Simple Moments That Make Life Memorable by Rachel Wermager

This collection of stories comes from three generations of women. The stories show the strength of a marriage and family, and how often these things are built on the simple moments that make life memorable.  

For Grandma and Papa: you showed me what love and happiness looks like.  

Grandma: I arrived with my family in Brady, Nebraska when I was a junior in high school. Naturally the first thing I did was look around to see what the boy situation was. When I first laid eyes on him I noticed his quirky smile and blue eyes. But, unfortunately at that time, those blue eyes were looking to someone else.

It wasn’t until after he graduated high school and went off to college that we went out ice-skating together. He was a perfect gentleman while we skated out at the river.

I guess we just clicked because we went together thereafter.

Continue reading “Simple Moments That Make Life Memorable by Rachel Wermager”

Untainted Memories by Kenzie Busekist

Gingerbread Wind Chimes

When we walked into the unfamiliar building I was confused. I was told we were going to see Mom but I didn’t understand why she was in this unfamiliar place when she could be in her bed at home. My stomach grumbled. I wished Mom was making fried chicken for dinner. Instead, we are in this dreary building going to visit her. It doesn’t help that it’s Christmas Eve. All these cheery decorations don’t belong here. There’s an odd stench that fills the halls. It smells like stinky feet and sadness. We turn the corner and I see her in a bed across the hall. The covers outline the silhouettes of her bony arms. She lies there perfectly still. The only sign of life is her bloated stomach moving up and down. Continue reading “Untainted Memories by Kenzie Busekist”

Two Bad Things by Nora Balboa

When my childhood dog died, I cried for three days.  During those three days, I probably slept a total of six hours.  I was nineteen years old at the time and had gotten that dog—Princess—when I was three years old.  I was devasted.  I could tell you exactly what I was doing the day that she died.  I could tell you that I had on my high school English honor society shirt.  I could tell you that it was roughly 9:40 pm when I let her outside and her legs stopped working.  I could tell you that when the vet told us it was time he was wearing green scrubs and that when she tried to look up at me for the last time as she went to sleep there was one brown spot in the white of her left eye.

When my grandpa died two months later, all I remember is that when my mom called me from the hospital and told me in a tear-choked voice that Grandpa was gone, I said, “Oh.” Continue reading “Two Bad Things by Nora Balboa”

Elegy for Full Caskets by Matthew Musacchio

when i am to die, because there is no if in the matter,

whether it be two days or two hundred years,

may it be on this ground or out in technicolor stars

like bars on the rhythm of this mortal coil

where i am to return to the earth or the sky

or to whatever god has hold of the chain

around my neck giving me such

terrible mercies as to break it

snap it.

when i am to die, do not bury me in this sweet mother

the soft dark soil that is the bosom of Gaia proper,

improper to profane such beauty, such grace,

think of each and every lover we leave behind,

dont make them fall on our caskets

reaching once more tugging at our necks;

think of the pain a eulogy would bring

no, i wont do it i wont knowingly do it

so if you read in newsprint memoria

“they were loved and remembered, service at-“

fuck that, know that i wouldn’t want to lie

sallow in dark suit pinned by carnation and

why couldn’t they at least be roses

rising and falling on wailing chests

please, i beg,

If one person sees me in that suit

surrounded by pine, opining that i

left too young

it wasn’t my design

know that i wanted my heart strings plucked

placed in an urn

and wrapped in the velvet of this poem

The Unfortunate Misplacement of Thumbelina by Liz Bregenzer

1. Can we even file a missing person report for a girl that’s 10-inches tall?

a. The entire police station thought this was a joke. When Tommie, a young, frantic mother, rushed into the building begging for someone’s help, the sheriff considered calling for medical transport. But then she produced a wallet-sized photograph of a wallet-sized girl, and that was when things started to get interesting.

2. Okay, ma’am, can you give us some information on your…daughter?

a. Name: Thumbelina Floweret

b. Age: 15 years

c. Height: 10 inches

d. Hair Color: Blonde, down to her calves, never been cut. Eyes: Blue, like a sky full of sun. Weight: a few grams? Medical history in the family: No idea, she’s not mine biologically, she’s mine by magic, by luck.

e. Last Seen: Sleeping in her bed. In the morning it was a crime scene: the walnut shell cradle gone, the rose petal blankets torn to shreds. A Thumbelina-sized hole poked through the window screen. Continue reading “The Unfortunate Misplacement of Thumbelina by Liz Bregenzer”

Small by Abi Grimminger

Thomas Fletcher could no longer remember when exactly it was that his light burned out. For now, he blamed God. Alright, no, it wasn’t exactly God that he blamed, though the guy wasn’t entirely innocent in this whole situation—that’s all Tom was saying. The blame, Tom reasoned as he unlocked the door to his small-town bar, should really be on himself, for not being strong enough to make it out of this town, for convincing himself to stay. Continue reading “Small by Abi Grimminger”

Grief: An Afterthought by Kenzie Busekist

His name was Austin Koehler. His hair was stringy and blond. He was the type of boy that was constantly dirty. It was fair to assume that his mom didn’t make him take as many showers as mine did. He was continuously on the go, always outside, just ready to explore whatever piqued his interest.

