Made strong by kin's bond Roots endure, lasting and firm Strength for time beyond

When she feels weak, from the pressure of trying I try to remind her of her strength, And ground her while she’s crying.

Her head? Dizzy, trying to find the light in the dark.

Her eyes? Blurry, crying makes it hard to see.

Her arms? Heavy, with the weight of their emptiness.

Her hands? Restless, staying busy trying to forget.

Her chest? Weighed down, time is pressing.

Her heart? Bruised, damaged from crushing hope.

Her legs? Weak, from the effort of standing strong.

Her feet? Numb, callused from walking rough roads.

Her heart is an open wound, bleeding pain. But, I won’t stop trying, to dance with her in the rain.

Or maybe we’re just insane.

We try again.

And it hurts.

It feels like I’m being pulled apart, stretched so thin that I feel transparent, and aching in every deep crack this world has inflicted on my soul. I’m so certain that at any moment I will shatter completely, and when the world world sees the millions of shards I crumple into, I imagine they may wonder how I held myself together for so long. Every waking second is heartache, and every step forward is agony.

And yet, I rise again for another day. And the ache eventually eases, more of my calluses form, and I suddenly feel stronger then I ever have before.

I am stronger.

So maybe I’m not actually breaking, maybe…maybe I’m growing.

I told you I wouldn’t forget But time moves so fast And now I regret The parts that didn’t last

The sound of your voice Was what first faded I had no choice As my memory degraded

Next was your gait The way you moved through life All your little traits Cut away by times knife

Last was your smell But I sometimes catch a hint That scent I knew so well My heart has your imprint

In the end I am left With memories too few Times greatest theft Leaves broken wisps of you

Where do I go from here? Someone please tell me

I’m on my knees Full of tears

Where do I go from here? I know I’ve lost my way

Nothing to do but pray That I overcome this fear

Where do I go from here? I need some direction

Or maybe some affection Will help my mind clear

Where do I go from here? I feel so alone

Braving the unknown Trying to persevere

But where do I go from here?

Chest aching Heart breaking

Tears streaming Mind screaming

Body shaking Thoughts taking

Dark paths And wrath

Consumes me Cannot see

Any light Constant fright

Knowing I’m

Out of time.

Lucille, age 16, Fall:

Hey Diary,

Today in math class, I was assigned to sit next to the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen (you already know who I’m talking about.) Whenever I’m around him, it feels like a thousand winged creatures are trying to escape my chest. He has the most captivating bright blue eyes that I have ever seen. His eyes are so expressive, revealing every emotion. My favorite thing about his eyes is the way they light up when he’s laughing. As you know, he has been one of my friends (although not a close friend) for several years now. I’m hoping that we become better friends this year sitting next to each other in class. I just hope that he doesn’t catch on to how big of a crush I have in him. Maybe getting to know him better will actually help me get over my crush.

Lucille, age 16, still Fall:

Diary,

It’s not working. The more I get to know him, the more my crush grows. Not only is he so good looking, he is also kind, smart, selfless and so funny. And, he laughs at all my jokes, even when they’re not funny.

Lucille, age 16, Winter:

Diary!

Guess what?! We hung out tonight (in our normal group of friends), but he was talking to me more than anyone else. We all went for a walk around the waterfront, and we climbed to the top of that big fountain in the town square. When I was climbing down I got scared at one point, and I think he noticed because he took my hand and helped me down the rest of the way. I think maybe he also has a crush on me? I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I just can’t stop thinking about him.

Lucille, age 16, Spring:

Dair- Diary,

I…I don’t even know what to say. I’m so heartbroken. He…he asked my best friend to the spring formal instead of me. Was I wrong the whole time? I’m such an idiot. Of course he has a crush on her. She’s prettier, smarter, and much more popular than I am. Of course it’s her that he likes. I know this isn’t the end of the world, but right now it feels like it. I can’t stop crying. It feels like I’m dying.

Will anyone ever love me, Diary?

Lucille, age 16, Summer:

Dearest Diary,

I’m done worrying about boys this year, Diary. I only have one more year left of high school and I’m going to make it my sole focus to get into nursing school next year. It’s time for me to focus on me and my future. I’m done talking about him to you, Diary. This is my year.

