"Imagination comes of not having things"- Leroy Neiman

Take off the Mask

A familiar face sags and sighs in the mirror. A hand reaches out and picks up a tube of lipstick but instead of leaving a dark cloud of color, the lipstick is cleared back into the tube in dainty swipes, leaving clear and pure lips. Then back into the package it goes, perfectly sealed. The hands pick up the mascara and it becomes a magic wand, miraculously relieving the eyelashes from the burden of the heavy paste. They spring back up and flutter happy to be free. The hands did the same for the mascara and packaged it into its misleading case, protecting us from its damage. Guided by the hands a pen of eyeliner flies backwards over the thickly lined eyes, and like the windshield wiper of a car, pushes the restriction out of sight. My eyes are drawn to the fine powdered now floating in the air, like dust caught in the sunlight. The hands move the applicator back over to the eyes, and like a vacuum the strangling powder is sucked from the eye. Being safely trapped in its pallet, the eye shadow and eyeliner are packaged up together, a double threat happy to be rid of. Lastly, the stretched tight face is finally freed from the globs of foundation with swift brushes of fingertips. When the last drop of glue that held the mask together is contained, the bottle is packaged once and for all. The brightness of the fresh skin shone like a pearl in the meat of a clam. The uniqueness of its imperfections made it beautiful in a way the makeup couldn't.

 The girl the hands belonged two stares into the mirror, and then she turns seven. She giddily counts her freckles and squeals with pleasure when she has reached twenty. Years pass backwards and she is finding her feet for the first time, boggled to know that they are hers. Then there's only a strip of DNA, designed to be perfectly original, perfectly unique.

Hidden Treasures

When I was little, about 6 or 7, I would pick up anything and everything my eyes wandered upon. My “treasures” I would call them, and every time I found one it was like the first fall day after a long hot summer; exciting and refreshing. Each was a new mystery and story to be solved and told. My mom said my eyes were always curious, always searching, always watching. She also said I ran into a lot of things, because my head was always down.  About 2 weeks ago at cross country practice, my eyes moved carefully over each and every piece of gravel as my feet continued their endless pace. Finally my gaze caught on something purple, and without thinking I stopped so abruptly Mrs. Coach Null ran into the back of me. I gently caressed the newly found purple heart-shaped bracelet as old memories flooded back into my head.  Laughing I thought, another treasure to add to my collection.

That night when I got home from practice, I showed my mom my new found treasure. “Ew Natalie, are you still picking up trash from the dirty ground?” she asked. With such familiarity I answered, “It’s not trash mommy, these are my treasures!”  My mom left the kitchen, and after what sounded like a stampede of elephants passed upstairs, she came back with a tiny purple box. My eyes lit up as they caught sight of what was inside; each and every one of my treasures was there. They seemed to call out my name asking to be found again, and to my amazement I was still just as excited to find them. The charms and different pieces filled my heart with warmth like fresh baked chocolate chip cookies; each bite more delicious than the first, and leaving me wanting more.

The same scene would always play before my eyes like a thin mist. A small girl would be crying because she had lost the only memory of her father, and then I would gladly reunite her with her beloved charm and take her pain away. I now look at each one of my treasures with a new fondness. Most are somehow broken, dirty, or tarnished, but still they all have a story to tell. I can’t help but believe that all things are lost so they can be found again. There’s a pure happiness and hope I feel whenever I find a new treasure, so I am always curious, always searching, always watching.

With Love,

            Chrys

Beneath the Crust

I am six years old, and sitting on the edge of the counter watching my mom make breakfast. I remember watching the brilliant glare of my mom’s engagement ring dance across the walls. The beauty of the bright reflection was no match for the plain brown walls, wherever it went my curious eyes followed. Before I had wondered how such a petite rock, no bigger than a pea, could be such a prize, but sitting there it was clear why. I had never seen anything sparkle like that before.

I am 10, almost 11 years old, and doodling while Mrs. Kaciban lectures us about the crust being thin and brittle. “Only good for growing crops,” she had said. My own thoughts about dinner and sports consumed my mind until something finally pushed its way through the thick web. “That’s right, diamonds are made beneath the crust, by being crushed under intense pressure and extreme heats.” My mind swarmed with the new information. Why does everyone want them if they just come from the dirt?

I am 16 years old, and watching my own diamond necklace shimmer in the golden light of my bedroom. The glare is just as beautiful as I remember, but something else hangs at the back of my mind. Then I remember Mrs. Kaciban’s words and the diamond seems almost clearer than before. I put it back into the velvet case and snap it shut, but not too gently so as not to insult it. If only I had a quarter of the strength of a diamond.

Introduction

     A few years ago, my family and I decided to travel the country for the summer. Being a dramatic tween at the time, this was close to death! I wouldn't be able to see my friends for 6 whole weeks (so basically forever), plus I'd be stuck in a car with my three sisters. I knew that the summer was not going to be all sunshine and flowers, but I didn't actually expect it to be fun. Don't get me wrong, we did have our troubles and we argued... a lot, but we also ended up with great stories to tell. Like the time when our car broke down in the middle of know where on a 114 degree day, or when we took a wrong turn and accidentally ended up on a U.S. military missile base. And the arguments... what else could we do but make up, its not like we had anyone else to talk to. No matter what the problem was we kept on going, and managed to create some pretty great memories along the way. We could have just turned around the first time we broke down, but we didn't and for that I am truly thankful. I didn't realize it then, but that was going to be the best summer in my life. We couldn't always change the bad days and the tough times, but we were able to change how we looked at them. So the next time something goes wrong and times get rough, just take a deep breath, step back, and take another look at it, because there's some good in there somewhere. After all life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning how to dance in the rain.

With Love,
              Chrys