My grandmother’s hands have always been a point of interest for me. It was fascinating how they were dry and calloused easily. Her palms, rough and sturdy enough to hold up a building, were always painted the color of freshly washed grapes. Wrinkled and comforting, her hands held me as I fell asleep in her lap. Her hands held me as I shimmied into my Sunday best. Those rough, calloused hands housed a series of finely placed freckles and a honeybee tattoo, softly worn into her skin. My grandmother’s love was through her hands. They tensed as she followed her customary routine of dicing tomatoes, peppers, and onions. They flexed as she dashed the contents into the iron pot already bubbling with oil. They squeezed shut and released, sloshing around the bowl that held tiny grains of sustenance. These hands weren’t part of her, they were an entity. Constantly flexing, washing, mixing as she danced through the kitchen. Her hands, tough as nails, held me up, then softened as she held me closer.
An Empty Place
By Rosan Sharma
There is a quiet place, far from the rapid pace Where God can soothe my troubled mind
Sheltered by tree and flower There in my quiet hour with Him, my cares are left behind
Whether a garden small, or on a mountain tall New strength and courage there I find
We step towards the grubby roads where the houses are disproportionately aligned, however there lies a sense of rawness within the mud bricks and thatched roofs. The rawness accentuates the beauty and simple, yet intricate feeling of comfort along with the rusty and poor condition the home lies in. We walk on the subtle road covered in dusty brown soil with a clay texture under. The eaves are raised and slanted downwards. The village is not flooded with people. I am soaring internally. There is a song that rings. The resonance in my voice echoes through the clean, dewy air. What is this feeling? I refrain from the feeling of happiness, but I am like a tennis ball bouncing up and down the joy and love that my spiritual and pleasant family gives me regarding purest and holiest intentions. I hasten to the smiles that have the divine voices speaking sacredly to my deep down self that I thought I have lost touch of fully. My mom murmured with her soft timbre that “the village consists of the same population of people who live within the 10 houses next to mine.” It is our village though. My home which I never got to live in. I am greeted by our aunt in one mud house, another aunt I have never met outside is breast feeding her newborn, she smiles and waves. She radiates. My mom's sisters have the smile I have. The twinkle in my moms eyes. My mom's voice is higher than I have ever heard and she carries a crystal clear enunciation. I see through her smile and eyes, there is a girl who has been hiding for so long, on a grind 24/7 who is finally catching a break. I see the girl is joyful, but with a side of trouble making however she can hide it within her joy and innocence. She pulls me to the back of the house where there is a meadow with fields and grass.
“Rosan, this is where I wanted to bring you for so long,” she says. This did not feel like the woman who came up and snapped “Get your homework done!” Her tone was brighter, luscious and simple. There lied the beautiful spirit who had toughness and strength only God gives, along with the wisdom beyond her years. Yet she still manages to stay youthful. The elation I felt that the woman who gave birth to me was so divine and holy changed the way I saw the Earth move. She tells me to sit down and she allows me to rest my head on her shoulder. Smoother than any gentle breeze I have experienced, a ray of sunshine touches me this morning. The grass has a fresh green and leafy smell. The air is filled with the green scent of meadows and meadows. We close our eyes and I feel a connection, a spirit bigger than I had ever seen. That spirit was young, new to a world of pure and eternal love, he waded in insecurity. Until today, he did not know the love he was searching for. He did not realize his family was all he was. Buffalo is not his home and someday he will take the midnight plane to Padaria, Nepal. He will not know now. Once he leaves, he will be lost again. He will forget this is home.