Lucille, age 17, Winter:

Good afternoon Diary,

I’ve been doing well. In fact, I found out that I got accepted into a 4 year nursing program next year. I’m so excited to graduate and start my future.

I know I said I wouldn’t talk about him anymore, but I thought you should know he’s still in my life. In fact, he’s one of my best friends. I’m thankful to have him in my life, and I’m glad we didn’t risk ruining it by doing something crazy like dating.

Lucille, age 17, Spring:

DIARY,

He asked me to go with him to our senior prom! I know, I know…I’m not reading into things to much. I’m just so excited to get to spend this last moment of high school with my best friend.

Lucille, age 17, Summer:

Hey Diary,

I’m sorry it’s been awhile. I’ve been really happy. Me and him spent the whole summer together and he actually asked me to be his girlfriend. Of course I said yes, and I’ve been so busy and happy spending time with him that I completely forgot to update you.

I bet you can tell that I’m not as happy as I should be, right? Of course you can tell. Well, he’s going away to college in another state, and he left today. We’re going to try to do long distance, but I’m going to miss him so much.

Do you think we can make it, Dairy?

Lucille, age 22, Fall:

Diary,

I bet you thought I forgot about you, huh? I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long. The last few years I’ve been in nursing school, and I haven’t had much time to consider writing to you. I graduated earlier this year with my BSN and I have passed my nursing licensure exam. I’m starting my first nursing job this week actually.

And that boy with the bright blue eyes and beautiful laugh? I married him two weeks ago. I’ve never been so happy Diary.

Lucille, age 55, Spring:

Dear Diary,

Wow, it’s been a long time. It’s honestly a little surreal to be doing this again. I guess I’ll get right to it. I’ve been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. They said it’s progressing at one of the fastest rates they’ve ever seen, and there’s not a lot of treatment options for me at this stage. I’m so scared, Diary.

I mentioned to my doctors that I used to love to keep a journal, and they seem to think that it would be therapeutic for me now.

I guess I’ll start by updating you on what you missed. Me and the love of my life have stayed married this whole time. The two of us ended up having 3 children, two boys and one girl respectively. They are all amazing, and I’m so proud to be their mother. They’re all grown up now, taking on the world with a confidence that I envy. My children, along with my husband have become my whole world.

The thing that scares me the most about my diagnosis is that I might one day forget them.

Lucille, age 57:

My doctors told me to write about a happy memory today, but it’s getting harder to remember anything at all.

I remember a boy with blue eyes, dancing with me, spinning me around until I’m dizzy. I feel so safe in that memory, and it feels so real. I can’t tell if this is a memory or a dream. Regardless, I think I love that blue eyed boy.

Lucy:

There’s a blue eyed man that visits our nursing home often. He’s nice to all of the residents but it’s me that he spend the most time with.

He makes me laugh. I think I like him.

Thomas, 60, Winter:

My beautiful Lucy died with myself and our children at her side this past week. Her illness took her mind and body quickly, but it never took her spirit. I’m lost without her, but I know I’ll see her again one day.

I will see you again one day, my Lucy. I can’t wait to dance with you again, spin you, and hold you in my arms. You have my heart now and forever.

Love, Your Blue-eyed boy.

Art is powerful. It transcends cultures, languages, and race. It cuts across humanity to build a bridge, where we can all meet and collectively admire something beautiful. It is a neutral ground, where everyone can agree to meditate in peace. When I look at the man on the metro, playing music with a feverish joy, I can’t help but think of the beauty in art. I also can’t help but be reminded of the beauty in the world, and simultaneously its injustices.

My world is filled with brilliant colors, shapes and landscapes. My life is permeating with fragrant aromas, spices and scents. My world is saturated in interesting textures and consistencies. My existence is overflowing with joy, dancing, and love. I also live in silence.

I experience every sensation available to me at its fullest capacity. I live a complete life, and I have never before wished to change a thing about it. However, for some reason, many people see me as incomplete, because I am deaf. I have never seen myself this way. However, lately I have ached for the ability to hear in a way I have never felt before. My turmoil can be fully attributed to the man on the metro.

