2023-2024
Sam Wright
Cerest autus; nonsicia? Quonsua ina, nulie menatanu qui tebut L. Graribunte peritra? Bemus, pors ex sene is menam comne atraella publii sendit aperistis, inam nove, nos consum te host? Nihilii ia L. Quam audentratus, Catiam sta mo modicae et pra L. Gerdici patuam. Avo, terorum is vivMaris About Southwinds Verena, ment. Cuppl. cupere ina verid mantis; hui sim veribusquo hilisse ineme partiendit; interce rfecrum stentiu et; nonum publia demoente faciostribus praeque nocuroximis lost avocut it. Opimacerio hactasd amdiis pl. Mulabus, quos viverte remenario, condam optem vent? La in re puliciam in vicia ina, se nonsuperum ocres int, ublissinatil unturoractum sintil cremus, Ti. Die ipio prissere, et in spero, que re, nostebe niquam a mendam, que pripiera re avenatis cerem stiaede peroris co Cerest autus; nonsicia? Quonsua ina, nulie menatanu qui tebut L. Graribunte peritra? Bemus, pors ex sene is menam comne atraella publii sendit aperistis, inam nove, nos consum te host? Nihilii ia L. Quam audentratus, Catiam sta mo modicae et pra L. Gerdici patuam. Avo, terorum is vivMaris
Content Ulicussi ia telic ordius et num eo
Italerox nos consit, con Itanduc inequod
Fall Fall, With its dripping, soggy mush Melting into nothing Dust turned to paste underfoot Sticking to your soles, your soul The color sucked from everything The lifeDrained from every movement The end is always near The sun is too harsh and far Gone and wet and cold and dead And winter, with its dull skies The sun is gone, though we hated it Frost killing every sprout Bitter cold burning Vaseline is sticky on your hands Everything seems hot, And sticky And greazy The taste of sweet, stuck in your mouth as the year closes Fades to the bitter taste of sadness as yet another starts The wraithlike trees scratching Freezing and cracking Freezing and snapping Everything is brittle Goodbye Goodbye
I’m broken Spring is rebirth But we can’t be born again Not outside of religion And so I watch As the weeds grow through my clothes My skin- a weak protection against the elements, tears like paper The cold preserved me So now I rot… And life devours me Summer Oh, the weed killer, The chlorine, The chemicals everywhere How beautiful The sun beats us into the ground And fries us Hot and wet and hot and wet I fall into the grass, but it’s hot as I am There is no rest, We try to sleep, but only sweat No rest, no rest Like a punishment I want to sleep I want to sleep And so I do Elliot Sumner
Numen of Nature Voyage of life sails towards the inborn infinity paving the deepest path through the serene simplicity – where the sacred touch of transparent tranquility pacifies the soul with stream of eternity. Wave of water stimulates the ecstatic euphony possessing the nature of healing harmony. Nature navigates through the vivacious sense exploring the endless shore of vital essence. Sound of sea resonates in the sky and space – stage of life travels time through gratitude and grace. Innocence of intuition is the numen of nature – essence of emotion is the living literature. Vision of vibe values the natural navigation fueling the feelings from resonating reflection. Integration of infinite illusions impels the stream of shore circling the center of sense and sight to urge endless encore. Abdullah Al Moinee
ARTIST
EXHIBIT It’s not Missouri S&T without St. Pats! Eswar Yaswanth Malle photographed a number of events this year, but felt that these photos represented the tenacious spirit of our Miners!
Back Again From my homely bench, I reside, Upon stalwart pew of cedar. I sat in my garden With a gentleman’s posture. Admiring the landscape, Pipe in hand. The morning sun was my hearth, Gentle and warm, Healing my weary bones. The Summer breeze whispering through the meadow. Inspiring the wildflowers to dance And the marigolds to blush.
