How do you stay there?
In a city that doesn’t exist anymore.
Drowned under bike lanes and condos
Do you know people struggle
to pinpoint my accent now
they ask “Where are you from?”
– New Orleans?
– One of the Carolina’s?
– Chicago?
I would joke and say “no, Atlantis”
Because my city was flooded
By faces who turn red in the winter
Reminding me of you,
A Cherry blossom,
That would bloom,
Every spring

Do you remember how it started?
For us, it was a knock on the door.
Answered by my father,
On the other side, A man
Who’s hair barely clung to his scalp
They had A conversation
That started with “good morning”
Included A “thank you”
A “you’re welcome”
An envelope,
A deed,
A polite smile
And ended with a closed door
My father turned And said
“we had to leave.”

I thought of the homeless men
The ones who would blend
into the walls outside of gas stations.
And carried a chime of “hey, heys!”
As we walked in. It was common to see them
And ignored their asks of “something’s”
their voices sounded more like compliments
Saying “you’re doing better than me
And you have what I need”

Is that what we looked like to them?
Sounded like to them?
our new white neighbors
The ones who forced us to leave
Were we now the Beggars saying
“we belong here”
“It’s our city”
And what would that make you?
A tree,
still standing
Still growing
under a no loitering sign
That was only meant for me

You stayed,
Roots dug in the dirt deep
To a city that would throw away people
Before flowers,
Uproot the blacks
Leave the trees

Is that why we left?
So easily
Without a fight
Packed up our whole apartment
Our life and pride in boxes
And left empty
In the night

I grew up in a city
That built a country
That was stolen
And stolen again
And no one talks about it

Even now,
when I say the name,
People tell me how much they love it there,
And it hurts to hear.
Makes my tongue swell in my mouth
Pressed against the roof of a house,
We don’t own.
Pushing my teeth like doors or windows,
Begging to be let out or in.
Clintching my jaw like locked keys
Holding in all the things I want to say
And swallowing them down
to the bottom of my throat
a basement
Now stored with questions
That I can only ask you

Dear Pink Tree,
Do you remember our city?
The taste of mambo sauce
dripping off chicken at grandmothers house?
Or the sound of the live band music
forcing you to beat your feet
against the concrete?
Or the sight of fishing boats that would dock
And sell their blue crab cheaply?

Of course you don’t remember
You were one of the beautiful things they kept,
The rest of the city drowned
Under bike lanes and condos
Flooded in the sounds of
Smiling “Good mornings”
Instead of empty “hey heys!”
A city filled with grateful “thank you’s”
And happy “you’re welcomes”

That welcomed a tree,
But not me.
I wish you luck with your new neighbors
Keep blooming for them every spring
So you won’t be uprooted in the end

Sincerely,
An old friend

Your body—a microcosmic ecosystem,
an orchestral orgasm where every resonance
sings in harmony with your heartbeat.

Your mind—a slippery survivalist,
a battle between contours,
the subconscious reflected
in every perception,
every perspective.

This is
your history to rewrite,
your legacy to ignite
in each breath,
each moment.

This world as you know it
exists only while you’re in it.
So own it.
Mold it.
Rock n’ roll it.
Do unto life and love as you feel fit.
Say what you wish and see what becomes of it.

Life is like your favorite pair of shoes.
Every step you take is in the right direction,
Even when you’re hesitant.
Growth.

Sometimes, you may get a little worn,
Maybe scuffed, but you don’t give up.
Just buy some cleaner
And brush the battle scars off.
Resilience.

Then grab some polish to shine them up.
Good as new, on to new beginnings.
Persistence.

Why throw away a perfect pair of shoes because they’ve walked a few miles
And don’t smell as fresh as they used to?
You could easily keep using them to step over obstacles and remain grateful for what they’ve gotten you through.
Reflective.

When time-worn, they’re at their best because you’ve lived some life in them.
The lessons learned through many journeys is what makes them your favorite.
Wisdom.

