Summer Carrier

The town of Salamander is not named after the animal, but its founder, a man named Salamander Freedom. 

Whatever ambitious future Salamander envisioned for his town, however, has long been abandoned.

In the summer, the sun hangs high, like some forlorn guardian angel of the town. Sunlight mingles with dust, scattering long, swirling, heavy shadows. Most people know the dry anger of the sun better than their own neighbors. The sky taunts the town, a jeering shade of never-ending blue as flat as the desert itself. Clouds are scarce, and rain is few and far between.

All buildings in Salamander are made of tired, uncertain timber. Some houses sport parched, splintery columns and winding, rickety, staircases, illusions of splendor. Nobody knows where the wood came from; there isn’t a tree for miles around. Every now and then, the town will sigh, a long, exhausted, complaint, perhaps against its own existence.

Day and night, heat oozes through crevices and corners, coating the town in inescapable stickiness.  Residents loiter aimlessly, made drowsy by three-digit temperatures.

Once, the people of Salamander prided themselves for being “resilient,” but it’s no secret that resiliency doesn’t make the sun shine any less brighter. 

Occasionally, a battered truck will drive by Salamander, pairs of eyes following the rare traveler until out of sight. Some hope they can hitch a ride out of town. Some have given up.

On one July day, when even the sun has tired of itself and the line between the land and the sky has started to shimmer, a stranger stops, engine sputtering, at the only bar in Salamander.

He drives an ancient Ford pickup, long past its heyday, shrouded in nearly as much dust as the town itself. Its once vibrant teal color may have told tales of youth and recklessness at one point, though in recent times the shade has come to resemble that of peeling wallpaper.

The stranger enters the bar. In a way, he resembles his truck. He walks with quiet dignity, a strange sight in Salamander. Wrinkles line his face, byproducts of old age and hard labor. His hands are gnarled and knobby, like the trunk of an oak, and his expression is solemn, like a priest.

Though it’s only eleven in the morning, the regulars have already occupied their usual spaces. Lazy, golden, sunshine streams in through stained glass windows, bathing the bar in pools of mottled light. Up above, a fan whirls desperately, forever fighting a losing battle against the heat. Somewhere in the distance, a radio softly blares a mix of country music and static. Tired, droopy faces stare into empty cans of Miller Lite, though today, they have reason to look up. It’s not every day a stranger stumbles into Salamander.

The owner of the bar, a stout, balding man, eyes the intruder with suspicion. He’s owned the only bar in Salamander for fifteen years. He’s served the same people the same drinks in the same places and would very much like to keep it that way. 

Unperturbed, the stranger takes a seat at the counter, turning several heads.

The owner is the first to break the silence.

“Who you?” he grunts. 

The stranger looks the owner in his steely blue eyes.

“Just passin’ by. Ain’t tryin’ to cause no trouble.”

The stranger’s voice is low and gravelly and carries the slightest hint of a southern drawl. Satisfied with his answer, the owner nods. 

“Do you want sum’n?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

The stranger is given his drink and the owner retreats, ready for the intruder to be on his way.

Out of the corner of his eye, the visitor spots a worn poker table in a far corner of the bar, dusty with misuse. A stray ray of light illuminates the space, a jarring moment of beauty against the decrepit table. 

To his dismay, the bar owner sees the stranger eyeing the table, a relic of a past life.

Once, a lifetime ago, the owner made thousands of dollars at the hands of poker chips and pairs of aces. He had a gaudy nickname too, one he was proud of, a simple phrase he would flaunt endlessly like a trophy. 

The whole town knows his name, though he hasn’t touched a deck of cards in nearly a decade.

For the second time, the stranger looks the owner in the eye, though this time, he holds an empty pint glass. The owner clears his throat, an awkward motion. The stranger speaks.

“Tell you what. Let me play you in poker. One round. If you win, I’ll get out of your hair, but if I win, you owe me another drink.”

The owner laughs, a cynical, hoarse bark.

“I’ll get you another drink. On the house. Jus’ don’t talk with me no more.”

The stranger remains unfazed.

