by Maisy Chan

The engine in the Studebaker, happy to go, negligible heat at first, roasted along and ready to go

That was back when we had cold temperatures spinning the aura whatever comfort we could from alluding to the outside of classrooms, rooms themselves feeling the weight like the Bering Sea

We wanted to run, melting the inner iceberg in hearts too young to think
loss, but we repented of skipped beats, unutterable of what we wanted to say

Instead, we crammed together in the Studebaker, and believed we would
get somewhere

Our canopy lives, clean, untouched desks and twin beds, our calculators scientific or trigonometric sophistication belied a truth.... We were turning in a direction, en masse, as though we all had the same destinations

Traveling by roads led on by vacations at sea, on boats with fish bearing decks, the earning of freedom was not little, mind you. Eventually we reached a shore where they crowned us "adults"

The Studebaker parked at someone's yard still. All we would talk about at Reunions was the rust that must clothe the thing now. Then under the canopy of drinks and beers, full tummies of pasta and bread, we knew our children would ask whether this thing really took place?

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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