I smolder the leaf with each breath, Inhaling the cured wisdom of the earth. A deep fragrance; The nostalgic taste of briar. Precious white rings Filling the air Carrying away my fatigue On the western wind. Respite for the soul. I took solace in the tranquility Reminiscing my youth, Unexpected adventures, And the comforts of home. It was a good morning. David Langley
Ode To The Lily Lily, Luminous Blossom Your vestige etched upon my mind. Ethereal petals radiating on the water’s surface A Vestal White. Your bouquet, as if a peony was kissed by a rose Beckoning and sickly sweet. Slender stems Submerged An intricate tapestry of green. Softly swaying, as if dancing with the water. A Gentle Waltz. Your delicate roots reaching into the depths, Perforating the mud, Drawing your grace from the very earth. A Femme Fatale David Langley
Our Time I smoked half a cig in my car today and it was worse than I remember it. now my car smells and my throat hurts and I’m not drunk, so this one counts. I cried in your arms on Tuesday and the tears that ran down my cheeks stained your grey shirt. I lit your candle yesterday and its scent lingers on my jacket. the flame illuminated this poem it’s heat reminiscent of the long trails your fingertips left on my skin I heard one of our songs the other day and it made me think of you. it ended and then I thought about you again. It may not be our time, so why do I keep track of the days? XXXXXXXXX
Fight Back Fire doesn’t usually fight back but this one has. An internal rage flicking, a gas stove turned high under a small burner. The click is sharp The setting rises The surrounding air is hot, –scalding even. it’s pungent, dark, and bitter, so angry that it can’t reach me. it fights back and i feel suffocated the flick pulls me in, overwhelms my space, begging me to succumb. it almost fills the room except i can still breathe. I have beat that part of me. The heat no longer bothers me. We take turns dancing, circulating the air around us. We must not forget that fire can still fight back. XXXXXXXX
Laundry Day The smell of you penetrates my nose I slip on the sweatshirt that you had. Memories flood me, a feeling of missing something I shouldn’t. A missed connection A reminder of what once was The thought that this smell might be all I have left of you and how that might actually be okay. So, thank you for my sweatshirt, I can’t wait to wash it. XXXXXXXX
The Night The overnight shift, a graveyard sweep The time when only the dead are awake. All have said their goodnights and bartered with death, took a chance to lay their heads. The night ages behind closed blinds and behind closed eyes our visions run; free from our minds until it all becomes still. And before first shift wakes to shoo the dead from unseen sights, The silence flirts with morning sounds, filling a space otherwise occupied by light. The sun teases the horizon; the faint glow failing to show all there is to be seen. The night cries as it has to leave, quietly coating what once was theirs in a thin layer of tears. Day will come to wipe them up. Day will come and heal night’s fears. Before the birds come to settle on their calling perches, their flightless friends do what they can; scampering on the streets til cars reign once again. And everyday when the shifts change, it’s just in time to let darkness rest, after all, they were up all night. XXXXXXXXX
Prayer to Roots It is crunchy, crispy, mouthwatering gold. It is something familiar, but truly humble. It is the boat on which you came. It is the anchor which let you stay. Praise be the crab rangoon. It is an alchemical creation. From food, to money, to there once more. It requires you once again face the consuming sea. You look back at the starved and torn earth as you peel each skin free. Then you mix and you stir while the country does the same to yourself. After, add a pinch of Chinese soul as you fry it using your Chinese heart. Praise be the crab rangoon! Feel its crust as slippery as your own ticking time, it prays you don’t lose your life to adherence. See its four bubbled points like a fated perforation, it prays you don’t lose your kindness and compassion. Smell its cream cheese and copied crab, it prays you don’t lose yourself to vanity’s vice. PRAISE BE THE CRAB RANGOON! It is, in the end, praise for you. XXXXXXXXXX
Dangerously Beautiful My heart pumps beneath my ribcage as I feel my chest bellow out farther and farther with each gasping breath. My skis slowly skid down the mountain as I strain to keep myself from free falling the almost vertical slope. A slope littered with precariously placed trees that are almost begging for me to wrap around them at high speeds. I squint my eyes and take a couple deep breaths through the slightly damp face mask protecting myself from the harsh wind. “What are you waiting for?” My cousin calls from beside me. Projecting his voice so he’s heard over the aggressive winds. I glance over with an exasperated sigh. He’s wearing nearly all black with brightly colored skis. And huge reflective goggles, the sun bouncing between his eyes. His pillowy gloves grip his ski poles that are strapped to his wrists dangling on either side of his body. I drop one of my poles and it wiggles around bouncing off my puffed out jacket as I raise my middle finger, flipping him off. I don’t wait for his response as I kick out my foot and turn down the sharp hill. “You butt!” I hear laughing from behind me as I push against gravity trying to throw me down the mountain. I keep my skis close, turning sharp and quick to prevent myself from picking up uncontrollable speed. My legs strain to keep myself from getting buried underneath the ever growing snowy surface. Beneath my shiny black helmet and reflective goggles, I can feel sweat start to glide down my face like the snowflakes peppering the mountain. My body continues to heat up from the exertion of turning between moguls and dodging rocks and trees that want to snag me. When the effort of keeping myself from careening down the steep mountain and traversing the terrain becomes too much I jerk my skis up the mountain. Stopping myself on the outskirts of the barely carved path with a cloud of snow. I see a flash of black and feel myself get washed in a spray of flakes. The stinging bite of wet cold tickling the exposed skin on my face. “Let’s go!” My cousin inches forward as he speaks, wanting to continue down the mountain