“Well, you could do that but if you win you don’t have to give me a drink and I’ll leave so ain’t it better for you?”

Begrudgingly, the owner accepts the challenge. He’d rather not play, but he’d also rather not look like a coward in front of his town.

It’ll be a chance to give ‘em a taste of who he once was, he thinks. A homecoming, of sorts.

By now, a small group of regulars have gathered around the stranger, thirsting for any hint of adventure. With whispers, they place bets on how long it’ll take the stranger to surrender. They look to the owner with anticipation, ready to watch him defend their town.

One of the regulars volunteers as dealer, and the game begins.

Save for the soft mechanical whir of the overhead fan, the bar is silent.

The men are dealt two cards each. Though the cards are worn, their edges scuffed and yellowed, they carry an air of familiarity. Five cards are placed in the center, daring the two men to act. Both men are given chips, round, colorful, circles of smooth plastic. The owner hasn’t realized how much he’s missed the subtle feeling of cards at his side.

The stranger bets, and the owner raises, confident in his hand. The stranger calls, and three cards in the center of the table are upturned.

Almost habitually, as if second nature, the owner parses through his choices. Meanwhile, the stranger, whose expression is serene as a Tibetan monk, sits in silence, observing.

The betting continues until the fourth card is turned, then the fifth. Self-assured, the owner continues to raise the stranger’s bet each time. Then, both players reveal their hands. 

Combined with the cards in the middle, the owner reveals a full house, two sevens and three jacks. Solid. It’s the fourth best hand in the game. The onlookers nod in approval, ready for the stranger’s imminent defeat.

Unblinking, the stranger watches, then flips over his own cards.

It’s a royal flush, the best hand in the game. A 10, Jack, Queen, King, and an Ace. 

The owner can only watch, mouth agape. He tries to speak, a single utterance of protest, but the words just won’t come out. The regulars gawk from afar, eyes wide with half shock, half wonder. They came for a show, and they got one. 

The stranger stands up, and walks out of the bar, as silently as he entered. Behind him, the door croaks in defeat, the stranger’s only form of farewell. Maybe he forgot about the drink the owner owes him, or maybe he already found what he was looking for.

In the distance, an engine sputters to life, and the stranger is still a stranger, a teal blue blur streaking across an empty road. Ever-present, the blazing sun swallows the stranger, and for the first time, the owner is left questioning where he went wrong.

A pang of emotion strikes his chest. Perhaps nostalgia, perhaps sadness. He recalls a time when he was the one racing across barren deserts, searching for excitement, ensnared by the promise of success in a sun-baked slice of nowhere, only to be relegated to a tidbit of local lore.

The regulars return to their usual spots, muttering under their breaths about how the town ain’t the same no more. They glance at the owner, shaking their heads, shameful. 

Everything is back to normal in Salamander.

Evelyn is a freshman in high school from Illinois. When she isn’t staring at an empty Google doc, she enjoys watching copious amounts of Netflix, fawning over her cat, and occasionally playing the piano. This is her first time being published. (:

The apple cider spilt over Michael’s only white shirt is already turning an undeniably distasteful shade reminiscent of old petroleum. Remarkably, the ping-pong ball Sean had attempted to direct towards him is perfectly lodged inside his plastic cup. Less remarkably, his hand still tingles from the sudden, forceful impact of that ball. He wonders, briefly, if this means he’s lost the game, even though they’re still five serves away from the match point.

“Don’t just stand there, Michael,” his mother snaps. “Ai ya, go clean up.”

“My fault, Mrs. Yang,” Sean pipes up cheerfully. “Got too excited—I’ll help him clean it off.”

Predictably, his mother’s face softens. Facing Sean’s parents, she carefully intones, “See? Sean good boy. When I ask Michael to help, only whine, whine, complain.” Even more predictably, she turns to smile widely at Sean’s mother. “But Sean help.”

“Not true. See, you say because Sean not your boy. Too much strange thoughts. Never think of future. Michael choose college already. Sean still don’t know,” Sean’s mother says, shaking her head. The instinctive straightening of her back, though, reveals her pride.

