shamelessly in class, learning from my mistakes rather than dwelling on them. They didn’t completely leave me alone, and I know they probably but their words hurt as much. won’t, don’t They never will; not if I can help it. sitting in the living room when the phone I answer. I’m rings. “Hello?” Ms. Gerges. “Mariam?” It’s “Yes, it’s me!” who just won 3rd place and in the abstract art category and a She “Guess $1000 reward.” says with an audible smile. a rhetorical question in case you catch that. you, “That’s didn’t It’s With the right hands, rainy days can become great paintings. friend.” The City Through the Window by Hannah DeMaioNewton Years later as I walk down the street watching my lips force clouds from my lungs I will realize that I can either be the hero or the fool who the relatives shake their heads at and, realizing this, I will remember you. It is Christmastime, in Cedar Rapids, and as I walk back to my apartment I remember the last time I saw you: your face framed by the light of a nearby, open apartment door, washing your face in its amber glow. I looked up at you, through the thick air of winter, and as I pulled you into a hug, I noticed the smell of your clothes. It is not often, that a person is so close to another that such an intimate detail can be unearthed, but during this season the bitterness of winter forces people to live close to one another, whether I complained in this moment or not. Through the darkness, I felt you hesitate, and as I noticed the smell of cooking oil on your collar,
shamelessly in class, learning from my mistakes rather than dwelling on them. They didn’t completely leave me alone, and I know they probably won’t, but their words don’t hurt as much. They never will; not if I can help it. I’m sitting in the living room when the phone rings. “Hello?” I answer. “Mariam?” It’s Ms. Gerges. “Yes, it’s me!” “Guess who just won 3rd place and in the abstract art category and a $1000 reward.” She says with an audible smile. “That’s a rhetorical question in case you didn’t catch that. It’s you, friend.” With the right hands, rainy days can become great paintings. The City Through the Window by Hannah DeMaioNewton Years later as I walk down the street watching my lips force clouds from my lungs I will realize that I can either be the hero or the fool who the relatives shake their heads at and, realizing this, I will remember you. It is Christmastime, in Cedar Rapids, and as I walk back to my apartment I remember the last time I saw you: your face framed by the light of a nearby, open apartment door, washing your face in its amber glow. I looked up at you, through the thick air of winter, and as I pulled you into a hug, I noticed the smell of your clothes. It is not often, that a person is so close to another that such an intimate detail can be unearthed, but during this season the bitterness of winter forces people to live close to one another, whether I complained in this moment or not. Through the darkness, I felt you hesitate, and as I noticed the smell of cooking oil on your collar,
FrontMatterandStoriesRevised.docx