Nonfiction

She has just showered, and her hair hangs limp down her back, washed of the shampoo she waited five minutes, forehead against the cool tile wall, to rinse off. The sky is ink and charcoal, but then, it has been for hours.

My name is Giovani. I remember the filling of the snow falling from the sky. I come from Brazil, a country that has summer there every day for 365 days, the only place that snows is on the very south and that is not every time  that happens.

How do I know that this will ever be enough? I can’t picture myself settling.

Is it okay that I wish for my grandmother to die? 

I had this dream the other night that some object in outer space had been reflecting radiation onto certain people: just dissolving them painlessly into light.

Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river. I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow.

I saw a post on Pinterest today about how they want people to love the mundane things about them, and I crave that from deep in some cavernous region in my heart.

I like auditioning. I like it because it makes me feel special - I like the anticipation, walking in that room, and just getting to play what you've practiced. It's predictable. 

I was in love with him once. I think.

I only knew her for a couple months. But the way she spoke to me, the way we talked on the phone, it wasn’t hard to grow attached.

I’ve only seen the snow once in my life, when we took a family trip to Lake Tahoe.

Snow makes me feel sad. But also like I'm at peace. Almost like I'm dead. I can have so much fun in the snow with friends and all the activities there are, but it can be scary when you're alone. Snow makes me think; it makes me think hard.