Sean rolls his eyes and plasters on a wide smile. “Come on, dude. That’s gonna stain permanently if we don’t get it out soon.”

Michael tries to ignore Sean’s hand on his back as he’s guided to the bathroom, but Sean’s touch is impossibly delicate yet firm—and when that hand slips down half an inch to Michael’s waist, his heart begins to beat out of his chest.

He wonders if Sean knows, then. If Sean knows about how Michael had sat down with his mother a month ago to broach the subject of dating. About how his mother had first been indignant, wondering how he’d withheld the presence of a girlfriend before he quickly assured her there was none. About how she’d then been excited beyond belief, rattling off the numbers of Chinese girls whose mothers she knew through WeChat. About how he’d had to reveal, painfully, that the last time he was attracted to a girl was in the third grade. About how his mother had been perplexed until he finally stuttered out that damning three-letter word. About her tears, about her refusal to tell his father, about her continued efforts to match him with “good, smart Chinese girls.”

When Sean’s hand caresses his shoulder, though, Michael’s certain he has no idea. Sean’s free with hugs, with ruffles to his hair, but he wouldn’t be so free with those affectionate gestures if he knew how Michael could feel about them. (How he does feel about them.)

The thud of the bathroom door behind them turns his attention back to the stain. Sean screws open the faucet, the water crescendoing to a pounding drumbeat on the cracked porcelain sink. Michael squirts some soap into his palm and starts rubbing the stain, Sean watching over his shoulder with a furrowed brow. Finally, Sean sighs.

“You’re doing it wrong, dude,” he says patronizingly. “Do you need me to show you how to get it out?”

Michael’s sure he could remove the stain, yet he lets Sean reach over his shoulder, take hold of his shirt, and start scrubbing the folds of the fabric. His dark eyes, narrowed in concentration, are half-covered by his long eyelashes, reminiscent of a blackbird’s delicate feathers.

“So, have you seen Lisa’s new hair yet?” Sean asks casually.

“Um—” Michael wracks his brain for a Lisa. He must look thoroughly confused, because Sean lets out another sigh.

“Hot pink-haired girl with the glittery skirt? Used to have glasses? Lisa Hwang?”

“Wait. That was Lisa?” He remembers the girl with bubblegum hair sitting on the basement stairs, chatting into an iPhone. He also remembers Mrs. Hwang’s daughter, a shy girl who’d spent more time picking her nails than making eye contact. When she committed to Cornell the year before, her mother showered her with praise until Lisa’s face turned so red that it looked like she, not her mother, had been the one downing glasses of plum wine.

“Ithaca’s been good for her,” Sean remarks.

“She’s changed a lot.”

“Well, that’s what college is supposed to do, right? She looks—well, chiller, you know? Happier. And seeing Lisa—it got me thinking about stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Future stuff. Like, um. I’m thinking of turning down Berkeley.”

“What?”

Like every good Asian boy, Michael had dreamed of attending Harvard when he was eight. At fifteen, he’d discovered the weaknesses of Harvard’s engineering concentration and designated Berkeley as his new dream school. At seventeen-and-a-half, he’d clicked on the link to his application portal with trembling hands to find an acceptance letter from Berkeley and cried for the first time in two years.

“You’re turning down Berkeley,” he repeats slowly.

“Thinking of turning down Berkeley,” Sean corrects. He stiffens, leaning against the bathroom wall. “I wanna leave California, you know? And I have acceptances from East Coast schools that are just as good as Cal.”

“But you’re majoring in computer science,” Michael stares. And you wouldn’t leave me behind, would you?

Sean smiles carefully, bitterly, and Michael’s heart aches so much his left hand goes numb.

“Haven’t you ever dreamed about just getting out?”

And God, how he wishes he could say yes, yes, a thousand times. But then he would have to explain why someone like Michael, who learned the piano because his mother told him to and did research with a professor because his teacher wanted him to and joined the cross-country team because his father told him to and is majoring in electrical engineering because his classmates expected him to, has any wish, any ability to become independent. He would have to explain why he wants to leave the cage that was built by his own trembling hands.