I heard the song “Who Would Imagine a King” by Whitney Houston 4 years after my incredible trip to Nepal. My spirit is moved and I close my eyes and envision the meadows. I had not thought about the meadows since that February of 2016 I was down there. The epiphany comes and I exhale and laugh. I want to sing like that and feel like I am back in the green meadows with mommy. While practicing my auditions song, I see the trees and meadows as I feel the spirit from my toes rising up to the sky where I project, I sing and preach those lyrics while I find the home I miss. The meadows untouched by sorrow. The grass that is greener than the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. The smell fresher than Mexico's pure blue ocean, the sound of a breeze smoother than cappuccino. When I form the words, I am really taking a quick trip down to Padaria, Nepal for 4 minutes. The empty Padaria. Thousands of miles away, yet close by. It hears me when I sing my words Almighty God lets me form. There's a quiet place Where I can listen to the Lord It's close by, it's not far away And He will hear us when we pray And that quiet place is here And in my heart There is a quiet place Where I can talk to the Lord And there's a quiet place Where I can listen to His glory It's close by, not very far away And He will hear us when we pray And that quiet place is here And in my heart
Brought Back (Multiple Perspectives)
By AEY
It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon in July. I am biking to get a coffee at Dash’s and decide to take the scenic route through Bassett Park. I just love the blue wooden sculpture in the park. It is ever changing at the hands of Mother Nature. Wind, rain, snow, and sun create changes in the structure that I can’t wait to examine. I peddle fast, passing between the asymmetrical ponds. In front of me, there is a lump; something laying in the grass. An abandoned picnic? Someone napping? I peddle faster in the direction of the lump. Nosey being a typical quality of a seventeen year old girl. Not napping. I jump off my bike and throw myself down on the ground by her side. She is unconscious, not breathing, and barely maintaining a very shallow pulse. Next to her right arm, a needle. A tube is tied around her bicep. The woman is wearing ripped, skinny, light blue jeans and a grey, oversized, Rolling Stones t-shirt. It occurs to me that I have that shirt hanging in my closet. I grab the narcan nose spray out of my purse, tilt the medium sized head back and spray it up her right nostril. I call 911 and immediately begin administering CPR. I can see Suburban Hospital from where I sit in the grass, yet it seemingly takes an eternity for the ambulance to arrive. Uncharacteristically, I am calm and collected doing all I can, including praying, that I am able to save this woman’s life. All I can think about is the potential future she has ahead of her. I imagine her family; parents, brothers, sisters, a dog. Are they getting Sunday dinner ready and wondering why she is late? Do they know of her addiction and are just happy to have some peace while she is away from the house? Do they live with the fear that someday they will get this call? The one that they will receive in short order.
Right now, it is my job to make sure she gets a future. Make sure her family gets the call that ends with “she is going to be alright.” Within five minutes EMTs have arrived, and I am pushed aside in the chaos. The young woman is conscious, shaking, vomiting down her shirt, and clawing at the first responders around her. As I step back and watch the EMTs take over, I wonder what comes next.
The woman is in the ambulance strapped to the gurney. She is violent and aggressive. She is covered in sweat and vomit. She has soiled herself. Sometimes that happens, as the Narcan has the withdrawal effect on addicts. She is no longer high and euphoric, she has crashed back to her reality which is dark, broken and painful. Maybe death is what she prays for. Lights and sirens are on and the EMT driver floors the gas pedal; time is of the essence. Speeding down Maple Road, heading to Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital, everyone is pulling over to let them pass.
Paging the ER to give staff fair warning; “The patient is about twenty years old. Overdosed. Opioids. A teenage girl administered Narcan at Bassett Park”.
The ambulance and hospital staff are rushed, but calm. The drivers pull into the ER unloading area and doctors run outside to see the patient vomiting and shaking more. They unload her and take her in. It is like a symphony the way the hospital staff moves in unison, acting as separate instruments, yet all working together. She continues to wage war, not yet understanding what has happened.
Laying in a hospital bed, you come to your senses a few hours later and everything is being explained. You are confused, yet calm, understanding, and not surprised. You have clearly been here before. You offer gratitude and swear on your mother’s life that you will get help and this will never happen again. How many times have you put your mother’s life on the line? You are in the same clothes from the park. You stink of vomit, sweat, and pee. It is time to get showered, changed, and in bed because the next few days will be long. Due to your history, the hospital will not discharge you tomorrow. The police have been called. Your family is on their way. That is the least of your problems. The withdrawal symptoms will be severe for the next few days. You will wish you had died in that hot July sun. You say this will not happen again, but it is easier said than done. It is time for you to show your strength. Will you rise or will you fall?