Austin was my next-door neighbor and neither of our backyards had fences, so he would always stroll over to mine. It was pretty obvious who had the better yard, because mine was home to a gigantic play set that had chain-linked swings and a bright yellow slide. Needless to say, he was over constantly—so much so that from time to time my parents would complain about his lack of parental supervision. I didn’t mind Austin being over all the time. He played the big brother role and showed me all of the things that I needed to learn in order to be a kid growing up on the south side of Lincoln, Nebraska. He showed me how to climb large piles of dirt and how to pump my legs back to get the momentum that allowed me to swing higher. Continue reading “Grief: An Afterthought by Kenzie Busekist”

The Way Things Are by Bailee Cofer

The smell of dog and discount laundry detergent

You don’t know how the other neighbors never seemed to smell it. The scent stuck to everything that came out of the house. The house that sat on the corner of the block in the middle of an affluent suburb in one of the safest cities in America. It lingered in Austin’s clothes and his hair, from the day you met to the day he disappeared. The smell of a mother’s house is hard to scrub off. Continue reading “The Way Things Are by Bailee Cofer”

Giova(n(o)n(n)a) by Giovanna Zavell

You will never meet the little girl who carries your name. You will never meet your youngest daughter’s daughter, or her son for that matter. Your husband will never meet his grandchildren either. Your grandchildren have had to learn what it is like growing up without a set of grandparents.

Your daughter’s daughter will never know who her grandmother is, who you are. Her Nonna. You never had the chance to hold her in your arms and shower her with warm kisses. You will never have the chance to tell her stories of living in Italy and what being Italian really means. She will know little about you because her mother does not speak much of you.

The heavy sadness of your young passing comes with any mention of your name. You were only in your 50s when cancer took over your body and forced your children to begin to learn what it was like living without a mother. And then, years later, cancer took over your husband’s body, and your children were left as orphans, filled with grief.

The only time your granddaughter will hear about you is when someone else is telling her how proud you would be of her. You will never be able to tell her these things yourself.

A few weeks before your granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah, your middle daughter, her aunt, suddenly broke down in tears and told her how strongly she wished you could be in attendance. Your middle daughter told your granddaughter that even though you wouldn’t physically be there listening to her chant her Torah, you would be there spiritually.

You wish she could hear those words of praise in your voice.

The first time your granddaughter asks about you is when she is assigned a family history project in high school. She knew immediately she wanted to talk about you and your journey to America. She knew almost nothing of her maternal family’s history at this point.

You grew up in a poor farming town in Italy. When your granddaughter asked her mother what the town is called, your daughter replied, “Nonna and Nonno are from the town of Carapelle in the region of Abbruzzo. That means you are Abbruzzese, or more definitively Carapellese.” You will never be able to explain the hardships you faced growing up.

Your granddaughter had to learn the correct pronunciation of the town you once called home. Before presenting her project, she sat at her desk, quietly mouthing the foreign word. Her mother told her about the suitcases you lost, filled with photographs and memories from the place you once called home. The lost suitcases were a harsh reality of leaving Italy behind and starting new in Chicago.

When it was her turn to present her project to the class, it took everything in her not to cry at the mention of your name. Saying your story out loud made your absence all the more real. Saying you were not here anymore made it hurt more in that moment than it had ever hurt before.

You will never be in attendance at family gatherings. The smell of homemade bread, sauce and cheese seep out from the kitchen. Your sisters are always busy in the kitchen, making sure platters of food cover every inch of every table. Your sisters’ cooking is the closest your granddaughter will ever get to imagine how your chicken Parmesan would have been prepared or how plump your gnocchi were.

Your voice will never be heard amongst the accents of other relatives that fill the air at these gatherings. The beautiful Italian language will never be heard coming from your mouth. Instead, your granddaughter hears you through the imitations her mother and aunts do of you. Whether it is a pronunciation of an English word with a thick, Italian accent or an exasperated gesture, your granddaughter sees the woman you were through your daughters.

Your granddaughter wishes it were you pulling her in for a kiss and calling her bella.

You are mad that your sisters barely mention your name to your granddaughter. In fact, they almost never speak to her about you. Whether it is because of grief, even though it has been decades, the three sisters go about their lives, as if there were never a fourth. It is as if ignoring the fact that you aren’t around is a way of coping.

There is a caricature of you that hangs in the granddaughter’s childhood home. It hangs in the kitchen, right above the bench seat she often imagines you sitting on if you were to visit for dinner. The picture is made up of less than six colors; gray, green, red and black. Your tiny body and large, cartoon-like head pop out of a gray metal pot, and you have a spoon in hand. The words just above your gray hair read “at’sa spicy meat sauce.” Instead of you in the picture, your granddaughter’s friends believe it is your daughter, her mother.

You passed away before your daughter married. Your granddaughter grew up with just one set of grandparents. She grew up eating her grandmother’s kugel, schnitzel and matza ball soup. She was even raised in their faith. Not yours.

You will never be able to have your granddaughter over for dinner to eat gnocchi, pizzelle and minestrone soup. You’ll never be able to teach her the ways of your faith, Catholicism.

Your granddaughter is hungry for more information, now that she is older. Your absence in her life paints you like a mystical creature. One who watches from above.

She calls her mother, whose voice echoes on the phone. “I blame myself for not telling you more,” she says. “You need to know where you come from and who your grandparents were.”

Your name is Giovaninna and your granddaughter was named Giovanna. Sometimes this is the only connection your granddaughter feels to you.

“Giovanna,” her mother tells her. “You have to pronounce it correctly. JO-VAN-NA.”