from the ashes

NOVEMBER 2015

pulling yourself from the chaos, rebuilding yourself from the ashes is the challenge.

you need to find a reason to escape the rubble.you need to find a reason to be revived.

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A Man Standing Alone in the HallwayJeremy Ber

Smoke TransformationSonnet Yardley

Qu’est-ce elle voit?Alexandra Carroll

Soundtrack on RepeatBrian Lee Klueter

GasolineSummer Weiss

From (not -)Normal to ExtraordinaryPatricia Guild

Goodnight MoonArmaan Sanghera

phoenixphoenixphoenixJade Rector

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Some advice my grandfather gave me as we walked through the library on a Saturday afternoon I thought to be valuable: Any many who doesn’t believe in ghosts hasn’t reflected on his life. That was 43 years ago, and though I didn’t fully understand it, I willfully ignored the sentiment. It wasn’t until last night that his words came to me in a dream.

My bed was Victorian with a large headboard, and sometimes it sounded like a man groaning as I shifted awake at night. These noises sometimes kept me up as I contemplated getting a new mattress. Last night, around 3 in the morning, I heard the noise again, the same one my headboard makes from time to time. It was coming from the downstairs, distinctly. I heard echoes off the sink and refrigerator. My eyes peered open, half asleep. I wasn’t sure I should get up, it was probably nothing. Twenty-five min-utes later, exactly, the house groaned again, louder. My eyes peeked open wider, completely open now. Through the half-open door I saw the light from the hallway was on. Must have forgotten to turn it off.

I lifted my blanket off and got out of bed, groaning with it as I moved towards the door. The switch was old, needed to be replaced. It had elec-trical wires sticking out from the top that had a thin layer of dust protecting them. I turned the light on and stood in the hallway for a beat, listening. From the hallway I creaked down the hardwood towards the stairs, my Old Navy sandals clickity-clack-ing with each step. At the top of the stairs, I

stood for a moment and listened for the noise again. Silence. What am I doing? I had asked myself this many times throughout my life. When I met my wife, when we had the kids, when I was fired for crying at my desk, the time I drove five hours across the Massachusetts freeway to escape my thoughts--it had all been for naught.

An abruptly loud knocking in-terrupted my thought. It sounded as though it came from the front door. It’s 4 am, this must be important. I flipped on the lights to the main room and headed down. I rubbed my eyes and opened the door to my home. Absolute darkness met my gaze as I looked outside. It was as though there was a thick cloud of darkness outside of my home, I couldn’t see any neigh-boring homes or street lights. That’s odd. No one was at the door.

It was already 5am, so I figured I might as well start the day. In the kitchen I felt the gaze of someone staring at me through the window. I couldn’t see a figure through the dust, but I could feel it. Not wearing my glasses, a sense of uneasiness crept up my back. In a daze, I felt compelled to the front door, as if a magnetic field was pulling me. Opening the door again, the darkness was gone, and I could see the street lights and houses that occupied the street. “Hello?” I breathed into the cold October air.

“It’s good to see you,” my grand-father said, as if he was standing right next to me. I didn’t jump, but rather felt a calming sense of relief that he was there with me. My life had cul-minated up until this point, with the

hardships behind me and the good times ahead, my grandpa made sure that I knew it was okay to move on again. On the front porch, black dust accumulated in an organized fashion, as if from a spout or an urn. “We’re so happy you’re doing well. Are you ready to go?” my grandfather asked me in the same way he’d ask me when I was young.

“Go? Go where?” I was talking to a pile of dust which was now a formidable pile that took up a good portion of my porch. Bending down, I stared deeply into the pile. And from the ashes rose a shape, like a busi-ness card, only it was blood red and written in white ink. It said one word: Happiness.

“Go on, take it,” grandfather ad-vised. I could feel myself getting light headed. Reaching for the card, I felt an immediate drop in blood pres-sure. All around me were the ghosts of lost relatives and friends. In the distance I saw my beloved children animated in static. My limbs felt weak and I couldn’t move. The children were looking at me and laughing with Grandpa. I tried to shout their names but couldn’t. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them.

It was then I released the card and I was jolted back in bed. It was 10:00 am and I was late for work. My wife and children had been killed by the hand of my grandfather 7 years ago, yet their laughter sounds loud and clear in my dreams each night.

A Man Standing Alone in the HallwayJeremy Ber

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Smoke TransformationSonnet Yardley

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I.Each breath in my lungs expand fullerEach beat floods my chest, radiates liquid light.I can do anything- “Si vous pouvez voir, il y a un moulin à vent à gauche la”It’s an old windmill – not one of those wind turbines Ms. Catherine says ruins the Conference of Birds. It breathes- slowly, creaks a voice of an old tree. Beyond which lies fields and fields and fields of mustard flower. “Qu’est-ce c’est la fleur la?The color is not my dreams, not golden fields glistening and burning in the sun.It’s real – a slash of neon against human earth tones

II.The lone drip plunges into the tepid bathSound diffuses in the thick atmosphere.Blears the scuffing footsteps on the ugly green tile. No breath.

