Carnival by Alexandrea Lee
Photography
The Bracelet by Mary Ellen Luft
Fiction
I came in the door. I hung up my key and dropped my bags of stuff by the door. I kicked off my shoes, and headed to the kitchen for a snack. I hadn’t eaten in hours.
“Hey Mom!”
My mother was standing with her arms crossed. “Care to explain the several thousand dollars charged on my credit card?”
“Umm, I bought some shoes that were a bit expensive. But I picked up some more shifts at the store and I have the money to pay you back.” I only wanted to buy her a diamond tennis bracelet. I had noticed her looking at it longingly last week. Her birthday was next week so I wanted to surprise her.
“Not good enough,” she snapped. “It’s my money, and you know the limit on how much you can spend. What shoes are worth throwing your future away? The money you have spent years building? You have no idea how to be an adult and you never will.”
My ears started to ring, a warning sign I was about to faint. “Mom...” I groaned, hoping she would know. Hoping she would help me.
The world was spinning. And black. I dropped down. There was a scream. And then Nothing.
I heard an ambulance in the distance. Is that for me? That must be for me. Wait. What’s that? That stillness? The loss of the beat? The drum? How have I lost the thing that has kept me alive? My heartbeat. My breath. Gone. Suddenly I feel wrenched up, until I could turn my head. Then there. My body on the floor. And my mother backed up against the wall.
I was dead.
Suddenly I was in a church above everyone. Pink and purple peonies were everywhere and people dressed in black. Then I saw my picture next to a coffin. This was my funeral.
I hate pink. And purple. Blue hydrangeas are my favorite. My mother and father were sitting solemnly in the front pew. Did my mother look... almost relieved?
Was I not good enough?
I guess not.
Wait. What’s that? The glimmer on my mother’s wrist. It was the tennis bracelet. I tried to move closer to her but I couldn’t. I wanted to do something nice-and she didn’t want it- but why was she wearing it (despite her anger)?
“I want to see her find the bracelet,” I yelled, hoping to see why, what she thought, and hoping that she loved it.
Suddenly I was whirled around, to the front hall at my house. The bright blue of the jeweler’s bag was leaning against the wood side table, the mail stacked on top. The mirror was hanging with a berry red frame above the side table, and a long wine red carpet my dad brought back from Turkey was on the floor. My black wool coat was hung up on a hook next to the dark brown door, with the white walls suddenly seeming too bright. My car keys were sitting on the table, with my small black purse and my wallet. My mother walked into the hallway, wearing a black sweater with jeans, her eyes puffy with lack of sleep and red from crying. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and there was no trace of makeup on her face. Only sadness. She gathered up my things, and left the room, seeming to not notice the Tiffany’s bag. Then she came back. And stopped. And crouched down and slowly reached out to take the bag. She jerked back, as though she was scared. This was the thing that caused the argument that killed me. I sucked in my breath, waiting.
She reached in, and slowly drew out the box, with the white bow on top. She opened the box. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth, tears filling up her eyes. She flipped over the bracelet to see what I had gotten engraved.
To my Mom, I will always love you. -Amalie Harrington October 2019
She dropped the bracelet, started to sob. I wanted to run to her and wrap my arms around her, and give her the longest hug I had ever given her. I miss her so much.
Then my dad came in and hugged her. That moment was so cheesy, the grieving parents on the floor in a crying, hugging mess. It made me want to vomit. But it was sweet, in a wet salty mucus-y way.
I missed them, despite the anger and fights. They sold the house, and took nothing with them, except for clothes and a few pictures. I had to watch them grow old and then die. My dad died first. I remember finding him, sitting in my big Tiffany blue armchair, where I read my books. He was older than I had ever seen him in life. His back was stooped, and his pale blue eyes watery, his face more wrinkled, but he still lit up with the same big smile that he always had when he saw me.
When my mom died, I was scared of how she would react when she saw me.
She was wearing a pair of jeans, but this time with a baby blue cashmere sweater, her hair softly curling against her shoulders, framing her face. She had a pale pink lipstick on, with a little bit of mascara. Her face was stern, but soft like it was in life after my death.
“Mom,” I called softly. I was still a teenager, wearing ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie.
She slowed to a stop. Haltingly, she looked at me and said my name in a haunted way, as though she was seeing a ghost. Well, she was, but she was one too. For the first time in fifty years I saw her smile. I watched my parents every day, waiting for them to come to me. So we could finally be together, in one big hug with my mother’s bracelet cold against my back.
