There was
a moment

- By Emily Hudgens

At the middle of our trip
across the desert,
where my grandmother 
asked if we were visiting
the Sea of Galilee. She has
been there before, she said

She told me that if we got the chance, 
she had scattered some of my 
grandfather’s ashes there years ago,
just after he had died. It was his favorite 
place, she said. If you can, go visit.

There was a moment 
at the beginning of the trip where 
I asked a God I was not sure I 
believed in anymore to show me 
something beautiful.

It starts like this: anxiety about being
far away from home meets the 
casual, warm, freely-given kindness 
of the local people. Exhaustion meets
cold, blended Israeli coffee. 

It starts like this: the overwhelming 
kindness that pours out of our guide, 
the soft sort of warmth that our fellow 
passengers radiated, the quiet reassurance 
of familiar faces in a foreign country.

It ends like this: sleeping on the floor 
at the Tel Aviv airport, laughing with 
new friends, playing card games, and 
finally falling asleep on a neon-lit bus. 
A pre-dawn ride back to the airport, 

shuffling through security, more
Israeli coffee and a warm bagel. 
Twenty hours of travel, and then 
my bed, my cat, and a hot shower. 

It ends like this: remembering standing 
in a cathedral, singing the Doxology, 
hearing our voices echo 

off of the high ceilings, watching 
a woman weep quietly to herself. Singing the 
Doxology another half dozen times, 
ten times total, singing Leonard Cohen’s 

“Hallelujah” on the bus ride to the airport 
(the first time around) and feeling 
something like faith swell in my chest. 
Sitting on an airplane, listening to a cover
of “Hallelujah” over and over again,

trying to find that feeling again.

The Wheels
Go ‘Round

- By Danielle Brown

The headlights of our gray CR-V reflect off the clouds that descend as my mother drives us home, hiding the road’s white lines in its depth, but I don’t notice how limited our visibility is until I can no longer watch the constellations from the window.

I glance at my mother, wondering if she sees how thick the fog is, but she seems focused on the road so I decide not to ask. Instead, I look down at the bright blue cast the nurse just wrapped around my left forearm and think about Ben. I broke up with him months ago, but I can still see him when I close my eyes.

“I don’t love you,” I whispered.

He kept looking at me with wide, hopeful eyes after he gathered enough courage to say “I love you” and I didn’t know how to tell him that he wasn’t supposed to fall for me. That wasn’t part of my plan.

“You’re lying,” he says, shaking his head furiously. He reaches for my hand, but I take a step back. I know I’m hurting him. I know he’ll resent me for this, but he can’t love me. “You’re lying,” he repeats, blue eyes watering as the silence between us thickens.

“You deserve someone better,” I say because he’s the kind of boy who holds your hand and smiles and reminds you that love is good.

The clouds seek my attention. They beg to be known and touched, they crave the warmth of human flesh, and I surrender easily, rolling my window down enough to reach my hand out and touch them. The clouds latch onto the warmth of my fingers, hungrily extracting the feeling from my nerves.

Jack’s jet black hair and piercing eyes jump into my field of vision. I imagine him standing on the side of the road with his hands stuffed in his pockets, that smirk painted across his face as he watches my car pass. He doesn’t believe me when I say I’m leaving anymore; he just waits until I come back.

I shouldn’t have knocked on his door tonight. I know what it’s like when he drinks, but I couldn’t stay home and watch my mother stare at the microwave.

“Get the hell back here!” Jack yells, chasing me through the living room, knocking down bookshelves and scattering sheets of paper in the process. “You are not walking away from me again.”

“No! You’re being an asshole!” I shout, but I could feel the shakiness in my voice. He knows. I scream as he lunges for me, tumbling into the kitchen table and falling onto the ground.

I can feel a sharp pain surge through my arm and I gasp. I roll over and look up into Jack’s dark brown eyes. “What did you call me?” he whispers, lips close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Jack, knock it off.” I wiggle from underneath, flinching as the pain in my wrist increases. “I hate it when you act like this. He didn’t mean anything to me.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, putting space between us. He looks at the way I guard my wrist and pushes my hand away, taking the injured limb in his hand. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I whimper because it hurts when he touches it.

He tightens his fingers around it and grabs my other hand, forcing the two above my head and I scream.

“You are so weak,” he spits. “Pathetic. No wonder he left you.” Then, he gets up and walks into the kitchen, leaving me to tend to my wound alone.

My mother doesn’t tell me to close the window; she doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve rolled it down or recognize the chill that starts to fill the car. Her skin must be used to the cold.

When I came home from Jack’s, my mother didn’t say a word. She took me to the ER and sat there. She waited for the nurse to ask me how I broke my arm and watched me lie. She didn’t ask for the truth, but then again, I never ask about the bruises on her shoulders or the cuts on her face. This is just another thing we don’t talk about.

I listen to her whispered singing as the car leans into the curves of the road. The soft soprano of the wheels gripping the asphalt for traction. I let my fingers move with the wind generated by the car’s speed, up then down. They mirror the tires, forced left then right then left again. The clouds are thicker now; they funnel through the window and infiltrate the space between us.

My hand is numb now, as cold as the humid air outside, and I start to pull it back inside the car. The clouds lurch and chase my fingers through the window, pounding against the windshield in a desperate attempt to reach me, tipping the car onto two wheels. None. I think that if I force the window up, I can still save us, but it doesn’t budge. The clouds crawl through the crevice and claim us, the warmth gone.