Some souls come into your life just long enough to teach you something essential. During the pandemic, when the world went quiet and the streets emptied, she found me. Or perhaps I found her — a street cat with an injured leg and absolutely no intention of being pitied. I healed her leg. She healed something in me I did not know was broken. My sister called her Simbichka. I called her Semichka. She answered to both — and to neither — because she was a free soul from the very beginning, and we both knew it. She had this unique way of sleeping — curled into a perfect circle, paw tucked over her face, as if the whole world could wait. I used to watch her and think — what a beautiful way to exist. Completely, peacefully, unapologetically yourself. When the pandemic lifted and life opened up again, I let her go. Back to her streets, her freedom, her world. It was the right thing. I knew it then. But some days — like today — I miss her so much. Semichka. Simbichka. Wherever you are — I hope you are sleeping in a warm circle of light, paw over your face, dreaming of nothing at all. "I healed her leg. She healed something in me I did not know was broken."

The lake spread out endlessly before me, containing a serenity which I envied as I sank into the sand at the small lake town beach. Water rushed up to greet my feet, leaving my skin with a refreshed feeling as the wave raced back towards the endless shimmering mirror of the lake. Our lives are just like waves, I thought. One moment, we're rushing higher and higher until we think we're about to hit the stars, and then the next moment life falls into the depths of the ocean. A ripple of laughter broke through my thoughts and echoed across the beach from where a couple of kids were playing in the sand. The sounds tugged me back to my childhood when my two older sisters and I would build sandcastles, jump over waves, and return to the campground with sunburnt noses and inerasable smiles. I warmed at the fond memory, wishing I could jump back to those careless days. A black splotch of a bug puttered over my leg, drawing my attention. As its miniscule legs took small, determined steps across my skin, I fought the urge to swat it away. Watching it, I wondered what life might feel like if it were as brief as this tiny insect's lifespan. We would probably have a completely different perspective on life and how we wanted to use our preciously few moments. My mind began to wander again as I watched the sun slowly set. The faint energetic sounds of a long-forgotten song intruded upon my mental reflection, and I was carried back once more in time to church camp years ago as a kid, learning the steps to a dance and joyfully messing up each step. I could still hear the music, see the dance steps, and feel the joy of messing up as if I were in that moment again. Then it hit me. An overwhelming feeling of loss swept over me. It came to me that childhood was now a word of the past. I could never go back to those golden days, ones which I had not even noticed were so priceless in the moment. The song faded and was replaced by another song, but my mind was still a whirlpool of thoughts. When I think of the word childhood, images of me and my sisters innocently swinging on our beaten-up swing set, a sharp but comforting feeling of scraped knees, the cold, slippery taste of orange popsicles, and the smell of fluffily golden pancakes greeting my nose in the morning come to mind. These were all things that I could view as if watching a movie, or looking at old photos, but could never step into or recreate. I was hit with a tidal wave of grief, realizing I had never known the true significance of how irretrievable childhood really was. Another cold, clear wave drowned my feet, bringing me back from the undertow of forgotten moments. As all the streams of my thoughts connected, I contemplated again of how our lives went up and down like a wave, and it occurred to me that even though I could never return to that carefree world, I could still keep those memories close and use them as a stepping stool, so when the wave of life recedes, I'll stand a little taller, lifted by the memories which shaped me.

'Clear your mind.' What a strange concept. As if I have the ability to throw a switch and all my thoughts can be shut off. Like I should just turn a faucet and the continuous flow of distracting memories will dry up. Precious memories… like those of my unlettered Indian mother who emigrated to South Africa, and managed to raise seven children all on her own, with minimal help from my father. Relived moments of seeing her always busy and hardly ever resting – cooking dishes whose mouth-watering aromas continue to haunt me; frying off samosas and rotis that made the house smell like the best restaurant in the world. Or quickly baking a plain cake which she decorated with a jam spread topped with desiccated coconut. Painful memories of her beloved face saddened by some thoughtless thing I had said in anger; unbidden reminders of her tears flowing unhindered after receiving a few punches from my changed father; moments of grief at recalling her sitting up in bed, unable to sleep because of the unbearable pain brought on by her failing heart. Fearful memories of seeing her lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to a million contraptions, pipes going into her mouth, others snaking out from under the thin blanket covering her aging body after her triple heart bypass operation. Paralyzing thoughts that freeze me once again in that moment when I had visited her in hospital, crying silently at seeing her incapacitated, witnessing this woman who used to be such a tiny dynamo spinning with energy. My heart breaks anew. How can I ‘clear my head' of these, scatter the clutter like unwanted baggage? These thoughts are ingrained within my psyche; they have shaped my perception of life and people. These memories are the scaffolding that bolsters this house that is me. Pain is part of joy; gain is inseparable from loss. I turn on rainbow thoughts, rejoice in the colorful music of memory that spills over me like a deluge. Her generosity, kindness, forgiving nature, selfless attitude, patience, faith… these now remind me of the qualities that had defined her. A snatch of her mischievous laughter tickles my inner ear, brightens my soul like an exploding star. Memory speaks of her positive reaction to life, whispers of how even in her most grueling moments of pain she had not complained. My heart softens at remembering her unstinting love for all of us; constricts at the memory of her stern visage whenever any of us got into trouble. But most of all, my disorderly mind recalls two unforgettable things about my mother. How wonderfully beautiful she had looked whenever she had dressed up for an occasion. How fearlessly she had faced every uncertain day, filled with unabashed faith that all will be well. And it always was, and still is… For her spirit resides within me, within the atmosphere, and within the realm of dreams. Whenever life hurls nearly insurmountable challenges at me, her face swims into my consciousness. When I think I've reached the end of my fragile tether-hold on life, her courage and strength sustain me. If I feel overwhelmed by the world's sorrow, or become despondent because of rejections and life's myriad little disappointments, I envision her offering me the rolled up, hot, very first flaky, delicious roti she had fried. It was filled with sugar and the taste of this simple treat still serves as a healing balm. My mind may be cluttered, but this is one mess I'm not ashamed of. 'Clear your mind,' you say. Why should I do this, when clarity springs from the very disorder of my thoughts.