Hello World!
Last year on June 30th, I lost my sister unexpectedly. Thirty days later I lost my dad to cancer.
In December of that same year, my husband lost his mom and dad nineteen days apart. They’ve been my family for over forty years.
My sister and dad were two completely different types of death, two different kinds of grief, and all of these deaths were too close together to grieve each one in the way they deserved. But as time has passed, I’ve been able to grieve them individually.
With a lump in my throat, I search for words that will send love, support, and encouragement to all who are grieving, have grieved, and to those who will one day.
It’s a universal human experience and we will all know it intimately.
I begin my letter to you with this… I don’t believe there is a “grief expert” who can tell us how to navigate this very personal experience. However, I do think that sharing how we feel with others who are also grieving can be helpful.
My recent experience has taught me that we all accept, process, and learn how to live with loss in our own time.
That there is no right or wrong way to do it. That we all need to be free to experience grief in whatever way helps us move with it.
Note: we do not get over it or move through it. There’s no other side.
We move with it. It changes, we change, and we move together – us and grief. But it’s okay if you don’t move for a while. If you need to stay still for a little bit. I did.
Nobody can advise you on what to do, how to feel, or where you should be in your experience so don’t ever feel like you “should be” …. (fill in the blank)
It’s all up to you and these things will happen just as they should. We can see this when we lose a family member and notice how each person grieves in their own way and in their own time.
It’s so important to respect and support that. To give each person the time and space they need without question.
Someone once told me that, “grief is as unique as our fingerprint and no two people will experience it the same”.
I’m so happy to share that with you because it gave me so much comfort in my early grief and continues to do so.
It’s been a little over a year now, and I’m still grieving my family although the heaviness of it has lifted.
The pain and sadness are much lighter now, even though it feels deeper if that makes sense.
At first, everything was so heavy and on the outside. The memories were of death. The tears were falling whenever I spoke of them.
But as time passed, I began tucking pieces of the good memories inside for safekeeping and could speak of them without tears.
Sometimes, the memories will show up randomly and I smile because I’m so grateful for them. For the love we shared.
And now when I cry, my tears feel more like soft rain – not a raging storm.
As I sign off, I will leave you with this… even though it feels like you are not supposed to be happy or you shouldn’t laugh because they don’t get to anymore, even though it feels like you don’t know how to be in the world without them – like you no longer know who you are or what you want to do, things will get better.
They will never be the same, but they will get better. You will learn how to navigate life without them physically present. They will still be with you but in a new and different way. They never really leave you all the way.
You’ll see, I promise.
Love,

Oh, Life! What are you to me, as young as I?
Should I grace you to see the days go by,
Or see my loved one born, grow, wed and die?
‘Tis sad that my contrast feelings are tied.

Don’t mistake me for I am grateful,
But could I tell others that you’re faithful?
Could I tell them that their dreams grow graceful?
Would all hard efforts not be wasteful?

Folks, perhaps we confuse you so much with Fate,
And our dreams or goals may come another date,
Yet we thought our actions determined our State,
In the end, it’s our realization come late.

Oh Life! What, as young as I, are you to me?
Ups and downs as difficult you could be.
Would things get better? “We’ll just have to see.”
If dreams or nightmares happen, then c’est la vie.

I hope this translates well because my knowledge of languages other than English isn’t that great.

Alright, no pressure—just a message for the whole world. Here we go…

The beauty and cruelty of life lie in its unpredictability.

One moment, you’re on top of the world; the next, you’re doing everything you can to hold onto your sanity. Tomorrow, you could meet the person who changes your life forever, or you could lose a loved one.

There was a time when my life was going well, and then a laced joint at a party threw me into the depths of despair. I didn’t know the joint was laced with PCP, and it caused schizophrenic-like symptoms for six months afterward. I ended up in and out of the hospital for suicidal ideation seven times in just a few weeks and felt as though my life was crumbling beneath me.