“Hey Mom!”
My mother was standing with her arms crossed. “Care to explain the several thousand dollars charged on my credit card?”
“Umm, I bought some shoes that were a bit expensive. But I picked up some more shifts at the store and I have the money to pay you back.” I only wanted to buy her a diamond tennis bracelet. I had noticed her looking at it longingly last week. Her birthday was next week so I wanted to surprise her.
“Not good enough,” she snapped. “It’s my money, and you know the limit on how much you can spend. What shoes are worth throwing your future away? The money you have spent years building? You have no idea how to be an adult and you never will.”
My ears started to ring, a warning sign I was about to faint. “Mom...” I groaned, hoping she would know. Hoping she would help me.
The world was spinning. And black. I dropped down. There was a scream. And then Nothing.
I heard an ambulance in the distance. Is that for me? That must be for me. Wait. What’s that? That stillness? The loss of the beat? The drum? How have I lost the thing that has kept me alive? My heartbeat. My breath. Gone. Suddenly I feel wrenched up, until I could turn my head. Then there. My body on the floor. And my mother backed up against the wall.
I was dead.
Suddenly I was in a church above everyone. Pink and purple peonies were everywhere and people dressed in black. Then I saw my picture next to a coffin. This was my funeral.
I hate pink. And purple. Blue hydrangeas are my favorite. My mother and father were sitting solemnly in the front pew. Did my mother look... almost relieved?
Was I not good enough?
I guess not.
Wait. What’s that? The glimmer on my mother’s wrist. It was the tennis bracelet. I tried to move closer to her but I couldn’t. I wanted to do something nice-and she didn’t want it- but why was she wearing it (despite her anger)?
“I want to see her find the bracelet,” I yelled, hoping to see why, what she thought, and hoping that she loved it.
Suddenly I was whirled around, to the front hall at my house. The bright blue of the jeweler’s bag was leaning against the wood side table, the mail stacked on top. The mirror was hanging with a berry red frame above the side table, and a long wine red carpet my dad brought back from Turkey was on the floor. My black wool coat was hung up on a hook next to the dark brown door, with the white walls suddenly seeming too bright. My car keys were sitting on the table, with my small black purse and my wallet. My mother walked into the hallway, wearing a black sweater with jeans, her eyes puffy with lack of sleep and red from crying. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and there was no trace of makeup on her face. Only sadness. She gathered up my things, and left the room, seeming to not notice the Tiffany’s bag. Then she came back. And stopped. And crouched down and slowly reached out to take the bag. She jerked back, as though she was scared. This was the thing that caused the argument that killed me. I sucked in my breath, waiting.
She reached in, and slowly drew out the box, with the white bow on top. She opened the box. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth, tears filling up her eyes. She flipped over the bracelet to see what I had gotten engraved.
To my Mom, I will always love you. -Amalie Harrington October 2019
She dropped the bracelet, started to sob. I wanted to run to her and wrap my arms around her, and give her the longest hug I had ever given her. I miss her so much.
Then my dad came in and hugged her. That moment was so cheesy, the grieving parents on the floor in a crying, hugging mess. It made me want to vomit. But it was sweet, in a wet salty mucus-y way.
I missed them, despite the anger and fights. They sold the house, and took nothing with them, except for clothes and a few pictures. I had to watch them grow old and then die. My dad died first. I remember finding him, sitting in my big Tiffany blue armchair, where I read my books. He was older than I had ever seen him in life. His back was stooped, and his pale blue eyes watery, his face more wrinkled, but he still lit up with the same big smile that he always had when he saw me.
When my mom died, I was scared of how she would react when she saw me.
She was wearing a pair of jeans, but this time with a baby blue cashmere sweater, her hair softly curling against her shoulders, framing her face. She had a pale pink lipstick on, with a little bit of mascara. Her face was stern, but soft like it was in life after my death.
“Mom,” I called softly. I was still a teenager, wearing ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie.
She slowed to a stop. Haltingly, she looked at me and said my name in a haunted way, as though she was seeing a ghost. Well, she was, but she was one too. For the first time in fifty years I saw her smile. I watched my parents every day, waiting for them to come to me. So we could finally be together, in one big hug with my mother’s bracelet cold against my back.