“Hold on brat.” I respond, pausing his slow advancement. I pull off my glove, the frigid temperatures immediately attacking my exposed fingers and reach beneath my jacket. Quickly unzipping the pocket on my bibs, pulling out my phone. My phone frames the image of a pure white mountain face. Snow continuously rains down, like a night sky filled with twinkling stars. Dusting the trees and falling in between, onto the already thickly covered ground. Unlike other slopes we’ve been down, this one has hardly been touched. A beauty so pure, I almost feel bad about scuffing the untouched surface. With a chill running down my spine, I turn my skis back down the mountain. Ready to traverse the rest of the slope. XXXXXXXXXX
Untitled I can feel it when I breathe, Death itself setting in For I know not how long I have on this world, but this I know If I die tomorrow, the world shall soon follow Around us is a party dedicated to the self, aimlessly lost in childish naivete A whole planet ignorant, dancing to the drums of nothingness But will we care when the music stops and Hell knocks at the door? I doubt it. Paris burns, and even in Kansas City we shall dance on her ashes Ignoring the flames beneath our own feet. Why must the cub leave the den? Why should we care about the bombs raining down when our favorite show still airs? Why should we care for the soldiers rounding us up, so long as we see the game? The people on the television are our friends, the real world matters little We shall remain obedient as long as you keep our bread and circuses aglow. To those who see what I see, I caution this Care not for their divides, their clever tricks. Nobody is here to save you, not that we can do much. The poison is in our system, the cancer is already growing But do you wish to die free or as a slave? XXXXXXXX
Vacation Showers The sun shines brightly in the early morning, teasing at warmth in the middle of December. The excitement takes away any tiredness from my eyes. I walk through the living room, the freshly vacuumed carpet and the tattered pillows placed ever so thoughtfully on the couch. I don’t know why we still have those, they’re horrendously ugly and have worn thin as paper. Momma is in the kitchen, checking, double checking, and triple checking her to-do list. Nothing can go undone, in eleven days time we will be back home and if even a fork is left in the sink the whole trip will be ruined. The suitcases are ready to be loaded, positioned on the clean linoleum tile. I know which one is mine, I ironed on felt shoes to resemble the vintage ceramic collectibles displayed across my room. Daddy has already showered, I can tell by the warmth and slight wetness in the air. I pass the bathroom and the vent is on, my suspicions are right and the vacation becomes real. I can smell his soap, it wraps around me like a reassuring hug. For now, there is no worry about the road trip to come, or fear of a shark bite in the shallow beaches of Florida. All that matters right now is the clean masculine scent that flows out of the bathroom door and soothes my mind. Though life is always unpredictable, one thing is always constant; Daddy always takes a vacation shower. Vacation showers only exist in my memory, the calm masculine scent now replaced by a boyfriend’s soap. The ritual that I could once always rely on was left behind along with my shoe imprinted suitcase and family photos. The new scent hits my face and makes my nose tingle, and through the pain of the stinging fragrance, I find a new comfort. XXXXXXXXXX
Nature Walk Etrebatrum intementerum la notilicatum errit. Mul untiorbitis; novehenium, Catus laris; Catus consul videndam orenati miliem ex me enat vius; norunte bunume actumei stius vid imora, sulego C. Ideme menatifecri publiciorest L. Rommorum praelintem nu veri iam iuspero, more, nontem st aur, niam la te iam vil virmis, ut redissuliis
Chicken Noodle Soup for the Teenage Soul Winter days are filled bundled up in blankets and Baby Dill running laps in the yard until snowballs cling to the edges of her graying fur. The Missouri chill leaves your body shivering and hollow, the only thing that can fill the void is a hearty, steaming meal from the hands of someone who loves you. Some would classify my mother as an overachiever, taking on every task that comes her way because she loves the way people give her thanks through wide smiles, their awe beaming in their eyes. I would say my mother is just like me, a classic older sister who can’t leave anything up to anyone else lest they screw it up. Though my mother could leave any one of her millions of projects to anyone else, one must always fall on her; chicken pot pie. Chicken pot pie day only comes once every few months, the special occasion marked by the arrival of a family friend that lives several hours away. Chicken pot pie is an all day affair, everything is made from scratch apart from the Pillsbury pie crust, of all the things my mother is, she is not a baker. Everything is made with care and precision. The veggies and the chicken, cooked to perfection as the potatoes soften in the rolling water. The pie crusts are placed delicately into glass pans and filled with the mixture of veggies, chicken, and roux. Two pies are always made; one for dinner and one to save for the next day’s lunches. The house fills with anticipation as the minutes slowly creep on. Time starts to move more slowly, teasing our taste buds with the smells of a mother’s love cooked to perfection.