With the help of meds, therapy, and amazing family and friends, I survived.

During that time, I relied on the Japanese craft and philosophy known as Kintsugi. While a bowl broken in half would usually be discarded, in Kintsugi, it is repaired with gold lacquer, making it even more beautiful and stronger than before. Philosophically, a person is never fully broken. You can overcome the worst of life and come back more resilient.

I thought I had faced my hardest battles, but 18 months later, I needed Kintsugi more than ever. My sister was my greatest example of resilience, and the events that followed would test my strength in ways I never imagined.

Despite living with Loeys-Dietz syndrome—a rare connective tissue disorder that mainly affected her heart—she never let her condition define her. She battled through two collapsed lungs and an open-heart surgery, where she was fitted with a cow valve. Yet through it all, she lived life fully, becoming a well-respected doctor, a loving wife, and an incredible mother to her two children.

Her strength was inspiring to everyone who knew her, and we believed she had overcome the worst when she made it through her second open-heart surgery.

But life had other plans. Shortly after returning home, a blood clot to her lung took her from us, leaving a void that will never be filled. She took the philosophy of Kintsugi to the next level—her resilience knew no bounds, and she left an indelible mark in her short 41 years.

I draw inspiration from her during the lowest times of my life and am grateful for the 32 years I had with her. I once told her in a poem, “With every day I’ve got left, I will make you proud, so that when we meet again and embrace, you will know that you were never forgotten.” I strive to live my life with purpose and meaning, not letting its unpredictability get to me.

The message I want to send to the world is this: Never give up. Don’t let your worst moments break you. Let them shape you. Let them teach you. And most importantly, let them remind you that even in the deepest pain, there is still the possibility of redemption.

Cluttered rooms, Book stacked like towers. torn pages peak out from haphazard piles, the scent of age paper hangs in the air. Each spine a loud whisper, bearing the suffocating weight of untold stories. Admits the noise, knowledge pressing down, heavy like stones. Relentless questions gnawing at my temple. Anxiety wrapped tight around my fragile heart. Reading Epictetus. Dim lights bounce off my curiosity. what does it mean to stay a student? I questioned. Each misstep a doorway, each failure leading me deeper into a labyrinth. Shifting through rubble. Buried beneath echoes, lingering in silent thoughts. Sorrow broke through every crack upon the clay flooring. The soul, a canvas smeared with grief, each stroke a challenge, every question an engulfed flame of understanding. Burning my guilt of propaganda. What will I cultivate in the haunting chaos of my thoughts? A seeker in shadows the rawness of being alone. A clarity nestled into a breath, a compassionate connection. Existence woven in threads of knowledge in a world that I question if it aches for wisdom?

My Russian-Polish immigrant grandparents lived on the 12th floor of an old brick high-rise towering above Avenue R between Ocean Parkway and Kings Highway in Brooklyn,New York. It was the 1950s: a promising black and white cookie decade when good was good, bad was bad and people believed in something bigger than themselves.

Over school vacations, my parents threw the five of us into the station-wagon. We clamored for the back-back, not the middle seat, then sat squished together, unbuckled and fortified with treats. This was before seat belts, Ipods and TVs for mobile entertainment. Dad drove the distance from Massachusetts to Manhattan on friendly local roads, rambling through small towns sprinkled with stop-lights, penny candy shops and open public restrooms. Later, these back roads were replaced with major highways, cutting travel time in half. By then, we were grown and scattered.

New Americans were hard-working folk. My Grandpa,The Tailor, schlepped around his industrial sewing machine mending and stitching seasonal jobs. During one slow season, he made each daughter-in-law a raccoon coat. Decades later, when wearing animals was boycotted, these coats disappeared. During the coldest east coast winters, I often wished I could don one. Just the thought warmed me up, reminding me of a certain kind of familial love binding generations.

