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Writer's pictureSylva

My Friend, NY and More

By Isabel Bostick


Featured in Caesura 2020: Imago


My Friend, NY

Buzzing with energy and joy and the chaos of living she never misses a beat, dancing boldly amidst stern traffic lights and annoyed taxis.

She marvels at the words of others and listens closely despite the clutter of credos and conversations, picking out unspoken sentences from the tangle of noise.

Bright light radiates from her every move, and her laugh is a jumbotron’s blend of neon yellows and pinks, making it difficult to decipher the shine of night versus day.

And throughout it all, she carries stillness and emulates kindness, maintaining her warmth in a cold frenetic world that has not often returned the favor of civility and joy she selflessly, strongly, routinely is.



Survival Guide

I’ve heard it said that all of the best people carry some sort of scar.

Some etch trenches through layers of skin, layers of built up confidence and permissiveness, in jagged marks of inconsistent lengths and depths.

Some follow the tracks of haphazard stitching, threads tracing lifelines and electric cables, communicating between once was and now is.

Some tenderly expand and contract, beating and breathing despite chaos and conflict, enduring what smothers, stifles, and shrinks.

And yet, over time, each becomes paler smoother softer more whole than before.

Each marking a process of healing, transcribing the survival guide used by the body mind heart and journeying forward.


Bonus poem:


Effortless

Spiraling spinning in the gentle summer air the helicopters fall from great heights to humble grounds beneath the maple tree that sprawls across the backyard’s far back corner

Some are visited again by stronger breezes picked up and carried through the whirlwind once more climbing and descending onto the soft spiked grass below the heavy branches

falling just so between the sharp green blades, nestling into sun-dried soil to etch their way into new homes of dirt and roots and tiny bugs— with the dream of

becoming.

Their helicopter blades quickly drying out and cracking underfoot but never losing their soft green bean-like embryo protected in the cockpit that slowly nourishes and restores the evicted seed

Now exploring deeper ground the seed finds its grip on minerals and dust and rocks, reaching out to finally land in its new home after its brief journey from the tall branch to the surrounding soil.

And effortlessly the soft green seed holds tightly between rains and winds and clouds and rays of sun until it pokes out above the ground, once more stretching itself upward, but this time without the whim of a gusting wind, growing into something

more than. greater than. never equal to. never less than.

 

Isabel Bostick is a sophomore at Indiana Wesleyan University, where she majors in English, writing, and Honors Humanities, and minors in political science. She loves the color dandelion yellow, the smell of a new box of crayons, and laughing with her family.

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