Bowls are filled with mashed potatoes, a thick slice of pie, and a generous ladle of brown gravy. The only correct way to eat the dish is to mix it all together to experience a true symphony of comfort and flavor. The lumps of potatoes stacked with chunks of seasoned chicken and corn excite my tastebuds. The crisp crust drenched in gravy combined with the softened crunch of green beans warms my belly and burns my mouth. We eat through deep breaths, hoping to cool down the bites we have already taken. We smile through the pain, eyes watering, all conversation focused on the work of art my mother has laid before us. No one mentions how the snow cakes the driveway or that the furnace will need more wood soon. No, instead we focus on the comfort of the moment. Isn’t that what we all do; avoid the negative to enjoy just a little bit of peace? What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of chicken pot pie. Madison Jolly
Sense Beyond Senses “The ethereal oneness of the letter sparkles the synergic significance where a single point in the universe contains all other points. Anyone who gazes into it can able to see everything in the universe from every angle simultaneously without any distortion.” Igniting his intuition the disciple opined in harmony with the hieroglyphologist. Perceiving the pacific philosophy of his master he asserted, “Each of the existences is a universe of atom, an atom in the universe!” Miracle of mindfulness was mediated by the mountain. One could receive the resonance, conceive the cognition, and perceive the presence only by knowing the language of the universe. Dr. Isaac Szerman, a hieroglyphologist, searching for spiritual sense of life, decided to go up into the mount aleph to meet the philosopher who was living in the mountain for years, sailing the soul to the shore of serene simplicity, searching the spiritual sense beyond sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch. Aleph was 7500 ft tall conical mountain located in the western reaches of the central highlands – lying about 7500 km southeast of the city where Mr. Szerman resided. The surrounding region was largely forested hills, tea gardens, with no mountain of comparable size nearby. The region along the mountain was a wildlife reserve, nurturing many species varying from elephant to regional tiger, and including many endemic species. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Eventually, the disciple and Mr. Szerman reached the cave of conscience where the philosopher used to meditate to explore the miracle of mindfulness. When the philosopher came to know the urge of Dr. Szerman he said, “Whenever the soul senses the urge of union, nature is always there to motivate the mind spiritually in the presence of the master of universe with the natural creations. The serene sense of being in nature explores the inborn identity.”
“I want to dedicate myself to sense the master through my existence,” urged Dr. Szerman. Sun was setting in the west. They eyed towards the shore of ocean. Touch of tenacious stream was reflecting the nature of solar ablution where the ethereal oneness of eventide exhales the celestial cerebration. Venus, as the evening star, welcomed them when they took their place seated under the light of thousand stars. “We all are a single landscape of all we have seen, a single soundscape of all we have heard,” Dr. Szerman said. “What we see is a drop what we cannot see is an ocean. The sense of sight is designed to see the light as a meagre entity sustaining the essence of eternal unity. The vision is limited to grasp the divine presence but the seraphic essence is over all vision. Each of the elements in nature to which our sight is ranged sustains the eternal equilibrium to be blessed by the master. We need to make use of every blessing of the divine art the master makes us see. We are an element of all that we can see. Eyes are the gateway to reach the soul to connect mind, brain, and body as a singular point to see the essence of the master that speaks through us where we have been looking for ourselves among the eternal elements,” rejoined the philosopher. They sat together outside the cave under the open sky, with their spine erect. “Close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, sense the touch, and feel the points of contact between body and surface.” Dr. Szerman was following the instructions earnestly. “Sense the sensations associated with sitting – feelings of pressuretemperature, atmosphere, and frequencies.”