I do not know this mans name, and I have no way to ask him, though I wish I did. He is reliably stationed at the metro stop I use to get home, and I can’t seem to shake my fascination with him. His appearance in itself warrants attention, as he is very good looking. He dresses sharply, often in a suit, with his dark hair neatly styled. Depending on how bright the day is, his ensemble will sometimes be complete with dark sun glasses. Although he is very handsome, his appearance is not the source of my fascination.

He is always playing music, and never with the same instrument he had the day prior. This interested me immediately once I noticed it, making me wonder how many instruments he owns and how many more he might know how to play. Although this observation intrigued me, it’s also not the reason I can’t seem to shake the Metro Man from my mind.

The reason I can’t stop thinking about him, the basis for my aching heart and newfound discomfort with my deafness, is the way everyone who passes the Metro Man, lights up with joy. I can see how powerful his music is. It is written clearly on the faces and expressions of those who pass him in the metro. He turns mundane, solemn expressions, into smiles of joy. Those who pass by him, begin tapping their feet, swaying their hips and clapping their hands; his music brought to life. He creates a contagious energy in the melodies he shares. I’ve never wanted to experience something so badly.

I think my fascination is also fueled by the fact that I have no way of meeting this man, who has slowly, everyday captured my interest. I am extremely observant, so I realized immediately the barrier keeping me from meeting him. The sheet music in front of him is raised with Braille, a cane propped up against the wall beside him, and a well trained golden retriever sits next to him with a harness noting his purpose. I live in a world of silence, and the Metro Man lives in a world of darkness.

Despite the glaring difference keeping us apart, I imagine that the Metro Man and I are quite similar. His passion for his music is evident, and it mirrors my own passion for my art. The way his body relaxes and his expression grows distance as he encompasses himself in his music, is a physical manifestation of the way I feel when I am painting or drawing. And the joy he sparks in the people on the metro, mimics the reason I share my art with others. I want to ignite happiness, and I imagine the man on the metro does too.

Everyday I pass him, and my longing to meet him increases steadily. I wrack my brain, wondering if there could be a way for me to float a raft over to the island of his separate world. There must be a way for me to shatter this barrier between us. Eventually, my eyes wander again to his Braille sheet music, and an idea blooms in my mind.

I begin studying to prepare for the plan I have created. I purchase the necessary materials, and enroll in a class to take. After an excruciating long time of preparing, I finally have my message drafted, and I feel ready to set my plan in motion.

It’s a dull and cloudy day, when I finally muster the courage to approach the Metro Man. His dark sunglasses are absent, and when I get close to him, I can see that his eyes are a brilliant blue color. I take a few steps closer to him. He is putting his guitar back in its case, packing up for the day. I can tell by the expression on his face that he has heard my approach. He smiles at me, pinning my location with skilled accuracy. I watch his mouth move and I read his lips. He has said hello to me in a friendly greeting. Before I lose my nerve, I gently place my Braille message in his hands. I watch his face contort briefly in confusion before his fingers move over the letter in a skilled flurry. His face slightly scrunches in concentration as he deciphers my message.

Once he finishes reading, his expression turns to understanding. I hold my breath, waiting for his reply. I have told him in my message that I can read lips, so he can reply verbally. I am greatly taken aback when he hands me the Braille pad and proceeds to respond to my letter in sign language. His response lights my heart with joy. When he ends by asking me a question, I respond by nodding my head before I remember that he can’t see me. I instead articulate my response in Braille. He smiles when he sees I have agreed. With delicate fingers he touches the features of my face, ‘seeing’ me in his own way. When he is done, he signs back to me: “Beautiful.”

Hope warms my soul. With this slow, patient conversation, we have chipped away the barrier between us. A deaf girl and a blind man find a space to exist together. Immediately we bond over our immense similarities, and our love for art.

We continue to talk like this eveyday, and eventually our relationship becomes unconditional friendship. He shares more of his music with me, and I share my art with him. We can’t experience the others gift in the traditional way, but I can confidently tell him how I sense his powerful music through the reactions I see in others, and he sincerely informs me he hears the beauty of my art in the praise of those who see it. We do not need an interpreter, we just experience each other in a different way.

