Você não sente saudade?”, não. “Que corajosa!”, a gente se acostuma. “Eu sonho em fazer o que você faz, mas tenho medo”. Medo tenho também. Principalmente de acordar um dia, depois de vinte anos de transe, e perceber que continuo no mesmo lugar, fazendo as mesmas coisas, com as mesmas pessoas, e pior ainda, com a mesma versão de mim. Um plano definido, do marido, dos filhos, do trabalho

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 190 para comprar um sofá dobrável ou um novo carro, me sufocam mais que água chegado ao pulmão. E esse pesadelo me obriga a seguir, ainda que eu caia e quebre metade do corpo mais vezes do que parece natural a um ser humano. Se existe um caminho com infinitas encruzilhadas e cabe a cada um andar até a sua, a única rota correta é o movimento. Talvez a resposta seja essa, é melhor fazer algo, ainda que guiado pelo piloto automático. Do que não fazer nada por medo. A estagnação é o único erro. The four of us lost the street By Hellen Albuquerque When I was 11 years old, I changed schools. Now, I had a new uniform, dark blue with yellow stripes on the sides that made me look like an official part of the Post Office. New names to remember. Other snacks at recess. And luckily, in a short time, new friends Over the months we became a group of four. Me, Aline, Paula and Tabatha. Aline was the prettiest, blonde with blue eyes, and a very white captivating smile. Paula was the talented one, she was artistically inclined and drew incredibly well. Tabatha was the crybaby. Or sensitive, if we choose subtlety. She was sickeningly sweet and would cry at the slightest sign of disturbance. I don't really know what I was. The poorest, for sure. I lived in a neighborhood away from our school, while they lived a few blocks away from each other, and could reach the classroom after a short walk. I was perhaps the one who read the most. Not because I wanted to be

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 191 cultured, but to escape my world. We were all good students. We were no muss, no fuss. One of these days, their pictures carefully posted on social media gradually informed me: they are all engaged. About to get married. I'm a year younger, but I'm a lifetime away from such a social landmark. All of them graduated in science. Aline, in addition to being beautiful, became a doctor. Paula surprised me by exchanging pencils for drills and becoming a dentist. Tabatha some sort of biologist, which made the most sense to me. I imagine her teaching children that share the same emotional maturity as her Their lives look perfect. Once a year, they travel to a paradisiacal beach that is known enough to be a tourist spot, and equally elite so that they don’t have any contact with those who live there and survive off the nature surrounding them. They'll all have parties, with white dresses, waltzes, and flowing champagne, maybe even Dom Pérignon. I find myself in a different landscape. Even if we shared years at the same desks, with the same homework and professorial speeches, the scenario after study hours was fundamentally opposite to each other. They returned to minimally stable families. Who sat around the table during meals, asked about each other’s days, and hugged them if they felt afraid. They must never have thought about the cost of the electricity bill until they moved into the new apartments that they will soon share with their husbands. While I knew from a very early age that if the bill was not paid, my nightly reading would take place by candlelight. Because of that or despite that, I live on the move. I have mapped out a career that changes every day and allows me to change as often with it. I write. I use my endless hours sitting on library floors as the foundation of my existence. I dread the idea of marriage. I collect flights, while they collect routines. I am free and they are imprisoned. Or would it be the opposite? At some point in our lives, the four of us were in the exact same place. I remember a drawing that Paula made and that I kept for a long time. It was of us, in features that highlighted our particularities - Aline's blonde

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 192 hair, Paula's freckles, Tabatha's cheeks, my very large eyes - hugging and smiling. Above our heads, she wrote our names and a title: BFF. Best Friends Forever. The kind of statement that only makes sense if you're still using pens with glitter. Paula made carbon copies for all of us. For years I kept this drawing unharmed in a box at my mother's house, treasured. Proof that regardless of where I came from, for a few years, I was part of something bigger than my inherited exile. I don't remember when I threw the drawing away, I imagine when I assimilated the idea that nothing is forever. When I see their photos I wonder which was the turn that took us to such distant places. Had I lost the map or had they followed an ancient trail - that which brings some kind of security? Did I break the matrix of goals outlined in detail to maintain capitalism? You know, that one that says marriage and children bring purpose to life, when, in fact, they only create more manpower to maintain the added value of the protracted labor and thus guarantee the stability of institutions in power. Or had they worked through their childhood traumas better than my countless therapy sessions? And for that, they were rewarded with seemingly healthy heteronormative relationships. How to measure happiness? Or at least, differentiate it from a contract with the system that puts us in mediocre but bearable spaces? Whenever someone hears that I killed scorpions before walking along the beach in front of my house of the month, where I came alone, carrying suitcases weighing more than 20 kg, I receive the same questions and compliments. “Don't you miss it?”, no. “How brave!”, we get used to it. “I dream of doing the same thing as you, but I'm afraid." I'm afraid too. Mainly of waking up one day, after twenty years in a trance, and realizing that I'm still in the same place, doing the same things, with the same people, and even worse, with the same version of myself. An ultimate plan, with the husband, the children, and the job to buy a folding sofa or a new car, suffocates me more than water reaching my lungs. And this nightmare compels me to continue, even if I fall and break half my body more times than seems natural for a human being.