Childhood is a mosaic of moments—some vivid, some faded—woven together by laughter, dreams, and the boundless wonder of a world unexplored. In the small and quiet town of Bukhara where cobblestone streets met vast fields of wildflowers, my childhood unfolded like a storybook filled with adventures, friendships, and lessons that would shape my life forever. Hot summer days in bukhara were as a golden. My friends and I were wake up at dawn, eager to embark on our daily quests. The neighborhood became our kingdom, and we were knights, explorers, and superheroes all at once. We built forts from old wooden planks, raced down hills on makeshift carts. We jumped on the bed, feeling like a bird flapping its wings. One summer, we discovered an abandoned treehouse at the edge of the forest. It became our secret sanctuary—a place where stories were shared, secrets were whispered, and dreams took flight. With each passing day, the treehouse bore witness to our growing friendships and the silent promise that childhood would never end. The days were filled with laughter, adventure, and the kind of innocence that only youth can bring. I spent my mornings chasing butterflies in my grandmother's garden, where the scent of jasmine, and rose filled around the neighborhood. The afternoons I was dedicated to climbing trees, pretending as an explorer in an uncharted world. My friends and I were race our bicycles through winding alleys, competing to see who was the fastest, our giggles echoing against the walls of old houses.Despite the simple life, every moment felt magical. My parents worked hard to provide for us, yet they always had time for bedtime stories and homemade meals that filled our home with warmth. The Fall rains were our favorite season—we would dance in the downpour, splashing through puddles, never once worrying about getting drenched. One of my fondest memories was the annual kite festival. I was spend my days designing my kite, carefully choosing colours which reflected my dreams. On the big day, the sky were be a canvas of vibrant shapes, and I was watch my kite flitter feeling as if my hopes and aspirations were rising with it. As the years passed, childhood faded into cherished memories, but those golden days shaped the person I became. They taught me resilience, joy in simple things, and the value of love and family. Even now, whenever I see a kite soaring high, I am reminded of the carefree days of my youth, when the world felt boundless and full of wonder. Life wasn't always about adventure; my childhood remained in my memory like the lessons of innocence.My grandmother, with her kind eyes and silver-streaked hair, was my greatest teacher. She taught me the art of patience as we baked cookies together, the importance of honesty through her bedtime stories, and the value of kindness in the way she cared for stray animals. One autumn evening, I found a wounded bird near our house. I cradled it in my hands, unsure of what to do. My grandmother helped me nurse it back to health, and when it finally spread its wings and took flight, I learned that love often meant letting go. Childhood, though beautiful, is not without its shadows. The day my best friend Milly moved away was the first time I truly understood what loss felt like. We had spent our childhood years side by side, sharing everything—from comic books to whispered dreams about the future. when my friend left, part of my childhood left with him, our dreams were disappeared. But loss, as I later realized, was not just about saying goodbye—it was about carrying the memories forward. Milly's absence taught me that friendships might evolve, but the impact they leave remains indelible. As the years passed, the magic of childhood slowly gave way to the responsibilities of growing up. The treehouse stood empty, our bicycles gathered dust, and our games of make-believe were replaced by schoolwork and future aspirations. Yet, the essence of those years remained within me—a guiding light through the complexities of adulthood. Even now, when I walk through the streets of Bukhara, I can hear the echoes of our laughter, the whispers of old dreams carried by the wind. Childhood may be fleeting, but its lessons, its joys, and its heartbreaks remain etched in our hearts forever. childhood wasn't just about growing up—it was about learning how to dream. Because childhood wasn't just a phase—it was the foundation of who we were meant to become.

The day before the annual day function at my school, all the students were asked to wear the school uniform. After coming home, I listened to some music through the crystal radio (which I had built using a few inexpensive items). I switched stations and was informed that Jupiter would be visible today. So, I went outside, taking with me the homemade reflecting telescope that I had built the previous weekend. I was fortunate enough to see Jupiter and the rings of Saturn. The next day, I went to school wearing the uniform, but I was stupefied when I saw that nobody else was wearing the uniform. Eventually, I learned that the teachers were solely educating us about the school rules, but they were aware that no one would be wearing the uniform. Since I have autism and was an introvert without any friends at that time, I obviously didn't know that everyone else would be wearing casual dress. As I entered the school, everybody stared at me and I felt very uncomfortable. Then one of my classmates came towards me and asked why I was wearing the school uniform. The word "uniform" kept resonating in my mind, and suddenly, at that moment, a thought materialized. I replied, "But nobody else is wearing the uniform today, so look around you. It is no longer a uniform, at least not for today." And then everyone smiled at me. This incident happened during my 10th standard annual day function when I was 14 years old.