III.An open hand waiting for me to grab.

IV. Pruned fingers suffocate.I wish they would hold me under untilI inhale a gulp of water.I want my larynx to spasm.To snap shut my trachea in its last ditch attempt to save meAspirate water- I want the spasms to become shorter.And to stop.I want my lungs to fill with water.

Qu’est-ce elle voit?Alexandra Carroll

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She asks you over for dinner after marching band practice because she knows you’re too shy to ask her out yourself.

When you knock on the door to her apartment, you no-tice your hands are sweaty, and they leave a small imprint of moisture against the beige, metal surface.

She opens the door and is wearing jeans and a Flubber t-shirt. You’re relieved you didn’t overdress, wearing a plaid flannel and jeans. You’re one white bandana away from looking like David Foster Wallace. The top button on your shirt is tight around your neck, so you undo it.

She says hello and smiles. You feel your face turn red and your organs implode. Sweat beads form on your neck.

You walk into her apartment, and the table is already set. There’s steamed broccoli, rolls, and grilled chicken. The air-conditioning cools you down. She places a hand on your shoulder and motions you to the table.

The food is okay, but you don’t really notice, because you’re too busy looking at her face and the way she smiles, and the way her hair swings around when she looks up to the right to think about something you’ve said, and the way she wipes excess food away from her face with a napkin, and the way she does pretty much anything.

You thank her for dinner, and she asks if you want to watch a movie.

She puts in Awakenings, a Robin Williams movie. You ask if she’s a Robin Williams fan, and she says duh. You tell her your favorite Robin Williams movies are Insom-nia and One Hour Photo, but she says she’s never seen those. She says you should come over to watch them an-other time. You say they’re a bit darker than his popular movies, and she may not like them.

During the movie, there is a small space between you and her on the couch, and you don’t think there has ever

been a greater distance between two people.Awakenings ends, and you actually like it. She says the movie was based on a true story. She has the book if you want to read it. You say you would love to, and mention how much you like the soundtrack. She says she has the soundtrack on her computer and she’ll burn you a copy.

She gets her laptop and begins burning the CD, and says Oliver Sacks, the doctor who wrote the book Awak-enings, also wrote a book called Musicophilia, which explains why people like music. She says she has a copy of that book, too, if you ever want to borrow it. Sacks is her favorite author. You say David Foster Wallace is yours. You don’t mention that Wallace and Robin Williams both committed suicide by hanging themselves.

She asks if you want to read a poem she’s written. You put your arm on the back of the couch, an inch away from her shoulders, so you can see the computer monitor better. The poem is about a phoenix. You tell her it’s lovely, a word you rarely use.

She leans back and you feel her neck on your arm. It gets goose bumps. She doesn’t move or look directly at you. She nuzzles her way toward you, and you wrap your arm around her shoulders. You both stay that way for minutes, maybe an hour, you don’t know. You place your face in her hair and gently kiss it.

She stands in her doorway as you leave, and you look in her eyes and ask her if it’s okay to kiss her. She nods and you lean in slowly. The kiss is comfortable, and you em-brace her after, and place your forehead on hers before saying goodbye. She says she’ll see you tomorrow.

You get back to your own apartment. There is no sweat on your body. You load the CD onto your computer and then load the soundtrack onto your iPod. You place the playlist on repeat and try to fall asleep, but can’t. The music reminds you of her, reminds you of her, reminds you of her in your own awakening.

Soundtrack on RepeatBrian Lee Klueter

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“You got a light?”She askedAnd he reached outClicked twice to get a sparkAnd her whole body set on fire

“incredible”

To go to sleep fullAnd wake up empty“Okay, thanks”

GasolineSummer Weiss

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From (not -)Normal to ExtraordinaryPatricia Guild

“I love you, Mom!” followed by a big, strong hug. These are normal words that fill me with extraordinary joy. It seems hard to believe there was I time I wasn’t sure my son would even be able to say any words. Many people give me credit for his improvement. I’d love to be able to tell you: “I took a series of specific, well-researched actions and as a result my son is far better off than he was all those years ago when he couldn’t talk and acted out.” But it just didn’t work that way.

It was nearly 12 years ago that I remember talking to my mom about my youngest boy. “It seems the terrible twos are starting a bit early”, I told her on the phone, discussing my then 20-month-old child. Just 4 months later at his 2-year check-up it was clear something was not right. My once smiling and happy baby who could be passed around to just about any-one now went totally nuts when the pediatrician tried to examine him. Specialist visits and assessments for hearing loss followed and in the end they recommended an early interven-tion program similar to those for autistic children.