Gradually, they became aware of the process of breathing. The mind and brain felt the miracle of being alive in the present moment by perceiving the process of breathing, focusing at the nostrils with the rising and falling abdomen. “Live in the present. Present is the only moment where no time exists. It is the single point between past and future. It is always there and the only point human being can access in time to conceive the language of universe, to perceive the presence of the master,” The philosopher asserted. Dr. Szerman was inhaling the infinite illumination of the singularity when he received the ray of his inborn identity. The sense of smell synergized him through the solitary search where he could restore himself alone. Self-awareness paved him the path to inner peace of insight. “The art of sensing the soul is to know thyself,” the philosopher said. “We think, therefore, we are,” Dr. Szerman exclaimed. The ephemeral essence of time was passing perpetually. The Earth was spinning around its axis, orbiting around the sun simultaneously. They were sailing towards the shore of divine sense beyond the five, existing in the sound of silence. “Silence is the greatest art of conversation. The sense of sound is signified by the silence where the master designs the universe beyond chaos. Nature is growing gradually in silence where the sacred touch of tranquility makes the whole world kin. We need silence to be able to touch the spirit of soul, to speak with the divine source because sound is our mind but silence is our being,” stated the sage. The sense of sound activated Dr. Szerman proactively. He noticed how nature – grass, trees, flowers - grows in silence;
how the stars, the sun, and the moon – move in serene silence. He contemplated that the rhythm of silence cat lyzed him to be merged with his own existence when he could hear the sound of a divine frequency, where none of his questions were unanswered. “Your thoughts emerge from the nothingness of silence as your very essence emerges from a sacred emptiness. Silence is the formula by which you can solve the enviable equation of existence.” Dr. Szerman was being merged by the shrine of spiritual serenity. The euphony of air, the sound from saplings, and the music of water designed a celestial soundscape for him out of belief and patience. “The divine design is the echo of our own deeds. The more we conscientious the more we sense beyond” They stood on their bare feet. Inhaling the inspiration by means of deep breaths they could activate the sense of touch through their feet on the sacred surface. “Getting in touch of our true selves – I, me, and myself – must be our first and foremost priority. This touch enables us to sense the almighty through his blessings – the surface we stand on, the touch of gentle breeze, the sense of seasons to feel the weathers,” affirmed the philosopher. “Rain and sun are endowed as divine touches to sense the master through our existence that make our field fertile and enable our sense of taste with nourishment and sustenance,” said Dr. Szerman. Experiencing the affluence of affinity that surrounds him at that moment, tears appeared in his eyes which is a divine gift, a signal of sensing the pure presence. Grace of gratitude was glowing in his face.
“Each of our journeys symbolizes one life, a single point toward which we are stepping onward to reach. The beginning of your journey in aleph was the birth of the line of your thoughts. The points of the thoughts have been integrated till now and will become a line of contemplation where you can sense the omnipresent utilizing the sixth sense,” declared the philosopher. He added, “You need to sustain patience to allow time to reveal the secret of existence on the right moment. The moment is gleaned by them who can attain the physical and psychological balance of life. The balance activates the mysteries of being simple, perceiving one single movement to survive as a uni – verse, scripted by the watchful protector of this universe.” “I am eternally grateful. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I will be restoring myself from the ongoing miracle of mindfulness, sensing the silent guardian through my eternal existence.” “May the sense beyond senses equate your existence to the essence of eternity.” Abdullah Al Moinee
Reclamation The weeds have conquered the train tracks. Fractured and splintered, the wooden trestle struggles to span the ravine, the boundary between past and present hidden under tangled briars, twisted like time’s trajectories. At the old station hotel, sunlight creeps through the cracks of boarded windows, reveals a broken guitar. The strings have snapped. They curl like tendrils, grasp for a song nobody can hear. Agnes Vojta
I Need a Wrist Strap for my Ice Axe Wearing a short dress and sandals, I step into the outfitter, ice axe in hand, and ask for a wrist strap. The questions begin immediately: What do I want with an ice axe? Don’t I know that is a dangerous mountain? A real climb? Wouldn’t I rather be interested in a nice walk? My bearded friends on the other side of the store watch for a while, amused, before they amble over to me. Suddenly, the wrist strap is no problem at all. Agnes Vojta