He settles for a shrug, imitating Sean’s stiff stance. “But you’ll have to come back, won’t you? If you want to work for Facebook or something.”

“Well, Google has offices in New York,” Sean counters, letting go of Michael’s shirt. “Scrub a bit more. It’ll come out soon.”

“But why would you want to leave?” Michael presses again. “People used to say California’s streets were paved with gold for a reason.”

“They also used to say anyone could live the American dream if they tried hard enough, but your grandfather ended up scrubbing plates for twenty years anyway,” Sean replies grimly. “Michael—some of us want more, you know? It’s—like, if I were to stay here, I already know where I’d end up: in a nice polo shirt with a nice, expensive car and a membership to a nice, exclusive country club by my forties. But then I’d be like the passengers on the Titanic. Drifting along in the night, looking for some elusive miracle—something to wake up for—all while an iceberg looms in the distance. And I couldn’t stop myself from crashing into it, because I wouldn’t be steering the ship anymore. And I wouldn’t know where the iceberg is, because it’d be invisible in the dark. But it would still be there. But if I leave, maybe there’d be other paths open for me. And sometimes I guess I just think about doing something I actually want to do, you know? Being really, really happy.”

Yes, I do know, Michael wants to scream. But what does he have to scream about?

And the worst thing is, he sees it—everything—so clearly already, like he knows the choice Sean will make before he’s made it. Sean steering clear of that iceberg, leaving California with a smile and a heavy burden lifted off his shoulders. Sean, somewhere in New England, laughing wildly at a frat party, arms slung around two girls who look at him like he’s Adonis. Sean slow-dancing with a girl who’s everything Michael isn’t, everything Michael could never be, moving in sync with her like two figures in a music box. Sean working at Google and becoming the most innovative person in the room, in every room. Sean thriving, never having to settle for Friday nights at Chinese parties. Never having to settle for Michael.

“I guess,” Michael says, willing his voice not to waver, twisting the bottom of his shirt in a futile attempt to wring out the water. “Yeah, I guess I get it.” He forces himself to smile, hoping his eyes aren’t too red.

“I haven’t decided yet, anyway,” Sean sighs. “I might stay here, you know? We could be, like, the big guys at Berkeley and all. That’d be cool too, wouldn’t it?”
Michael nods, hoping Sean isn’t just saying that for Michael’s sake and really does think, somehow, that he’ll stay in California. The concerned look on Sean’s face, however, tells him it’s the former.

“Anyway, we should get out of here,” Sean says in a cheerier tone, motioning at the door. “I’ve got to win before I go, right?”

“Right,” Michael echoes. But Sean’s already stepped out of the bathroom, letting the door close behind him before Michael has a chance to leave.

Kathryn Zheng is a senior at Tenafly High School in New Jersey. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the National Council of Teachers of English. Outside of writing, she enjoys learning languages (currently, her passions are Turkish and Spanish), immersing herself in the world of politics, and playing the ukulele.

She was his sweet child, fair and spring-like and blowing in the wind. A vat of English cream; a sugared wine; thick honey in one’s tea. At night, before he slept, he saw her golden face quirked in that everlasting smile, the expression always still, the wind mussing the strands of her hair. It seemed to him like a picture, or perhaps an infinite scene in a movie, in which she remained forever-young.

They met at church. Her family only came a few times every year, mostly on Easter or Christmas, occasionally on the rare Sunday, if the children accepted it, and the mother felt particularly devout. He had been there on one of those rare Sunday mornings, sitting in the pew, mopping his brow – humid, July – listening to the sermons. Then the choir was introduced, and there, bathed in the morning light, stood the newest member of the congregation, a short and delicate girl of twelve-or-so, dressed in her robe, licking her lips until they were moist. Her voice came to him tender and unripened, tart upon the mouth like a fresh wine. Her very face allowed the hymns to pass through her like a shuddering wave of pleasure. It was then that he knew she ought to be his child, a little one to nurse and advise and walk among the church with, whispering secrets and sworn to the other through unbloodied ties.