And there they were in Barcelona, looking at the world-famous cathedral. The photographer told them not to look at the camera, but there was no need. The majestic building was mesmerising and it was impossible to look away. But the guests forgot about the architecture and were staring at them. And what about them? They were having a wedding. Just like in his fantasy, just like in her romantic dreams. They said, "I do" and exchanged rings. He stood behind her and the wind blew her hair into his face. She could feel his warm breath and they both felt good. It was the culmination - there were no two parts, just one whole. Incredible emotions from a rich wedding and a woman he could only dream of recently - for his ego and the sentimental part that was ecstatic for the guests and the woman he loved. There were family, friends and prominent industry professionals. It was a victory for him. He couldn't contain his emotions - his cold soul was melted by the great success. His voice trembled as he spoke and a tear of joy dropped from his eye. "I am incredibly grateful to everyone here today for supporting both of us before we met," he hugged his lover tightly, “and after. You are an incredible people. This success is yours too! To all those who told me it was impossible, but continued to support me – you were with me in your hearts, even when my head was against it. I would like to say a special thank you! My love, I'm still in awe of how things have turned out, so I thank the universe for every second of it. We have come a long way but we are here today. All of us together. This is a new phase of life, but it's definitely better than the last one! Salut mi familia!” And now what? I don't know - he went to talk to his best friend. Suddenly A realised that he had been chasing something all his life. It didn't matter if it was material or not, but it was a chase of passion. But why think about lost opportunities when everything turned out in a way he could not even imagine? - Do you remember...? –B asked softly as if addressing the wind, not A. - Yes..., – A breathed out a little sadly. - What's next? - I hope this is the beginning. - New York? – B looked seriously at his interlocutor. - New York... The wind blew strongly, bringing with it the scent of September. They were lost in their memories – looked thoughtfully into the distance and became nostalgic. There was a lot to remember. Those distant, carefree days, 15 years ago, when they were just making a name for themselves, trying to prove themselves in school tournaments and leaving it late – exhausted but happy after such events. And when go outside, nature heals. On a warm sunny day and the crisp September air was filled with the scent of their friend's perfume. The trees, dressed in colourful garments, seemed to absorb the sun's energy, creating a sense of harmonious unity in nature. Birds were singing, some flying south. They quietly contemplated this beauty and gradually merged with nature. September was more anticipated than the New Year: the start of the school year, the end of the holidays and the shorter days encouraged us to get more involved in our work. Maybe this is the year we will be successful or victorious? With their dreams supported by their daily work, the days fly by for them. So the beauty around them goes unnoticed. If only this moment could last a long, long time... Then there was the university. Thanks to the Internet the best relationships have been established and consolidated. Not without face-to-face meetings, of course. During the periods when the pandemic was waning, it was possible to attend classes in person. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm for the educational process disappeared quite quickly, but the fact of going to university was quite pleasant. Most of all, they looked forward to the September evenings. A walk after classes on a clear day – people are coming home from work, young people are having fun and making noise, the first lights are shining on the busy highway, where premium cars are speeding along, ignoring the speed limit. They looked up at the clear sky, only the sun is setting behind the horizon, its last rays filling the buildings with orange light. Once a missile hit the schoolyard, burning the perennial maples, destroying the patterns and damaging the building. It was rebuilt many years later. And they are still there. Just like now, in September, it happened again. But it's not the same. These trees need several decades to restore the overall atmosphere of natural grandeur. - Don't think about it too much, – said V, who was the first to recover from the wave of memories. - I have done everything for today anyway! - Come on, let's go, they're waiting for us. And so began his dream life. After the official part of the wedding, the newlyweds and their best friends went to the Costa Brava. The picturesque road along the Mediterranean coast and the Porsche – it was an unforgettable moment.

Gayatri had a basement in her house. It was basically a store room for all the old discarded things. If Gayatri ever needed to replace anything in her house then first she would look for its replacement in the store room below and if found something useful then she would use it. One day, she realized that a bulb in her kitchen wasn't turning on. "Well it seems I am going to need a bulb", she said to herself, "Let's see if the basement has one." and she went to the basement. In the short time of her reaching the basement, all the sleeping old things woke up after hearing what she said. These things would always get excited when Gayatri needed something and they would get anxious to see who will finally leave the dirty store room. In fact, all of those things used to pray for such a circumstance to come when Gayatri will need something and finally they will be put to some good use rather than living there , because some of those things were living in that pile of garbage since a very long time. And among those very old things was an old dirty glass bowl. Aside from the fact that it was dusty, the bowl was actually beautiful. It was small and had designs of the flowers fantastically crafted on it! After knowing that Gayatri was coming down in the basement to look for something she needs, the bowl woke up from a long sleep and said to himself with deep hope, "At last! Gayatri is coming here after a long time! I wish at least today she will notice me in this pile and who knows? She might pick me !" Upon hearing these words, a lamp hung above the lying bowl, opened and rolled his 'flashing' eyes on the bowl, he laughed at the bowl's unrealistic hope and said, "Stupid! Did you not hear Gayatri's words? She needs a lamp at this moment and that's what she is coming to look for here, so obviously she is going to find out that I am a what she requires more than any of you. I will finally be free from this pile of garbage and live in Gayatri's kitchen to brighten up the surrounding! So tell me, bowl, how can you hope so foolishly for her to pick you? What would Gayatri do with you?" A smile appeared on the bowl's face by the lamp's question but the smile had a bit of sorrow in it. He answered, "My friend, Gayatri was just nine years old when her aaji (grandmother) bought me for her. She used to make Gayatri's favourite rice kheer and feed it from me to her. Gayatri loved eating by her aaji's hand and I loved watching them being so happy together. Some time went by and our beloved aaji passed away, both me and Gayatri were sunken in sadness. As the days passed by, Gayatri stopped eating kheer as her aaji was not there to make it and feed it to her which eventually made her ignore me. A few more months passed and while rearranging some of the things in the house, Gayatri's parents accidently put me in this store room, since then I have been living here. I still remember the laughter, the joy Gayatri had with her aaji and those memories are the only thing giving me hope that someday Gayatri will notice me and I will share those precious memories with her again.", the weeping bowl looked at the lamp and said, "You asked me what would Gayatri use me for? But my friend, sometimes the memories of the past attached to a thing are worth more than its use for the present." The lamp, after hearing this, regretted acting rudely with the bowl and in an instant he decided to make up for it! He flashed his light so brightly on the bowl that the light was getting reflected off its glass! At the same moment, Gayatri entered the store room. With light shining so bright on the bowl, she noticed the bowl first, not the lamp! She came forward and picked up the bowl. After staring at it for just few moments, her eyes filled up with tears... As if the bowl was radiating the rays of memories, she recalled all the happiness of the childhood and more importantly, she remembered the smile of her aaji, as sweet as the kheer she used to make. For her memories' sake, Gayatri decided to clean the bowl and take it with her. Before leaving, she also took the lamp but suddenly, the lamp went out! "It was working just fine when I entered!", she was confused and even tried turning the switch on and off but nothing happened, the lamp wasn't turning on. "Ah! It must have gone off just at this moment. Never mind, maybe I should just buy a new one.", Gayatri thought and left the store room with the bowl, but before leaving with Gayatri, the bowl expressed his gratitude to the lamp, "Thank you friend! I won't ever be able to repay your debt! But tell me, why did you turn off yourself on purpose when you could've also left this place today with me?" The lamp smiled and answered, "Because my friend, I realized my true purpose today! Instead of living upstairs, I would like to stay here and enlighten the priceless memories hidden under this dusty precious garbage!" And Gayatri shut the door of the store room. THE END.