Grandpa played the accordion by ear, ate a loaf of marbled rye daily, and smoked heavily even during a bout of pneumonia while attached to an oxygen tank. He had the enthusiasm of a toddler. Once, while visiting the suburbs, he mounted a two-wheeler belonging to his youngest grandchild, then took off, riding gleefully, fast up the street for a spin. A raging argument about safety erupted inside the house around the kitchen table. We were not debating the use of guns. “So he’ll die doing what he loves,” spoke the Voice of Reason embodied in his youngest son, The Artist, usually the quiet Dreamer.

In his mid-80s, Grandpa rode the subway late at night to turn into a Ticket -Taker at a dimly lit red-curtained movie theater on 42nd Street in Manhattan. Years later, we grandchildren realized it was not a full-featured cinema, rather an X-rated porn palace.

Mugged once,Thugs took his watch, shoes and cigarettes. When they told him to strip before their get-away, he pleaded with them to leave his clothes behind so he could go home clad. For some reason they agreed. A bit shaken, but unharmed, Grandpa got back on the Q Train rattling his way back to Brooklyn, barefoot.

My Grandma was a Lady. The Wise One. The Queen. Her name gracefully fit her like snug leather gloves, a flowing floral duster clinched at the waist and a petit string of pearls. She worked at a women’s and girls’ clothing store owned by my Eldest Uncle, fittingly called The Adorable Shop. On Fridays, Grandma punched in and out early, working only a half day so she could go to the Beauty Parlor for her weekly wash, set and fresh red manicure. Only to walk home thereafter to cook a chicken dinner, looking beautiful.

At home, she ruled her roost, keeping a rogue husband and three wild sons who shared one bedroom in line, sometimes with only her voice or a look. Other times, with a spoon or rolling-pin.

A cracker-jack Mahjong Wiz, Baker of butter cookies that became a local coffee shop favorite, Grandma too was a heavy smoker and black coffee drinker, always carrying Chiclets in her bag. She had sparkling blue eyes, jiggling arms and a heart big enough to hold us all: ten grandchildren–half boys, half girls– even those unruly and out of control. She taught us to play cards. We all adored her.

Grandma always asked me, “Are you happy”?

It was an impossible question, too broad to interpret or answer.

Never wanting to disappoint, however, I usually replied,”Yes!”  Though once, heartbroken after a bruising breakup, I lied. “Of course”, I muttered in a crackling voice. Seeing right through me, Grandma wisely said nothing.

Regarding my future love life and life at large, Grandma later advised :

 ” Always dress nicely, wear clean underwear and smile”.

 “Who knows?” she proclaimed,

 “You might get into an accident – god forbid- but the person who hit your car might ask you out for dinner… you just never know who you might meet,” she continued, then paused….

Fifty years later, I remember that moment clear as seltzer:

while uncharacteristically batting her eyelashes–

My Grandma, coyly and emphatically concluded,

“even when you take out the trash”.