My boy has never been given the diagnosis of Autism. For a while they thought Dyspraxia or Sensory Integration Disorder - but those didn’t really fit him. He truly is a mystery and over time I’ve come to realize that the diagnosis wouldn’t change anything about who he is. There were times I thought, if I only could have a specific label - then I would be able to find a specific treatment plan or at least some guidelines on how to best help him. I now realize that just like children with autism, my son’s difficulties always have been and always will be unique to him. Over the years we’ve tried music therapy, addressing issues with his gut and digestive system, and special diets in addition to traditional therapy. I think each contributed to his improvement in some way. He’s been in speech therapy and counseling for 11+ years and clearly those therapists have played a crucial role in his improvement. He also expressed an interest in playing music and we found an incredibly patient clarinet teacher - I won’t ever underestimate the power of music.

Throughout the years we’ve encountered amazing people along the way that have helped us, given us hope, and taught us the value of looking beyond the surface. They bring out the best in my son and subsequently in those of us fortunate enough to know him.

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What I’ve learned over the years:

1. Just because a child can’t look you in the eye doesn’t mean he’s not listening to you. I once read that an autistic child would turn his head so his ear would be facing a speaker to better hear what was being said. Looking in the eye can also bring on intense emotions for these kids - sometimes it’s more than they can handle. 2. These kids aren’t necessarily anti-social because they want to be alone, but because they don’t know how to communicate in a social setting. Often they want and even crave interaction and we should try to draw them out and help them learn social norms and customs so they can participate in their own unique way.3. When they have a melt-down it’s not their sinister plot against us. Often they feel things so strongly that their emotional responses take on a life of their own. 4. Patience, patience, patience... there’s never enough of it and we always need to tap into more. Because when they’re in melt-down mode the only possible way to move past the situation is by being calm and letting them know you love and accept them. 5. When they act out or misbehave there is usually a reason behind it, and it’s not simply to be dis-respectful. Sure, sometimes they want to make us angry, but even then it’s often because they’re angry at us about something and they want to make sure we understand their anger. 6. Sometimes they just need some time and space to process things. Expecting an immediate response - for example to say they’re sorry instantly - is unrealistic. Explain why an apology is necessary, why it’s the right thing to do and let them go off on their own to digest the information. They’ll almost always come back in time and do the right thing.7. Feeling a lack of control and/or out of sync with those around them creates stress and potential explosive situations. Anything we can do to provide information so there are no surprises will greatly help their equilibrium. Using schedules, calendars, whiteboards, whatever you can think of so they know what to expect will be a tremendous help. And when there is an unplanned situation, taking a moment to explain what you know and how they should react will ease their stress. 8. Just keep asking questions, and make no assumptions. Their logic can be different; if you ask a question and get a strange response, you probably need to rephrase the question because it’s been inter-preted in a different way.9. Teach, teach, teach... sometimes it seems like we have to teach the most obvious things - for example: how to introduce yourself, shake their hand, look at their face and say “nice to meet you”. Their different approach to logic and thinking doesn’t mean lack of intelligence. It’s different - plain and sim-ple. In fact, once you tap into their unique logic you’ll see some amazing and creative takes on the world around you. 10. Listen and learn. While yes, we sometimes need to teach what seems obvious to us; but if we fail to listen to their perspective we’ll also miss out on our own learning opportunities.

When I was told all those years ago that my son wasn’t “normal” it felt like a blow to the gut. Since then I’ve begun to question “what is normal?”. And do we really want our children to just be normal? It seems if we apply some of the strategies I’ve learned from helping my “special needs” son with everyone, maybe just maybe, we can tap into the extraordinary and unique strengths of all our children. Wonder how it will work with my teenager?

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Your words slipped over meLike a dress that I had been waiting for For my entire life

Like a dress I hadn’t realized I neededAn essential, a classic, a piece that had been missing

You spoke softlyAs the moonlight kissed the side of your face My eyes followed the corners of your mouthWhile you went from one sentence to the next

Seamlessly

You exhaled I inhaled Every word you spoke to me

You told stories of your memories An invitation to who you are, who you had been, and who you will be

I listened

When you stopped the room filled with silence Your eyes still closedMine still open

From the ashes I rose with you by my side Lying on opposite ends

I’ve never found a moment to feel as alive as that one I’ve never found a human to be as beautiful as you

Goodnight MoonArmaan Sanghera

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phoenixphoenixphoenixJade Rector

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A special thank you to all who contributed.You will never know the magnitude of how much I honestly

appreciate your support and contributions.Thank you, so much-Summer Weiss

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