The jet black alarm clock reads “6:45” in neon green numbers. I moan and hit snooze. I feel safe in bed. Not at school. I feel safe in bed. Not at school.  I feel safe in bed. Not at school. But I have to get up. I have to start my day, I have to continue my life. I will do the same tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that. On and on until I die. With that, I sit up…


and hit snooze

Creative. Stubborn. Those are the words that describe Kestrel when she makes food. She makes the food from her mind. No help. Never recipes. Sometimes the food is yummy, like a plump juicy tomato coated in a thick covering of butter, cheese, and salt. Sometimes however, it turns out bad. And I mean really bad. Like the time she made banana toothpaste. I yawned and stretched my arms as I wandered downstairs in the morning. I was hoping for a bowl of sweet cereal and cool milk. When I came down there was no cereal. There was instead a sheet of mashed up bananas. Above the mush was Kestrel, happily adding a white powder that could be salt, sugar, or crushed up altoids. There was no way to tell. When I asked her what it was, she said “Banana toothpaste”. I stuck out my tongue at her, making my eyebrows into little arches, and walked away. Another time, I asked Kestrel why she never uses recipes. Her answer was “I like to create”. I wonder who she will turn out to be. Sometimes I see her watching her shows and I worry. I want her to be her own person. And then I remember the toothpaste. “Banana toothpaste. Banana toothpaste.” She’ll be okay. No, she’ll be amazing. My little sis and her banana toothpaste.

The past of my mother is non-existant in my name. Although, she is half of me. She birthed me. She feeds me. She provides for me. She understands me. She listens to me. She hugs me. She loves me. But her name is not in mine. My father’s name is in mine. That’s good. He cooks for me. He works hard for me. He advises me. He helps me. He waits with me. He supports me. He loves me. He deserves to have part of my name. But so does my mom. And she can’t have it. Just because she is a woman.

I don’t know where my home is. My house is where I sleep. Blankets cover me as I try to rest for the next day. But my neck aches from the long day before me and for the long day that is sure to come next. My cabin is where I play. When there is warmth, I spend my time splashing my sister in the icy water. When there is cold, I slide down the mountains on my skis with my father. But when I am there, I feel alone. My school is where I learn. For the future, for my good. At school my “friends” don’t feel like friends. But they will soon. I know. My climbing gym is where I play. There, I have friends. There, I have confidence. There, I have fun. My people is my home. Family, friends, whatever. My home is where I feel safe, my home is who I love, my home is where I’m loved.

I am from chalked up climbing shoes
From pens and sneakers
I am from the chipping game cabinet that is exhausted from use
I am from the invasive red prickly bush
The towering evergreen tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.
I’m from hannukahs and christmases
From Jack and from Jill
I’m from wannabe mothers and repetitive dad jokes and
From saying i love you every night
I’m from take a chill pill and **** it up cupcake
And every little thing is gonna be alright
I’m from long walks in the mountains
And Westchester county
I’m from Ashkenazi jews
And smoked meat and boca burgers
From the tendon my father snapped with an axe
And the wheat my sister coughed up
I’m from talking and good humor
From unconditional love and support

On my shelf is a box brimming with letters
Of the memories I hold closest
To my heart
My conscience
And my happiness

I am the daughter of the wind.
Zephyr is my name.
Fierce and unwavering,
But in some ways, still.

I am a Racoon.
Wise and thoughtful but keeps her virtues hidden beneath a strange black mask.
My hair is like leaves in autumn: golden, soft.

My personality is unlike my hair:
Not soft, nor meek.
Loud and stormy.
Like the wind, once again.

My father is the master of the wind.
Strong, yet possesses a flowy personality.
He has strong hands and strong arms that shield me from reality.
But I like it.
His heart is warm and cozy. I can feel it when I curl up on his lap after a long day.

My mother is a dragon.
Protects us all from everything.
But to the princesses in her heart, she is kind, and loving.
We are the princesses and feel her warmth everyday.

She is unlike my sister, who is  a mantis shrimp.
Although small, she is mighty:
punches with her beliefs, no matter how much it burns.
But not always, sometimes she is a flower.
Budding: beginning to be kind.
She is colorful: bubbling with personality and will be brilliant as well as powerful someday.
Like a phoenix who will rise from the ashes.

I am guilty.
I cry for nothing
  Scream for minutia
    Fight for me.
Yet I do not fight for freedom
I do not fight for others
  I fight for me.
I am guilty.
I am done with being this way.
   Done with being imbecile
      Done with being ignorant.
Some know this about themselves
Yet they do not try
   They are imbecile
      Ignorant
They don’t try


But I will