After the sermon he had introduced himself and complimented the girl’s singing. He’d asked for her name.

“Winnifred,” her mother said, “but she prefers Winnie.”

From then on he held her name close to his heart. He found himself shivering at the very sound of it, shivering all the more if he said it aloud. One morning, walking to church, he saw her like a ghost skipping beside him, hair gold and fine, radiating strong smells of shampoo warmed by the sun. She stayed beside him throughout the service, and he imagined she was fidgeting with something beside him, head locked into concentration, her nose bunched into a gentle scowl.

In the evening, as he made dinner, she would dance across the floor, sweeping her skinny legs to fast-paced music, and at night she would ask him, “Tie my shoes, won’t you?” and run off into the yard, laughing devilishly. Sometimes when he was driving, he would look into the rear mirror and imagine her sitting there, imagine how her body would glisten with excitement, how, in the heat of the summer, he would watch sweat weep down her face. He would buy her candy from the gas station near his work; he would pick her up in his arms; her laugh would fill the empty house.

One Saturday he saw her walking home from school, hair like fine strands of gold in the afternoon light. It settled upon her shoulders in waves. He decided he was going to talk to her. He’d built up the nerve. He had his words lined up in front of him.

“You’re Winnifred,” he said, pulling up beside her. “Am I right?”

“It’s Winnie.” With delight, he watched her pick at the hem of her dress, knobby knees poking out under her skin.

“Sure,” he said. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you walking home from school?”

“Yeah.”

He paused to look at her. “Need a ride home?”

“Okay.”

He opened the car door. She sat down beside him. “Thanks,” she said.

“Sure. Mind if I make a quick stop before your house?”

“Where?”

“I need something. It won’t take long.”

“Okay.”

He drove off.

They reached his house not long after. He looked over at her. She was sitting with her knees pressed against the door so hard they were turning pink.

“It’s too hot in here for you to stay,” he said. “You should come inside.”

He opened the door and reluctantly she slid out. “What do you have to get?”

But he didn’t answer. He unlocked the door and showed her inside. “Stay right here,” he said, “I have something to show you.”

She stayed still, standing evenly between her two legs, hips rigid and arms holding onto one another. He ran to the top floor of the house. At the top of the landing there was a room painted pink, mostly empty save for a couple of magazines and a stack of women’s clothes. There was a box, too, a white cardboard box with a red ribbon.

She was still standing there when he got down, legs and feet sewn tightly together. “Is this what you had to get?” She stared at the box, eyes drawn to the bright red ribbon.

“It’s for you.” He gave it to her, but she didn’t open it.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I really have to get going now. I can just walk home the rest of the way.”

“Wait,” he stepped towards her. “I want you to tell me what you think of it.”

She looked down at the box. Her hands couldn’t hold it steady. “Okay.” She set it down and loosened the ribbon. Inside, there was a white silky dress, spaghetti-strapped and trimmed in a cheap lace; the fabric pooled into all corners of the box.

“Do you like it?”

She picked it up. It dripped from her arms. “Thank you very much. I love it.” But her face was cold as stone.

“You have to tell me the truth,” he said, reaching forwards for her arm, “you have to.”

“Stop it!” she said, backing away as the fabric rolled with her. She trembled; a sweat was brewing on her forehead.

“I need to know,” he said, “just tell me what you think of it.” But she kept walking away from him. He was scaring her. So he stayed still as he watched her fiddle with the door, then as she opened it,— and fled outside.

The dress remained on the floor. She’d dropped it. Weeping, he placed it back into the box and carried it upstairs, put it next to the other clothes in the pink room. He cried – for the emptiness of the room, for the beauty of the light coming in through the window, for a beauty he had no one to share with.

For how long, he wondered, could he live in a house so cold? He watched the dress as it simmered beneath the sunlight. He put the top of the box back on. How long, he wondered. How long before he peeled away?

