Why I Write

Mommy and me classes, cheese mats and spotters. Competitive state meets every weekend. Chalky feet, and ripped hands. Burning muscles and agonizing stretches. Coaches that can’t stop pushing, gymnasts who can’t stop crying. Isolated trampoline fears, balance beam tricks, and the weight of the world. No social life, or summer trips. No teddy bears or soft serve ice-cream. Gold medal dreams and imparted lessons. This is how I remember my twelve-year commitment to the sport of gymnastics. This is a reason why I write.

Rugged mountains, river streams and cocoa fields. Spider monkeys screeching across star-laden, jungle skies. Rainforests, rivers and strong ocean winds. Infinite species of plants and insects. Mango, plantain and coconut trees. No nuclear power plants or carbon emissions. No smog-filled valleys or disastrous oil spills. This is the way I remember my visit to Costa Rica. This is why I write.

Quiet streets, lox with bagels, safety in the form of homologous lacrosse sticks. Shattered glass, deafening voices and hostile words. Covers taken to the couch, bills lay unpaid, the furnace still. Brown, labeled Cardboard boxes carried to the door. Blood watered down until clear, transparent. Ties broken, tragic flaws revealed. 2am fire-truck sounds, subway tokens, and Central High. New old books, Nike, and a representation of the world. Bright lights, polluted air, danger in the form of late night walks and ally ways. This was my transition into the city. This contributes to why I write.

Orange hair, cardinals hat, and four feet six inches tall. Laughing together around the basketball court, the picnic tables, the glass bottle as it spun round. Naïve yet aware, strong yet fragile. Confusion as teachers gossiped. The moment of reflection, the moment of truth. The pain and hollowness penetrating through my soul. My loss of breath, gasps of air. This is how I remember my best friend and his death. This is mostly why I write.