Another monotonous day in the office, as my neck tires and yearns for a pillow
My eyes open and close, close and open, open and close.
BeforeIbegintosinkbeneaththecushionyinteriorofmyrecliner, I open the drawer
and stumble upon a gift from my nephew—maybe crayons will cure my boredom.
Razzmatazz. . .eleventh grade English class.
You were new to the school, and your voice mesmerized me,
your thoughts so humble and precious—you didn’t talk enough.
While our teacher lectured about the misdeeds and sins of the citizens in West Egg,
or if Hester Prynne was a “harlot,” I was too hung up on how you stumbled on the pronunciation
of “conscientious,” “supercilious,” and especially “corroborate.” I love you dearly
precisely because you don’t have a way with words.
Chestnut reminds me of picturesque fall evenings,
where we snuck away to your parents’ cabin on the weekends,
and the leaves fell from the trees, submerging us beneath
the reds, browns, and yellows,
as we forgot about the stress of SATs, essays, or exams,
just confiding in each other—with the leaves protecting us from the world.
Mahogany is etched into my mind,
remembering those cold winter nights when we would sit by the fireplace,
covered in the ugly mossy brown plaid blankets that you hated so much.
They kept us so warm, and we were tied together with the heat of love,
The embers of wood, the soft-spoken whispers; it was us,
and we were so inextricably close, I swear in that moment I knew that
I wanted to be with you forever.
Ah, mauvelous—those days you would watch your sister and play dolls with her,
and we would have little tea parties and be young again and pretend
we lived in a castle and fought dragons, letting our imaginations take us where we wanted to go.
You were always so adventurous, and I will never forget when you showed your sister and me
your old dollhouse, with the red convertible and the ‘fancy schmancy’ kitchen (as you called it)
and I will never forget when you said to me, “I want to live in a house like that someday, with
two kids and the white picket fence.” I wanted to be your man ever since that night, and
I just wish it could have h a p p e n e d.
Macaroni & cheese gives me a chuckle,
as I reminisce of the summer afternoons in your kitchen.
You were so determined to be a phenomenal cook,
but you would always burn the cookies, and undercook pasta.
Hell I can’t cook either—I guess it’s a good thing we could afford KFC.
Plum was your least favorite color; you absolutely adored the color purple but plum made you
sick. Remember that dreadful christmas party where you drank too much?
where you ruined your red sweater? i carried you all the way home in the midst of a
blizzard where the icicles lined up on the roof and we were drenched in snow and my
fingers were so frostbitten i could barely feel a thing. if i could do things over again,
i would never have let you take that one drink because it turned into such a bad habit.
no no no bad memories of the night i got the call that you drove drunk
shadow is the man i used to be
outer space is where my mind lingers because i do not like to believe that you
are gone and i am alone and living by myself in a gray apartment and working
a terrible job quickly my fingers grab all the crayons and i place them
back in the box and in the drawer where they belong
Spencer Pechart has always adored the English language: from the age of three, he wrote words on an Etch-a-Sketch and proudly brandished a pen. After his senior year in high school, he plans on attending college in Central Pennsylvania. Aspiring to become a teacher, he is devoted to English and wants to show others the power of the written word, and most importantly, the power of their own voice.
–Art by Simona Capriana
–Art by Ezra Letra
–Art by Marina Ćorić