Overtime, our relationship transforms into something indestructible and eternal. We succeed in building something far stronger than the obstacles between us. The Metro Man and I, fall in love. More importantly, we rest in love. We exist in love every moment, marinating in it, and seek ways to share our wealth in it with the the world.

I’m standing on a beach, my callused feet sinking into the soft sand beneath me. I’m staring at the sunset, as the cold waves crash around me. With each wave, the water gets closer, and my feet sink deeper. The sky is painted with every shade of red and orange. Everything around me is reflecting in a gold-colored hue. As the sun is swallowed by the ocean, so am I. I close my eyes and I try to think of him; and in doing so, I must think of the things that happened before.

‘Before’ can mean so many things to me. There are some days when I wish I could live in the ‘before,’ because that is where I can still find him. Some days, like today, I let my mind pretend that I am. ‘Before’ is where he is healthy, happy, and chasing me along this same beach, our beach. ‘Before’ is where he and I lay on our beach to look at the stars at night and contemplate how many of them might already be dead. How fascinating I find it, that many of the stars we see at night have been dead, burned out, long ago; and yet we still see their light long after they are gone. Staring at dead stars feels like staring into a past that continues to light the future. ‘Before’ is when he tells me he loves me, and no matter how lost I ever get, he will be there to come find me and bring me home. ‘Before’ is when he is laughing – So often he is laughing, filling the room with his joyful spirit. What I try not to think about is why he is gone. When I let my mind drift to the memories of his body breaking, I can’t help but be swept into it, and it again feels like I am in those horrible moments.

It all begins with him breathing heavier, walking slower, and struggling to make it up the stairs without becoming breathless. He tells us all that he is fine, but ‘I’m just trying to catch my breath’ so quickly turns into, ‘I can’t breathe.’ And suddenly, he is in the hospital, fighting for air. The doctors are perplexed, and so am I. So many machines assist him as he slowly suffocates, and the sound of those machines will haunt my nightmares. I visit him daily.

At first, he is awake, with a tube down his throat and unable to speak with words. Nonetheless, his joyful spirit remains intact. He and I play board games in his hospital room. He pretends not to notice while I cheat. Periodically, he writes me messages on a pad of paper. His horrible penmanship never improves.

The first time his heart stops, I am startled by the sudden onslaught of alarms and lights coming from the monitors above his bed. Immediately a hoard of doctors and nurses come sweeping into his room, ushering me to stand against the wall. No one seems to be paying particular attention to me as tears begin streaming down my face. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep the scream forming on my lips from making a sound. I let my back fall against the wall and slid down it until I am sitting with my knees curled against my chest. I feel my heart caving in. Just when I think my world will break apart, I see that the team of people crowding his room have restored his heartbeat and given him more time to live. Still, I don’t let myself breathe deeply. Someone, a nurse I believe, silently places a glass of water in my hand. I stare at it listlessly. Finally, because it is something to do other than marinate in my pain, I take a drink. The monotonous act is a shattering of sorts, breaking the chains around my mind and allowing me to imagine moving forward. In that moment, I feel the tugging in my heart, urging me not to give up. He is not gone, not yet at least, so therefore I must continue as well.

Next, he is on his stomach with his feet in the air, suspended to give his lungs the maximum opportunity to fill with breath. I speak his name, but he does not respond. He has been asleep for weeks now, sedated to keep him from the panic. I continue talking to him regardless, hoping a piece of my words might reach wherever his mind is resting. I hold his oversized hand and I sing our song, just like he used to sing to me.

Then, we are all crying. A nameless man in a white coat says it is ‘the end.’ “However,” he counters, contradicting his own words to give us a feather of hope, “we have a Hail Mary we can try.” I don’t know what ‘Hail Mary’ means, but I have a feeling it isn’t good. In fact, the ‘Hail Mary’ gives him only a few more days. More than anything, it gives me the chance to see him awake one last time.

In ‘the end’ I am surprised to see his eyes open, head held high, and a pensive expression on his face. He tries to smile for me, but it does not reach his eyes. He has a large tube coming out of his neck, red fluid leaking out all around it. He still cannot speak; his tongue having died with the last of his words weeks ago. He still cannot breathe, the tube in his neck now making breathing unnecessary. What horrible, despicable irony it is that he will never have the luxury of taking a final breath or saying his last words before he is taken away from me. Instead, it is a machine that has the last say on a life cut too short. We are both crying as my gaze collides with his. He begs me with his eyes to understand something important, but I can’t interpret the message. I tell him that I love him, thank him for all that he has given me, and promise that he will never be forgotten.