When I was a kid, my father had to work hard to make ends meet. He loved to travel, and he looked for opportunities without spending a lot of money, usually by working while traveling for the job. Sometimes we traveled for months, unlike other people who had maybe 15 days per year of vacation. Dad and I were close; he often took me with him, especially to the sea. We loved the sea and fishing. Each time I went with Dad, it was an adventure because he taught me a lot about life, and respect, especially towards animals. He taught me to observe and appreciate how animals and people share the space and how we should live together. The summer of 1974, I was six years old, and Dad took the whole family to Colmuyao, a small town on the central coast of Chile. It is a humble and beautiful town, with very affectionate people, most of whom are farmers and fishermen. The streets are stone and earth, and the houses are adobe. Surrounded by trees and a beautiful river that flows into the ocean, the area is dreamlike. The weather there is usually cold and windy; however, I found it very pleasant. The beach is huge, with coarse gray sand that feels like a foot massage. Colmuyao was our paradise and whenever we could, we went there to spend some time. However, this first adventure in Colmuyao was burned into my memory, for a very special reason. When we arrived at the beach that day, we saw birds lying on the sand. My dad said, "Look! Those are penguins!" It can't be, I thought; they live in Antarctica. We approached very carefully, and there they were, calm and close to each other. As we got closer, they noticed our presence and began to alert each other. Imagine a hundred penguins rhythmically singing a song that is a cross between a trill and a squawk. Dad asked us to sit in the sand and move forward very slowly without making a sound. We were so close that we could almost touch them. They were beautiful birds; their black and white feathers were bright and delicate, and they seemed dressed for an exceptional occasion in their “tuxedos.” I didn't hold back my desire and I tried to touch one of them, which caused a colossal stampede of well-dressed birds rushing into the sea. It was a lot of fun to watch them run with their wings spread and taking small leaps. They are very brave, I thought; the sea was raging and very cold, yet they jumped in with energy and decisiveness. I impulsively wanted to go after them, but my dad stopped my madness. I was astonished. It was like being in the middle of a dream or with my own Jacques Cousteu filming a documentary. I would never have dreamed of being so close to such beautiful and rare birds. My eyes were filled with their deep colors. Every detail was amazing, and watching them walk with difficulty and then, watching them ride the waves and fly in the water at an impressive speed, grabbed my attention completely. I felt like I could stay there forever without ceasing to marvel. Every day, we revisited the penguin colony. My family and I learned to tiptoe among them, and we often sat very close to them. We never touched or hugged them; although we really wanted to, we didn't want to scare them and make them flee again. On another day, my dad and some of my brothers fished from the shore of the beach while my youngest brother and I played with the penguins. I can't remember exactly how it happened, but we found one with a wound on one of his wings. Dad took it carefully to the house where we were staying. The poor penguin was very scared. My dad cleaned his wound and bandaged his wing. For many days, the penguin was with us; my dad fed him fish while his wound healed. I spent a lot of time staying with him and many times my dad allowed me to feed him fish or other seafood. The first time that I fed him, he approached me very carefully, and with a quick big peck he snatched the fish out of my hand. That was amazing. After more attempts, he trusted me, and received the food with more confidence. Finally, after a few weeks, the penguin recovered his health, and my dad returned him to the colony. For a few days, we saw him walking among the other penguins, completely healthy. My dad had named him “Muñeco,” which means “doll,” in Spanish. I learned a lot about the penguins; actually, they've been one of my favorite birds since then. Seeing my father walk through the colony made me feel so proud of him and the time we spent that summer with Muñeco is one of my family's most treasured memories. Each time that I feel bad or wounded, for any reason, I close my eyes and take a trip in my mind to that beautiful beach. Surrounded by penguins, with my parents and brothers walking around that marvelous scenario under the cold summer sun, I always feel better. Colmuyao is my inner paradise, a place in my mind where I can run away when I need to find peace and gain balance again in my life.

Today is Father's day and apart from my own father, there is this person who is much more than a fatherly figure in my life. The memories with whom will forever be cherished by me no matter what. It was one fine day of April 2010. I was along with my dadajaan (grandfather) at our village house. He was teaching me in the guestroom when a relative arrived to meet him. My uncle brought snacks for the guest. They all sat together and then had the tea. After this, my grandfather and our relative had a conversation on various topics. I was also eating the savouries from that plate and had nothing to do with their talks. My seven year old self was busy drawing something on the notebook. Meanwhile, the guest asked my grandfather, "Master Sahab, Do you perform Puja? What's that?" On this, my attention diverted and went to the direction of his hands. He was referring to the calendar hanging on the wall. I looked at it carefully. I think I had never observed it like that ever before. The upper part of the calendar had Lord Krishna playing a flute and Radha standing beside him. Their pose was very pretty. It was a colourful image. Beneath the calendar, there were four pages which contained the dates and days. Overall the entire calendar was very beautiful. Dadajaan replied, "It is the current year's calendar. It has all the gazetted and restricted holidays written on it and contains all other related information." On this the relative said, "I am not talking about the dates and days written on this calendar. I am talking about the picture. You are a Muslim and there is this Hindu calendar in your house. Are you a devotee of Lord Krishna?" My grandfather replied to him in a very different yet smart way. "First of all, I don't know how to worship and since I do not know the method I obviously cannot perform the Puja. Second thing is that this calendar is just an inanimate object. And I honestly don't have any idea how a material like this can be assigned a religion? It cannot be called either a Hindu or a Muslim. It just looked very beautiful so I took it. Moreover, it was already having all the important days and events so why should I look for any other 'Muslim' calendar in another shop. And until this year gets over and a new calendar comes, we will be using this very calendar. I don't think there is anything bad in that." Although the relative was speechless and in deep thoughts for a moment but these things were not a part of any serious debate or discussion so they shifted to some other topic and the talk continued. Later on, for the entire 2010 that calendar beautified my house. But unfortunately the next year 2011 never got the opportunity to come into the life of my grandfather. I wish he was there for some more time. The father of my father. I could have learnt a lot from him.... Be it on life skills, secularism or anything under the Sun. I miss him so much!