Dear Human,

I hope beyond hope this letter is finding you well. I have been watching you for a long time now. I understand that sounds creepy, and I apologize for behaving in such a socially unacceptable manner.
The reason I have been watching you is this: You are struggling to see the value in YourSelf.
I understand this, as I, too, have struggled to see the value in MySelf.
For a long time I battled with The S.A.D.S. “S” for “Sincere”, “A” for “Anguish”, “D” for “Described”, “S” for “Shallowly.”
S.A.D.S. and I were not great friends, however I always found MySelf craving its comfort. It was always there when I had no one else. It never left me, never made me do anything I didn’t feel like doing. All it really required of me was to be in bed. Which, that’s kind of nice, right?
I couldn’t get away from it. It wanted me near it. It wanted me held hostage in its soft comfortable safe cocoon. I loved it, the doing nothing.
I hated what came after. After I was forced to exit my safe hovel by being invited out by “caring friends”. Every time I was invited out, I hated it. I disliked it so much that eventually, I stopped going. Excuse after excuse: Sorry, I’m not feeling well! Oh no, my vehicle is in disrepair, I apologize! So sorry, I need to stay home and take care of my sick cat.
I do not own a cat.
Eventually, the caring friends that wanted to check in with me and make sure I was doing OK stopped calling. They stopped texting, messaging, and video-chatting. They ceased their attempts to participate in any form of communication with me.
This made the S.A.D.S. hold on me all the more stronger. Soon, not only was I staying in my comfortable bed, but I was also no longer doing anything that previously brought me even small amounts of joy. For example, I no longer sowed the seeds of various fruits I’d eaten to attempt to grow them in my garden (I was successful once!). I no longer held myself up on my hands in order to test my strength. I no longer wrote words on a blank surface as a form of self-expression…this was the most devastating of losses. Not writing words, no longer writing my stream of thoughts out in the form of poetry, prose, and other delicious word-art, caused me to become lost.
Lost. This is what The S.A.D.S. wanted most of me.
Once I was sufficiently lost, it was very hard for me to find my way back. I attempted several times. I drank various tinctures and teas, I ate many delicious foods, and I watched a lot of crime entertainment. However big (or small) my attempts, I always found myself in a ball under my covers, bawling.

This is embarrassing to admit, but it took a very long time for me to ask for help.

I was certain I would crawl my way back to myself.

I had never been lost for too long before.

It was so long that, when I finally called on one of my caring friends, she informed me she had a baby. That was a shock. I cried.
She came over, with her baby, a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a pen and blank surface.
Her baby rolled around the room happily while we wrote. My friend would ask me prompts, like, “What makes you feel empty,” and the reverse, “What makes you feel full.”
She spoke and I wrote. We went on like this until her babe needed food. She hugged me before picking up her baby and leaving. When she hugged me, she whispered in my ear, “You can do this. Please don’t leave again. I believe in you.”
I stood there behind the closed door. I let her words somersault around in my brain. I sat down, picked up the pen and blank surface, and wrote.

This is what I say to you now, dear Human.
You are more than you believe yourself to be.
You matter, dear Human. You are worthy of your friends’ wanting to spend time with you.
You are enough. What you are doing in this moment is enough. Even if you’re reading this letter in your underwear and eating icecream out of its container (I’ve seen many humans do that in situational comedies).

I know you must be shocked. I came here to meet with your world leader and, “This is what this alien chooses to say?”
Yes. This is what I, an intergalactic being who has traveled to hundreds of different galaxies, choose to say.
It is the most important thing to say.

Thank you for existing.

Best,

Zenna

How sacred it is to be able to think-
To be sentient and corporeal.
When your veins tingle;
visit roots in mind’s memorial.
Touch your feet upon the bare earth,
Yet be mindful of parking lots-
Glass or nails can hurt.

Open eyes to gaze at the sky-
Be bold enough to see,
To know you know nothing, yet you don’t need to know why.
Stop and smell the roses-
Or honey suckle, blackberry bushes too..

Come days end: only your soul knows;
When you lay down your head
When you reflect on the days end-
Is your heart heavier or did you lighten the load?

Did you live in love-
Exist outside of yourself?
Did you stop to smell the roses?
Through all sacred thoughts of the day,
How will they replay in minds memorial?

How sacred it is to have lungs;
To breathe in the ancient air.
Oxygen molecules pre-existing,
Your need for breath.
Did you stop to breathe in the universe?
Have you taken a moment to marvel and dance in the rain?

When your skin feels tight;
Breathing seems like a task,
When your veins tingle or bones ache;
Did you work to make peace with your pain?

How sacred it is to be able to reflect;
When you’re well and able,
Take a moment to see the ripples-
That you’ve started in your day-
Take that moment to protect,
Your own peace of mind.

When that door of opportunity closes
The gates that unlock;
Will unfold in your open eyes,
If you remember to stop and smell the roses.

How real and divine-
To be blessed with your very own mind.

-Hillary Rosenthal