The man in the white coat is back, standing at the door. His head is down, shoulders slumped in defeat. He keeps whispering “I’m sorry.” I find it odd that this man I do not know is apologizing for the nightmare I am living in. I find it hard to blame him when I don’t even know his name, but I do it anyways.

The sun shines brightly through the windows of the hospital room, mocking us, and contrasting the pain storming like thunder in our hearts. I am angered by this. This moment, cloaked in sadness and suffering, deserves to be echoed throughout the world and reflected in the weather. Nevertheless, the sun keeps shining.

There is a woman in the corner of the room. She has one hand over her mouth, her other hand and arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She is trying to physically hold herself together, but that isn’t possible. She is shattering. She makes a noise that is the most heart wrenching sound I’ve ever heard. It’s the sound of a mother losing her child. In that moment, I know that her pain, at least, will be echoed through time; colliding with the pain of every woman who has ever had a child ripped away from her. She sinks slowly to her knees and breaks apart. The severity of her heartbreak is diminished by the cacophony of despair already present in the room. Children cry for their father, a wife cries for her husband, siblings cry for their brother, and I am paralyzed. I try not to let this moment define me, but I know I am destined to live in it. I am a snow globe, trapped inside my memories, periodically shaking them to see if I can view them in a different light. Maybe they’ll become beautiful if I can just shake them hard enough.

Back in my present on the beach, I shake my head and try to pull myself away from my painful memories. But despite my best intentions, as my feet sink deeper into the sand and the water rises around me, I continue to think about ‘the end.’ I think about the look in his eyes as I said goodbye, the tears that streamed down his face, and the pain of things unfinished clenching the muscles in his body. I sink even deeper, and I begin grasping for something to hold on too.

Finally, I think of the stars. I think of the light that we see even when a star has been gone longer than we will ever know. I think of him chasing me, running, smiling as our feet hit the sand. I think of being lost, and the comfort of knowing that someone will care to find me. I think of his laugh. I can’t even remember the sound of it anymore, but I still remember how it made me feel, how it filled me up with joy. I think of the look on his face as he sang our song to me. How the beautiful words made my heart dance. I think of him dancing, pulling me into his arms, and spinning me until I’m dizzy.

I think of a little girl falling off her bike, tears streaming down her face, but strong arms wrap around her and pick her up.

“I’ll catch you if you fall.”

I think of a late night, stopping at his office on our way home. He hands me a large, decorative, metal key. “What’s this?” I ask him.

“The key to my heart. Keep it safe for me.”

I think of love, and how simultaneously beautiful and cruel it can be. Love has destroyed me, but it has always been worth it. My life has been built and broken by love.

Still sinking on the beach, I look up at the sky and notice that the sun has set long ago. I can see the brightest stars making their appearance, speckling the night sky. I think about how he is exactly like them. His light will keep shinning and lighting my way long after it burned out; my certainty in this comforts me. He is a star, and I am the sand, destined to be crushed by the waves and swayed in whichever way the tide takes me.

My feet are still planted in the sand. I continue sinking deeper, but I have not yet sunk. My head is still above the water, and I intend to keep it that way. I will not be taken under. With this decision made, I climb out of the sand. With great effort, I am able to pull my feet free from where they have taken root. I wade out of the water and walk back into my life. Back into the ‘after.’

A winding staircase, that you cannot see the end of. A long hill, that does not have a crest. A vast dessert, with no hope on the horizon.

Different landscapes, with the same feeling. Trudging through life, enduring pain, persevering, hoping for relief that we cannot perceive. And suffering.

I continue to step, one foot in front of the other focusing only on what is at my feet. I ignore the hopeless horizon. I ignore the scorching pain as I continue.

It’s only when In my weakest moments

That I Look up And see That I have not gone very far And I have eternity to go

And I Know that I Cannot continue Enduring this pain

And so

I

break.