Because I was eight years old and the only girl in the neighborhood at that time, my ten-year old brother always let me tag along with him and his friends. When the boys played baseball, my brother would say to me, “Hey Sis, you're so good in the field, go over to that spot and wait for a fly.” That spot was not just in “out” field, it was in “left-out” field. But, at the time, I was too young to realize what was happening and way too enthralled with the idea of being part of my brother's team. At the same time, my brother, Frank, although making sure I didn't get in harm's way or the way of the game, every now and then, asked his friends to hit a ball in my direction so I could “field” it. Naturally, that play never counted but it sure made me feel important and like I was someone incredibly special. Despite being only 27-months older than I was, Frank always found a way to do just that – make me feel special. However, there was one day in particular that, to this day, brings a warm feeling to my heart. It was the day we climbed the Iron Man. In a section of the park near our house, sits a statue. I didn't know it at the time, but the statue was and still is a memorial commemorating the battle between the U.S.S. Monitor and the Merrimack, which was fought in 1862. The Monitor was only six months old at the time of its sinking and the street on which we lived was named after the massive and historic ship. The statue is huge and made of iron. It depicts a man in a semi-sitting position holding desperately onto a rope that stiffly hangs just below the ship's deck on which he sits. This was a favorite place for the boys as they would climb the statue and sit for hours looking at everyone who walked through the park. From that height, a child felt you could see for miles. On one of my “tag along” days, Frank and the other boys decided to climb the statue. I stood at base looking up helplessly. I, too, wanted to climb the big iron man, but was too small to reach. Finally, my brother stretched his hand down. “Come on, Sis, grab hold. I'll help you up.” As I took his hand, he explained where I should place my little feet and what part of the statue I should grab to hoist myself while he pulled me up. Within seconds I was sitting in the lap of this great iron man. I was on top of the world. I looked around and as my heart fluttered with excitement, saw the wonders around me that the others had seen from such a great height for so much longer than I had. As the boys laughed and joked among themselves, I was quite content to sit in silent awe. Eventually, it was time for dinner. One by one, the boys climbed down. I was the last to begin the descent, trying carefully to place my feet around the iron man's wide arm. My legs were just a bit too short. I couldn't get down. My brother realized my plight and ran to help. “Hey, Sis, turn around and kneel on the spool. Wrap yours legs around the rope. Then hold on to his arm and let yourself slide down. Once you get low enough, let your feet drop and then let go. I'll catch you,” he said. While I trusted my brother with my life, I didn't trust my life with my little hands and legs. Frank assured me I'd be okay. He stood directly beneath the stiff iron arm. I knelt at the edge and did what my brother suggested, but with one added thing. I closed my eyes. If I was going to fall and kill myself, I didn't want to watch. Suddenly, I felt Frank's gentle hands grab me. “You're down, Sis. Safe and sound. Let's go home.” I opened my eyes, gratefully and happily, as Frank gently put me on the ground. He grabbed my hand to walk the short distance from the center of the park, across the street to home. It didn't matter to him that his friends stayed and watched. After all, he was the big brother taking care of his little sister. As we approached the parks exit, I turned to give the big iron man one last look for the night. As I did, I realized I'd learned some particularly important things from my experience. Although for a while I felt like I was on top of the world, I didn't need a statue to keep me there. My brother's love and protection did that better than artificial things could ever do. I didn't need to climb a statue to see the beauty and the wonders of the world. They were right before me – at my own eye level, in my mind and heart. As we grew, I married and moved away, my brother enlisted in the Army and was sent to Viet Nam. Although he returned after his Tour of Duty, he did not return whole. There was something lacking in his spirit. Years later, we would find out that he contracted the cancer that would consume him before his 51st birthday. Several decades have passed since then, and although Frank is no longer a physical part of my life, I think of him daily. When I recall that day when I sat atop a statue, I smile and realize: my brother was my Iron Man.

