I hear the tick of a clock letting me know every second I am wasting as I scroll through my phone,

the slide of my finger against the screen,

the tap of my thumb as I message someone back,

artificial noise.

I can hear the TV in my living room that entertains my father for hours,

his laugh is heard over my music,

the clicking of the controller  when he switches through channels.

I can hear the gentle purring vibrating through my cat,

content at the bottom of the bed at my feet,

far away from the rest of the world.

The soft patter against the carpet of my dogs roaming the house,

the scratching of their nails is made against the door when one of them needs to be let outside,

gentle steps as they slowly get on the couch.

I hear the pages turning of a book my little sister is reading,

rustling fabric from the place she reads because she doesn't know how to sit still,

a sigh she has when something happens she doesn't like between the pages she turns.

I can hear my breathing slow,

mellow,

soft while I write compared to my normal stressed feeling.

The tap- tap- tap- of my keyboard as I write to you,

my fingers sliding to hit the next key,

the click of the space bar that I hit just a little too hard.

The dryer running that my mother just turned on,

and her shuffling feet as she makes her way to the kitchen,

the sound of her slippers as she steps onto the tiles.

I can hear a home.

I reach my limit from time to time.

whether it be at school or at home.

I reach the limit of what my brain can handle.

All of the noise of life becomes too much and I need to take a break.

I need to turn my ears off.

Let myself reset.

breathe

Peace.

breathe

Calm.

breathe

Silence.

breathe

All my emotions come crashing down

releasing the tension and burden of listening from my tired brain.

I cry.

I scream.

I let myself reset.

I finally am ready to put my ears back in and continue on with my life

knowing in the back of my mind that in about a month this is all going to 

repeat.

The morning bell rang

just like it always had.

Backpacks lined the wall,

bright pink, sky blue,

zippers half open

with pencils and erasers inside.

A teacher wrote quietly

on the chalkboard,

dust floating through sunlight

like tiny stars.

Some children whispered,

some laughed,

some traced hearts

in the corners of their notebooks.

They were thinking about recess,

about friends,

about going home

to tell their parents what they learned.

No one in that room

was thinking about war.

No one in that room

was anyone’s enemy.

They were only children

learning numbers,

learning words,

learning how the world works.

And then—

the sky broke open.

The chalk fell from the teacher’s hand.

The desks shook.

The laughter stopped.

Where voices once filled the room,

there was only silence

and drifting dust.

Now the playground waits,

swings moving gently in the wind

with no small hands to push them.

Notebooks lie still

beneath broken walls,

pages open

as if the stories were left unfinished.

And somewhere tonight

parents whisper their children’s names

to the stars,

hoping the sky remembers them

better

than the world did.

Dirt road, springtime

Air wet with snow

Evaporating,

Roads soft,

Like new petals.

Girl, brown hair

Pony tail

Chocolate eyes

Kissing at the corners

Running shoes,

A year and a half old

Black with a pink stripe.

Soft steps, soft mud

Winding road

From the white clapboards

And new painted blue window frames

And old yellow adirondack chairs

Down the valley.

Dog on the porch

Of the house down the road

Yellow clapboards

He guards the hibernating garden

With his black eyes

Like starry night skies.

Long steps

Following

The rhythm of endless playlists

In her earbuds.

Barking,

Louder than the playlists,

Past the earbuds.

She slips them out into

Her pocket

Steps slower

Smaller,

Pausing.

His steps bounce

Off the porch

Curls flying

Water flying

Mud flying

Towards her

He slows,

Circles her rubs his paws

To her legs.

Chestnut,

C’mere.

Sorry ‘bout him,

I should bring ‘im in,

Shouldn’t I?

The lady calls

From the green door,

White hair

Piled up with a pink clip.

The dog stays

Rubbing the girls leg,

Starry night eyes saying

You won’t make me leave.

Chestnut,

Let’s go bud,

Pink black shoes and curly muddy paws

Padding in the mud

To the door.

Sorry ‘bout that

It’s alright,

Pink and black shoes rock

Back

Forth

He’s sweet,

Thanks, and thanks for

Bringing her back.

The dog stays

Curled, unfurling

Slowly not wanting to leave

The girl’s side

Are you the girl 

From down the street?

Yeah,

I’m Becca.

Rock back

Forth

I’m Susan.

Hopefully I’ll see you around.

Flat feet.

You too.

Smile.

I am a thinker.

I think about big problems in the world and how to fix them.

Like climate change, evolution, the state of humanity as of now.

I write stuff down, half-finished thoughts scribbled, or typed on the page.

I think of ways we can solve these problems. Then I feel small. I get questions stuck in my head.

Who cares? How could this paper make a difference? I'm 15 what can I do?

Then I think about all of the people who are already fighting for some of the things I am thinking about. 

And that gives me hope to keep going. 

To try to make a difference.

There’s a quiet beauty 
in the things you know won’t last 
moments already fading 
even while you’re inside them. 

Like a perfect cheeseburger 
and a good New York Knicks team on the TV, 
sitting beside your dad on the couch, 
both of you pretending the season might finally mean something, 
laughing at the same missed shots 
and talking during commercials 
about everything and nothing. 

Or a melting ice cream cone
on a burning summer afternoon,
sticky sweetness running down your hands
while you stand beside your nana
who wipes your fingers with a napkin
and tells you to slow down
even though the sun is already winning.

Or the wild splash of cannonballs
into a hotel pool on vacation
your cousins shouting,
water flying everywhere,
the future still wide open then,
before time and distance
quietly turned all of you
into strangers.

Or that last awkward conversation
with your great-grandmother
the one where you didn’t know what to say,
where the room felt too quiet
and her voice too fragile,
and you thought there would be
another visit,
another story,
another chance to listen.

There’s beauty in those moments
because they are already leaving.

Because the burger gets eaten,
the ice cream melts,
the pool empties,
the game ends,
the voices fade into memory.

And only later do you realize
the real sweetness of it all

that you were there
while it was happening,
holding something brief and ordinary
that time would never give back.

He can see kids glowing in the kitchen, 
Hands sticky with sweet gossip, 

Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he, 
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on, 

Screaming for them to let him in, 
Let him sit with them one more time, 

Let him hear one more secret. 
And he cries: 

He cries all over his salty, bitter skin,
Because tears are the only things left

That taste like sugar.