Isabelle Kang is a seventeen-year-old Korean-American writer. She attends Denver School of the Arts for Creative Writing, and has been published in the school’s literary magazine, Calliope, for four consecutive years. She enjoys incorporating her writing into other interests, such as music, painting, and psychology.

Nana hasn’t seen an ocean or lake for decades, since she left the business of fish bladder trafficking, since her husband, a middle man for the fish mafia, was thrown overboard into a ring of hammerheads on a wet night. Perhaps that’s why she’s so easily excited by thunderstorms. When I visited her a few years ago, she sat for two hours watching a passing storm. At the time, Nana lived in a one bedroom apartment facing the inner courtyard of her brick high-rise complex, a matted grassland dotted with weed, mosquitos, mice, and thickets of vines, crawling up the brick walls like arms jabbed and poked by needles. When I tilted my head far enough, I could see the opening above the courtyard through the window, where black clouds billowed from the west, their brassy countenances fattening the air and dulling everything. We sat in silence that evening, Nana with green tea, me with my bitten finger-beds, rain slapping the window a thousand times over, both of us watching the courtyard bleed with water and the vine fade away in a blur of mist. Nana soaked in the brilliance and brute violence of the storm, intrigued and fascinated, whilst I didn’t see anything different with this thunderstorm than the last.

When mama plows us to Nana’s house, there are eruptions of periodic yelling and questions of do we really have to go? God, it’s so boring there, there’s nothing to do. And always, with clinging fingers to the front door, we drive to her house in silence. For a couch, Nana has a tower of three mattresses. There are always cockroaches on these mattresses because Nana eats here, so we have learned over the years to glance over the tower before pressing ourselves together onto the thing. The Pakistani flag, just a patch of dark green and the vertex of a crescent moon, melts out from in between the bottom two mattresses like cheese in a burger.

Nana has had the same pack of 12 assorted colored pencils for decades, each one accentuated with bite marks in the places the pencil was held in between her teeth for concentration when she’s meticulously drawing sharks on the corners of napkins. Her drawings seem childish to me now (the sharks looking more like a portly circular whale), but when I was more naive, I thought otherwise. Her sharks were once blue and white, with full bodies and sharp, canine teeth, eyes, bulbous hair, and always a toothy smile. But on the back of a Chipotle napkin once, Nana drew a shark with a trace of red around the mouth, like lipstick, and said “something like Kool-aid, that’s what it ate.” From there, the innocent blue and white sharks vanished, and to replace them were purple sharks with mozzarella sticks and tarantella-shaped rings and glittered sharks with disco balls for eyes and chicken tenders for a fin.

Nana cannot understand English, yet the only channel she can tolerate is CNN, as if there is comfort in letting the foreign voice of a newscaster plump her apartment. She throws a fit coupled with a period of verbal shunning if we ever do so much as request a change of channel. So we sit quietly, quaintly on the tower of mattresses. One time, Nana asked about the Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton debate broadcast on CNN, but my pashto vocabulary on political jargon was not stellar and so my explanations did not suffice her questions. But still she kept pressing me, more questions that I could not answer, and so before my patience wronged me, I fled to the bathroom with the intent of staying there until Nana’s faze passed. Standing in front of the mirror, in a dull, yellow light, a part of me thought that I won’t miss this when Nana is gone. But I quickly buried the thought because what sickened grandchild wishes for their grandmother’s death. When I emerged from the bathroom, CNN still hummed against the walls, as always, but Nana was resting by the window, one cheek pressed against the glass like a pancake. On a napkin in her lap, there was a shark with a party hat, a cake balanced on its head, green teardrops springing from its gills. I sat on the tower of mattresses and looked at the wedding ring in the fishnet underneath the row of army medals by the door.

One summer Nana stayed over for Ramadan. She’s had joint pain for years around the perimeter of her knee but never believed in doctors so its been left untreated. She slept on an air mattress in the entry hall of our house because she couldn’t trek up the stairs to the guest room and refused to be carried. She spent her days with the front door open, watching the cars and cradling her 12 colored pencils. A friend once came over and asked, what’s with your grandmother and sharks? and I stared at her wide-eyed.