I didn't cry when she got sick, or at the funeral, or at the graveyard. I didn't even cry when my mother brushed the hair out of my still dry eyes and held me as the undertakers wheeled away her coffin. Mom never said it, but she hadn't approved of our relationship from the first moment I brought Elise home. It wasn't that she didn't like Elise. What was there not to like in smart sweet Elise? Mom had tried to understand us, I knew that. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The next morning, I awoke alone. The sun moved shadows across our bedroom while I just stared off the edge of my side of the bed. I was waiting for something, the smell of her coffee I think, but nothing came to snap me out of this fog. Was I supposed to be doing something? Breakfast, I guessed, though I didn't feel hungry; I didn't feel much of anything to be honest. I went into our pantry anyways and saw row upon row of canned sauces, fruits, and preserves she had prepared for the long winter ahead. The shelves were filled with Elise's preserves and her light curled handwriting. I picked up a Mason jar and stared through it without seeing the diamond shapes etched into the glass or feeling the paper label as my fingertips absently traced the word ‘strawberries' over and over. I didn't see the bags of flour and sugar or the boxes of her favorite cereal crowded together on the mint green shelves in the cramped little pantry. I was back in July, sweating as I hauled in another tray of fresh picked strawberries. She would have picked them herself like every other year if she had still had the strength. I smiled and laughed when I thought she was looking and stole glances at the scarf wrapped around her head when I thought she didn't see. I opened my mouth to ask her again why she was doing all of this and wouldn't she rather fly away somewhere to lounge on a beach? I closed my mouth without a word, we'd fought about it enough and her answer was always the same. “I don't want some crazy trip. That's not me. I just want every day I can have with you,” she would say. I knew she just wanted her life- a normal long life- and it was the only thing I couldn't give her. I hefted the jar turning it over and over in my hand, puzzled by the weight and feel of it like some alien artifact. The jar ate away the cold numbness wrapped around me and I couldn't push away the itching burning feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fist around the jar as if it and it alone had taken my wife from me. I couldn't stand the sight of the wretched thing, it brought anger to a boil suddenly spilling over onto my carefully sealed up resignation. I flung the jar with all my might at the pantry wall, red exploding over a bag of chocolate chips, syrup and glass and strawberries falling to the floor. A low guttural animal yell erupted as red as the strawberries and I hardly noticed it was me spewing anguish and rage at the rows of silent glass jars until my throat grew sore. I slid to the floor completely boneless without anger to hold me up, rocking back and forth holding my head with both hands as if it might come loose without a firm grip. My whole being shook, tears making cold splotches on my pajamas as I sobbed there on the floor of our pantry. I felt like my insides had all been scooped out leaving me hollow and empty, blankly staring at a bag of dried beans as if they could anchor me to the world again. The smell of strawberries touched me tugging me gently back, not to the world around me but further back to a moment with her. The bright sweet fruit conjured up that birthday cake she had made filled with our first strawberry harvest, and how we sang and kissed that night joyfully celebrating life. I looked up at all her jars: the tomato sauce recipe we'd spent years perfecting, the peaches from her mother's tree, the BlackBerry jam she hated but still labored over knowing it was my favorite. I saw her there, all her work and planning and love, every moment of our lives together laid aside here giving me a million tiny roads back to my life with her, if only for a moment- a taste. My vision blurred again as tears flowed, gently now, onto my cheeks. I nodded my head imagining her beside me, gazing at me with that secretive smile. I whispered to her, and to myself, “I see what you did, my clever wife. Thank you.”

It seems like only yesterday when my granddaughter, Stephanie was seven years old. At the time, my son and his family lived in New York making visits infrequent but enjoyable. Seeing them was always a treat. One day in 2005, almost became a disaster. My son, and his family arrived on a Saturday afternoon. While the house was in order and the bedrooms cleaned and ready for them, what I wasn't prepared for was Stephanie's loose tooth. My daughter-in-law wasn't too concerned thinking it would stay put for another two or three weeks, since it didn't seem loose enough to fall out. The plan was a week-long visit with me, then they would be heading to central Florida for a week with Joanne's mom, then back to New York. We did whatever could to make that week fun, interesting, and memorable. One day, we decided to make a trip to a local nature park where we would have the opportunity to see live animals: boars, cows, steer, birds, and alligators. We were all excited since we never had the good fortune to see these animals close enough to take a picture or two. We arrived at the park early and ate the picnic lunch we packed. Not long after we finished eating, it was time to turn in our admission tickets and board the sight-seeing bus for the tour. Anticipation grew. We were eager. But that turned out not to be the highlight of our week. We arrived home late in the afternoon and decided to make a cookout of burgers and hot dogs for dinner with a side dish of homemade macaroni salad. As my husband grilled the food, my daughter-in-law and I set the table. My son and his children were in the pool. Before I knew it, the day was done, and the kids were heading to bed. We four adults stayed up watching TV and taking about the shows we watched. We laughed and had a few great moments, then we headed to our respective bedrooms. Early the next morning, we were awakened by a loud scream. It was my granddaughter. Thinking the worse, all of us raced into her bedroom, expecting to see blood – or - or, we had no idea or what. What we saw was Stephanie standing by the bed, hysterically crying, hold something in one clenched fist. My daughter-in-law quickly wrapped her arms around her daughter and said, “Steph, what's wrong? Please tell me.” Steph pulled away slightly, unfolded her tightly closed fingers, and exposed a tooth! Her tooth! In between sobs, she said, “Mom, the tooth fairy won't know where I am. She'll never find me!” Joanne looked at me a rolled her eyes. That is what had my granddaughter so upset! We tried to console Steph, but it wasn't easy. Then, as if a lightbulb went off in my head, I had an idea. But it had to wait a day. The next day, thinking she'd never get her dollar from the tooth fairy, Steph tried to enjoy our trip to the wharf where we hoped to see dolphins in the harbor. We ate lunch at a local restaurant, walked around a seaside village and then headed home. It was obvious that Steph was trying hard not to spoil the vacation for her family but just as obvious that her heart was longer enjoying it. I pulled my daughter-in-law aside. “Let her stay up a bit later. You'll see why when she falls asleep.” Once Stephanie was asleep, I drove to the supermarket and bought a small bouquet of flowers. Arriving home, I wrote a note, “Dear Stephanie, I apologize that your reward for giving me another tooth was delayed. I went to your house only to find you weren't there. I went to your grandmother in central Florida. You weren't there either. Then, Bingo! Here you are in southwest Florida. I hope these flowers and your extra reward will put a smile on your beautiful face. Love, The Tooth Fairy.” My daughter-in-law laughed and said it was a great idea. My husband and son thought I was crazy. It was worth a shot. I tucked a $5.00 bill in an envelope (a bit larger than normal since the tooth fairy made Steph wait so long), put the flowers in a pretty blue vase, tied a ribbon around the vase, then leaned the envelope with her name printed on the front against the glass vessel with the flowers. Then I quietly exited the bedroom with my fingers crossed. The following morning, we heard, “MOM, MOM! Come look!” Again, we raced in the direction of her bedroom. She was holding her envelope and said, “The tooth fairy found me! She left me money and flowers! My tooth that I put under my pillow is gone! Mom, she found me! I don't know how she did it, but she found me.” My daughter-in-law looked at me and we shared a secret smile. My son and husband, looked at each other and I heard my son say, “Well, I'll be damned!” What might have been a sad week for my granddaughter's vacation, turned out to be a happy surprise and a moment to remember! Yes, what a moment and what a memory! Thanks to the tooth fairy and a supermarket that didn't close early.