Coffee I pretend this coffee cup is your neck against my lips I sip as if your lips are on mine. Can we kiss forever? If I keep my eyes closed, the bottom of this cup does too. Ceramic subjected to my broken heart. I ordered bottomless but won’t pay the tab “Sure, I’ll have another,” and I quench my thirst for you. XXXXXXXX
Packing List The blue dress that has pockets for pebbles and shows off my legs. The sandals with the Velcro straps for the beach. The linen jacket for chilly evenings. A pair of scissors to trim lose ends. A map to know where the boundaries are. A mask to hide my true feelings. An adapter to understand your language. An icon of the patron saint of disagreements. A gift to appease the needy gods you worship. A calculator to determine how many apologies to exchange for my faults. A purse full of coins to purchase absolution. A spare heart in case mine gets broken. How to make it all fit. Agnes Vojta
Silent Whispers Unnoticed. The majestic hum of your ceaseless work Oh, how it soothes my tired, spent, aching body. Revolution upon revolution, a swift-acting motion. Your blades elegantly slice stagnant air. Efficiently, Mechanically, Perpetually… Unnoticed. Counteracting heavy oppressive heat. You are the sole source of relief, From unbearable humidity that clings to all. A shining beacon of hope repeling the fog of war. Unnoticed. A stalwart bastion against toxic accumulation. Tranquil artificial wind, disperses a frigid arctic breeze. Always persistent, a constant paradigm, flowing in cycle… Unnoticed. A final spin, so quiet, so calm. The shadow of reality sets in, Your chipped vanes granted eternal rest Silence like an empty hollow echo… Noticed.
A broken machine, rifting habitual nature. The heart and rhythm of any room, Supplying flowing currents of life Your absence acknowledged. Beckoning to return to glory… Unnoticed? XXXXXXXX
Innocence I am from pristine bookshelves, from creaky pencil sharpeners to crisp red apples (I was always afraid I’d find a worm there). I am from peanut butter jelly and carton milk, from tag you’re it and you can’t play with us. I am from hand-me-downs and Christmas-from-scratch –from Mommy crying through paper-thin walls. I am from eternal oatmeal and red-lettered bills, from living room camp-outs on blustery nights. I am from “time and place” and “not now”, from I love yous and I’m sorrys. I am from destroyed drywall and broken speaker boxes– he blew out seventeen candles– My brother’s tears glistened in the candlelight. I am from bathtub cabernet blackouts, From Marlboro lights and Benny Hinn. I am from fragments of stemware, firm hands pressed over my ears– my brother tried to wear my trauma for me. I am from hide and don’t seek, from pinky promise cross your heart and close your eyes– Small tacit agreements for the sake of innocence. XXXXXXXXX
ARTIST Piper Jeffries is a sophomore studying computer science who works with paper, pencil, and colored penicls.
EXHIBIT
Untitled The door to the guest bedroom slowly squeaked open before her. Quiet. Much quieter than usual. It was a year ago the last time the cheap stained wood door squeaked open before her. When it last squeaked open she was trying to get away from the noise of her grandparent’s household. Too loud. She loved her grandparents, but the house was too loud. Both are near deaf. Were near deaf, perhaps. The television blasted sounds of NASCAR and football 10 hours of the day. Couldn’t really pull him away from the tv, try as she might. Tvs weren’t supposed to make over 80 decibels, but the tv in the living room surely ignored that rule. It hurt everyone’s ears, but especially hers. The room was loud, but closing the door and covering her sensitive ears preserved her sanity. But now the room is quiet. Too quiet. The room still smelled of the same old paper and fabric. Oh, yeah. She read those books in middle school. That one in particular was a bit patronizing, but that one was good. The shelf that held them was coated in a thick blue paint. Unprofessional and gloopy, but it was the paint on the shelf in the guest bedroom of the room she often stayed in when she was younger, so it was endearing. The walls used to be wood panels, a decade ago. They’re warped and covered in thick and gloopy white paint, now. Did her mother do that? Her mother is great at painting things now. Uneven cheap wooden closet doors hung from a dented steel rail in the doorframe. One of the closet doors was open, ever so slightly. A huge coat, made of polymer and trimmed with faux wool, looked at her from within the closet. It used to fit a huge man. Her grandfather was huge. Obese, but like Santa Claus. A round belly that bounced when he laughed when she was a child. It was no doubt cleaned often by a tired, artistic lady carrying habits of decades past. Maybe she should have come around more often. But he liked watching tv. He said he was in pain and liked watching tv. Her grandma doesn’t like watching tv. Only Judge Judy now and then. Maybe she’ll come around more often. Noah Taylor