During Ramadan, we took Nana to Target. She was awed by most everything in the store, pointing to this and that and commanding me to push her wheelchair over so she can touch this and that. She spent an hour staring at the selection of biking helmets and I sat on a tricycle, utterly bored. As we passed the stationary aisle, I plucked a pack of fresh colored pencils for Nana, remembering her finger-sized and dilapidated set, bitten from decades of shark drawings. But Nana hissed and slapped them way when she saw them, asked how I could commit such an abomination of an act, and verbally shunned me for a couple of hours, her usual way of voicing her distaste. Later that day, as we sat at a McDonald’s, Nana licked her fingers of the remaining crumbs of a chicken McNugget, her bony hands and ivory limbs reaching across the table for more, brown eyes wide and excited, almost like a child. That night Nana drew a shark modeling a bicycle helmet and hid it underneath her pillow.

After each visit, the joy perspiring from our bodies from the feeling of driving away from Nana’s house, on the road to our normal lives, our outside lives, is a fire on its own. As Nana’s brick-high-rise complex shrinks into a facet of the far-off scenery, looking back at the thing, infested with mice and cock-roaches and riddled with constant power-outages, I wonder if Nana wants more from life than this.

Later on, in my teenage years, Nana became outwardly devout to God. Visits compromised of shark drawings and long epilogues on the Prophet Mohammad, Jesus, Moses (peace be upon them), and Allah, the all-knowing, the most-gracious, the merciful. Imams and Islamic Scholars replaced CNN. Nana cannot understand Arabic, but she still lets the voice of the Arabic quran, the holy scripture, plump her apartment. Strangely, Nana lightened during this time, and carried herself as if she had a sweet secret, as if God had given her a glimpse of the seven heavens.

The night before my cousin’s sixteenth birthday, in the early morning hours, Nana rolled to the freezer and threw the ice-cream cake out the window, explaining the next morning that birthdays are not to be celebrated in this way, this Western way. Praise God on your birthday, she said, for letting you live this long and recognize that you are one day closer to the Day of Judgement, the promised meeting with your lord, and death. I refused to say what the others said, that Nana is crazed, because she was 84, and not much longer.

Nana died on a Tuesday in March. At her funeral, we played hide-and-seek. The ceremony itself was hushed and startlingly short, and afterwards we stood in the parking lot of the cemetery, talking and running and enjoying a great deal of hilarity. Nana who stole napkins to draw sharks, drained everyone with constant warnings about God, lived in a place we all pitched in to pay for but were all too happy to leave, why did she bite the bait but not stay hooked? The fishing is good, better for us, when Nana is on the other side of the lake, because that way the bass and salmon will have nothing to fear and come near, fill our pooling bellies, something Nana wouldn’t do.

When Mama and I went to her apartment to empty it for the landlord, I found three cereal boxes full of napkins littered with shark drawings. The last shark left by Nana was the strangest one I’d ever seen; it had a round stump for a tail, massive, bulging eyes, humanoid legs, and arms jetting from the gills and fins. In a cookie tin-can, I found the remains of Nana’s 12 assorted colored pencils. Mama looked at them once and said that they’ve got no worth, utter trash, but I shuffled a few into my backpack anyway. That night, I tried not to think of the army medals, the piggy bank filled with ashes, the twenty thousand pakistani rupees left in a safe underneath the kitchen sink, the binoculars and fishing net and fishing rod thrown on top of the fridge, Nana sleeping on an air mattress by the front door with her shoulders shaking and sagging like teardrops, her hollow stare at the bleating rain, the strange joy she found in chicken nuggets and thunderstorms, her cracked countenance, this knowing that there will be no more fits during the drive to Nana’s house, the certainty that this is what we internally, quietly wanted.

Zoha Arif will graduate from the Academy for Information Technology in the spring of 2021. She lives in Union, New Jersey and melts away her free time appreciating peanut butter, eating books, breathing computer science, chasing squirrels, and spilling her strangest ideas into her works of fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Polyphony Lit and the Showbear Family Circus.