Mom was only fifteen when she met my dad – to be more specific, when she first saw him. He was doubled over gasping for air, lying in the street when she saw a crowd huddled over something. She walked over to see what the fuss was about and saw what she described as the handsomest boy she'd ever seen. Dad's hair was dark-blond, and his eyes were milk chocolate brown. Her heart melted as she watched him struggle to catch his breath. He had been playing hockey with his friends and his stick hit a slightly raised manhole cover, got stuck, and as he tried to skate by, jammed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him causing him to curl into a ball and lie on the ground. Mom cried out, “Don't let him lie in the street. He'll get hit by a car. Carry him to the sidewalk.” Dad's friends first looked at mom like she'd lost her mind but then realized she made her point. The carried dad the few feet to safety. She wouldn't leave his side as his breath began to normalize. Mom held his hand and talked almost non-stop to help him relax. It worked. His breath steadied and soon, he asked, “What's your name and where do you live?” Mom smiled. “Mary and actually, just around the corner.” Dad walked her home and asked if she'd like to hang out with him and his friends later that night. “We're only going to the candy store for some soda; it's nothing special.” To mom, it was more than special. He didn't have to ask her twice. As I said, mom was 15. Dad was 14 but neither cared. They were inseparable as the years passed. Dad eventually joined the Navy and when home on leave, married mom. To say they were happy is a mild statement. Dad was mom's world and dad idolized mom. Their love was obvious to anyone who saw them look at each other. One day, tragedy struck. A few days before dad's 65th birthday, he had a stroke which paralyzed his left side. With therapy, he gained the use of his legs, but his left arm remained useless. That didn't stop them from enjoying their lives together. With a modified steering wheel, he was once again able to drive and took mom on many vacations which included Montauk NY, Virginia Beach VA, and Baltimore MD. When dad turned 71, he stumbled and fell. It was determined that he experienced a TIA – mini stroke. While dad lay in the hospital, an astute nurse noticed something with dad that wasn't quite right. She prompted the doctor to order a few tests. The diagnosis was stage 4 colon cancer. The doctor told mom that dad had about 8 months to live. We were horrified. Trying to extend dad's life, we agreed to an ileostomy but when it was performed, it proved fruitless. Dad died six weeks after that procedure. Mom was devastated. Not too many years later, I noticed mom began forgetting things. It was subtle but the signs were there. She repeated herself a little too often; she'd forget where she put her purse; she'd call me two or three times a day but never remembered why, etc. Eventually, mom moved in with me. Her dementia was much worse but still tolerable. She could hold small conversations and create full sentences. One day as mom and I reminisced, I asked her to tell me something about dad. She looked horrified as she asked, “I was married?” How could she have forgotten dad? Did she know me? I asked her who I was and answered correctly. That was a relief, so I backtracked to help her remember dad. “Mom, do you remember that handsome young sailor from years ago?” Within seconds, her eyes glowed with love and remembrance. “Oh, yes, my Frankie!” “Mom, he was your husband.” She sat there for a few silent minutes then in a soft voice said, “That's right. I married my Frankie. My sailor. How I cried when he got sick and died.” That was the last full sentence mom said. The dementia took hold in a big way. Mom died not long after. I was reminded of an old Buck Owens song, “Together Again”. Thank you, Buck Owens for writing and performing a song that has become so very dear to me as I think of my parents holding hands and walking forever side by side. For my mom's funeral, I printed a photo of my parents the last time they were together and modified Owens' song to read: Together again her tears have stopped falling; Her long lonely nights are now at an end. The key to her heart he held in his hands And nothing else matters they're together again Together again her gray skies are gone; She's back in his arms now where she belongs. The love that they knew is living again, And nothing else matters they're together again.

