Adam ~ "Nathaniel"

Nathaniel
My family and I burst through the doors of the synagogue, and walked down the aisle to a row of empty seats. The synagogue's huge bulk swallowed me into a world of stained glass windows and wooden pews. Outside, the tall oak trees stood defiantly in the breeze and whispered heavy heartedly among themselves. Tears graced the eyes of many mourners and red eyes hinted at ones already shed. I had already let my grief flow through my tears. I wondered how such a beautiful place came of such sorrow.
My thoughts were interrupted by the rabbi as the service began, "A moment of silence to remember the recently deceased Nathaniel Silberberg..." I couldn't stop the flow of salty tears seeping into my eyes this time. I quietly wept for the great-grandfather I had barely known.
The services ended and I realized I had been absorbed in my own thoughts. Everyone filed down the rows to glance at Nathaniel's physical form, though his laughter and merry spirit had died on his lips. I gazed into his electric blue eyes, as clear in death as in life.
Within minutes, my family and I climbed into a rented Land Rover. As my father drove away, I stared back towards were my beloved father of my grandfather now lay. Still staring in that direction, I fell into the world of memories, a realm of dreams.
As I toddled by our apartment's sitting room , Nathaniel's voice echoed wheezily throughout the halls. "Adam, how was school today?" and as I came into view, “ Where did you get that haircut?”
When I appeared over the threshold he beckoned me fondly with a wave like that of a New Yorker hailing their favorite taxicab driver. “Come sit by me, and tell me about your day.”
I alighted upon the burgundy colored, velvet couch and spoke in the unsure voice of a two year old, “Nothin’ happened at school today, an’ I got my haircut at the butcher’s.” Nat roared with laughter at the reply he had taught me, a circus trainer with their star seal. I snuggled up beside him...
The scene changed, nobody was beside me. I walked down a cobble paved street, with the limp and cane of an old man. I turned left into the alley as it started to rain. The steel lamp’s shivering light slightly warmed the corpse of my body. I turned a right toward a door with a seemingly out of place bronze door knocker and address plate. Death101. Instinct made me place my hand on the door knocker. I knocked. A face shrouded in the darkness of a hood opened the door. His white knuckles and bony fingers clutching a t the door frame. Primal thoughts forced me to stagger over the doorstep and into the dark sitting room. I held my bony frame by the meager heat of the weak fire. A blur of silver flashed towards me, caressing me...
My eyelids fluttered open. I was inside the car, entering Manhattan, home of the past four generations of my family. Except us. I felt a strange calm settling over me, like a mist. Slowly and deliberately I spoke, “I’ve realized that death is inevitable, and while loved ones fade, their memory lives on.” My father looked back, and smiled.

Julio - "Uruapan"

Uruapan
As the smell of gasoline fills the air, the bland walls tell no story. The cobbled streets of the central square are packed with people minding their own business and street marketers trying to make a living.
People sit with melancholy waiting for a miracle. Some people think that poverty is a sad, terrible thing but I see it as a good thing not because people are poor but because poverty is one who slowly and secretly brings people together. Aside from poverty it’s not all sad. People smile and laugh with the people at their side.
There are also places to escape the crowded streets; you just have to find the empty ones that are filled with rich, inviting air. They are the peaceful ones, they are the ones that help you relax. These streets are not so rare, for they are everywhere.
As days go by the memory fades. My heart sinks deeper and deeper into a pool of sadness due to our lack of visits. Despite my parents fears over the economy and violence. My mind has frequent thoughts about going back and staying there.
And me you ask? I’m full of different emotions, constant flash backs and dreams of what it would be like to go back to my hometown of Uruapan.

By Julio Vazquez

Paul - "What Cancer Teaches"

What Cancer Teaches

What It was just another beautiful day in June- a normal day- a boring day. Until it happened; I was pulled into the house and to the living room and everybody was sitting down on the bulky couches and my mom was blabbing on about the tests the doctors had done on her. My brother yelled, “Cut to the chase, mom!”
I was sitting on the couch waiting impatiently for her answer and then finally she said it, “I have a tumor. It might be cancer.”
Right there my heart stopped. The world went into slow motion. Her sentence penetrated my reality. I tried to fight it off, but instead tears welled up in my eyes, and they spilled down my cheeks. Persistent tears ran down my face. We all sat on the couch and cried together.
Before that sad and fearful day, I thought other families got the bad news. Our family was invincible. Now, I know that’s not the case. I see my mom differently. She has been bald and tired all the time. But she has also become my hero. Despite her chemotherapy that gives her sorrow, nausea, and insomnia, she refuses to give up. When other people stop their treatments early because they are so miserable, she decided to do more! She has proven that cancer is limited. She has proven she is invincible.
And when cancer came, it brought me two new friends. They were Strength and Worry. Strength is a mystery. Sometimes he would be with me, but other times he would be far from sight. I really couldn’t count on him. The worst part is that when I needed him most he would be gone. And Worry, well, Worry was a persistent guy. He would jab at me, and jab at me, talk to me, what ever he could do to make me not fall asleep. And when I did sleep, he would always be whispering in my ear, “This could make your mom really sad… You should be worried too.”
After eighteen months, we are all very anxious to get the chemo done. We are anxious for her hair to grow back. We are anxious for her to start playing with my brother, Teague, and me again. Plus, once the chemo is over, normalcy will finally return to our lives. Normal is a lot better than I ever thought it could be. I will always feel appreciative when I am bored because bored means that I’m safe and nothing is wrong. Cancer teaches that.
By Paul C. Gudemann