You never know how things will turn out or how they might affect your life when they do. My husband was one of nine children. While growing up, they were a very close-knit group of siblings. Once marriage and children began taking each away from the group, the relationships became somewhat distant. Several moved to other states, some were too busy raising their own children. Others, like my husband, were not telephone people. If someone called him, that would be fine, but he was not the kind to make the call. He still is not. All too often, one sibling would call the rest and relay any news but often, just to keep us all in touch. Through the years, as life demands, we all aged and, the siblings began to succumb to illness: one was by heart attack, another by complication of rheumatoid arthritis, still there was that dreaded cancer. Jerry left us a few years ago leaving behind two sisters and two brothers, one of which is my husband, Richard. When I married into the family, I was never treated as an in-law. I was treated with the same love, warmth, and respect as they treated each other but then, none of the in-laws were treated as outsiders. The family was always that close, even as the miles pushed us apart. As I said, Jerry left us a few years ago. When I met him, he was tall, husky (not fat just, well, husky), jovial, and loving. He lived in New York; we were and still are in Florida. While we did not see each other often, there were the monthly phone calls. Then the calls began to change. Jerry was diagnosed with cancer and it did not look good. His doctor said he might live six years, six months, six days. His cancer was aggressive. Jerry lived fourteen months. His son called a few days before he died, and I advised my husband to fly to New York. I was taking care of my invalid mom who lived with us and could not make the trip with him. Jerry died while my husband was there. It was almost as if he waited for his brother for a final goodbye. A few days later, my husband called and said he was on his way home and gave me his flight information. When I picked him up at the airport, he was toting a very, large box – one he did not have when he left. Jerry's urn? It was one of Jerry's requests that he be buried in the Gulf of Mexico, a place he dearly loved to visit, which he did as often as possible. The following day, Rich called his friend who had a gulf-worthy boat; ours was only for shallow water. John was eager to volunteer his assistance in this sad undertaking and said he would be honored to take my husband to bury his brother. The sea-burial was set for the following day. When Rich arrived at John's house with Jerry's ashes, John handed Rich a dozen long-stemmed, white roses. “You can't send him off with nothing. Hope these'll do,” John said. They were better than, “they'll do”. About two weeks later, we received a large package, delivered by UPS. It was a beautiful painting of a small row of houses set on the water. With it was a note from Jerry's children (all five adults) saying, “Dad never told anyone that his hobby was painting. He was always afraid of criticism. Going through his paintings, we found this one and we knew, since you live on the water and love to fish, he would want you to have it. Please accept this from dad and all of us in gratitude for everything you did for him and us while you were here. We all love you.” Each of his children signed the card. They could have kept the painting to remember their dad but chose, what, to others might have seemed a simple gesture of thanks, was, to my husband, a world of love. The painting hangs prominently on the wall in our dining room for everyone to see. It is just a simple reminder of the love between two brothers and the closeness they, with their other siblings shared throughout the years. While I was not able to attend the sea-burial, John was kind and compassionate enough to take a photograph for me. I did at the beginning of my marriage and probably will always feel, even after all this time, that being part of the Brennan family is something to be cherished, never taken for granted. We still have my husband, one brother, Bill, two sisters, Pat, and Joan. Phone calls are now more frequent and finally, finally after all this time, my husband (after slight encouragement from me) will pick up the phone and make those calls. We only live once and should vow to remain close to our siblings. You just never know how things might turn out and those we love will be taken from us affecting us in ways we cannot even at time imagine. So, my dear friend and brother, Jerry, until we meet again, even after these passing years, we still have your painting, the photograph, and loving memories of the wonderful person you were, a loving and caring man. Not a day passes that we do not think of you with love and affection.

The Conventions were friendly competitions that Accelerated Christian Education (A.C.E.) students from all over the world took part in. By attending these conventions, I got to travel outside my home country, Tanzania, and go to countries like Kenya (regional), South Africa (national) and even the United States (international). I got exposed to different cultures both inside and outside Africa and made lasting friendships with people halfway across the world from where I call home. The Conventions are places, like their motto goes: "where one week can last a lifetime." Come October 2016, I knew that this would be my final chance to make a mark at the AASC. How would I pass up such an opportunity? I had been practicing. I had been memorizing. And it all came down to this: will I bring home the gold, or will I be a mere spectator to surrounding victories? I was content to do whatever it takes. That year I did: Singing (mixed duet and small ensemble), Group Bible Speaking, Golden Harp (memorization of the book of Psalms), Preaching, and Expressive Reading. When I wasn't at singing practice, I was practicing my Expressive Reading, and if I wasn't practicing for that, I was at Group Bible Speaking practice (a Biblical theater form of sorts), and if I wasn't at either of those, I was memorizing yet another of the 150 chapters of the book of Psalms. The victory was mine; I could almost taste it. When our trip commenced, I was nervous, excited, and terrified all at the same time. I obviously could not wait to perform and put all of my hard work on display, but I was not ready for the rejection. “What if I don't place?” became a constant visitor in my subconscious. I knew I worked hard, but doubt has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. I was sure of one thing, however, because I had memorized the book of Psalms, there was one medal and ISC nomination out there for me regardless. This thought held me together throughout all my performances. And as Lorri Faye said, “even a single thread of hope, is still a very powerful thing.” Furthermore, by nightfall of every day, we all gathered for what we called “evening rallies.” I looked forward to these. The auditorium became filled with 1000+ students: chanting, shouting and just being themselves. I felt at home. I was surrounded by people who understood my joys and struggles both academically and spiritually. It was idyllic. As the Convention progressed and performances drew to a close, judges would welcome to the stage, students who did exceptionally well in different categories. These were called "command performances," and although it did not mean that these students placed, it was still a great honor. On a particular night, as we made our way to the auditorium, word got to my friends and I that our small ensemble group had gotten a command performance, and we were due on stage soon. “This is it,” I thought, even if they said we don't necessarily place when we got command performances, I hoped that we would (spoiler alert: we did). The thrill of being up on that stage with my friends, all eyes on us as we belted lyrics that we had worked long and hard to memorize was exhilarating. I felt like I was on top of the world, however old and typical that phrase is, I felt it that night. And it felt good. Soon enough, we had two days left and the Convention would be over. When Friday arrived, the air seemed to buzz in harmony with the excitement of the students. Piled to the rafters in the auditorium each one held their breath as the winners and runner ups for each category were announced. The memorization categories went first. I leaped from my seat as soon as I saw my name and by the time it was called out, I reached for my trophy with trembling hands and bowed my head as the medal was placed around my neck. Animated, I ran up to where my school was seated, everyone beaming and clapping me on the back, wishing me a hearty congratulations. I was happy. Moments later, the singing categories were displayed and I saw my name. Doing a double take, I almost tripped as I rushed down the stairs and into the waiting room. My friend Victor and I had placed second in the mixed duets category. Soon after our small ensemble group was called out, I went on stage to collect my third medal. It felt too good to be true. However, since it was my first time doing Expressive Reading, I wasn't as wounded when I didn't place. To conclude, they called out the names for the female preachers (a more recent development in the Convention) and imagine my shock to see my name on display. I got first place. I placed first. And I was in every sense of the word: elated. Shortly thereafter, the Convention ended and it was in every bit fun and nerve wracking. It really did last a lifetime. And even though that chapter in my life is closed, I now have “memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead.”