Introduction

This is a collection of five short stories based on themes from Sandra Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street. But to me, it’s more than that. It’s my journey into a world of introspection. It’s my record of what keeps me up at night. It’s a chronicle of my growth. It’s five stories that are one story— my story. This is the stuff of dreams.

“A Dinnertime Whisper”

I used to set a table for four, but I stopped because I kept having to put a napkin back. I kept returning a fork, a spoon, a pair of chopsticks. So, I set the table for three now. One seat for Mom, one seat for Dad, and one seat for me. But there is always another place at the table. It’s an empty void begging to be filled with the sweet scent of fresh jasmine rice, begging to be filled with lively dinnertime chatter, begging to be filled with you. And I say goodbye to a whisper, bidding it to travel the 2,447 miles to reach you through the night. Dinner’s ready.

Image courtesy of .gov site.

“The Night Lights”

It’s midnight. My body is rigid with stress. Buzzing through my mind are all the things I need to do that I inherently know will never actually get done. And somehow, after an hour in bed with my aching mind and aching heart, it’s still midnight. My worries refuse to yield to sleep. I think of all the things I’m responsible for, of all the people I want to make proud, but I keep feeling the breath of failure on the back of my neck. And somehow, after an hour with my burning fear and trembling hands, it’s still midnight. 

But this time, when I look out my window, instead of a sea of ink in the sky, I see lights. Not just starlight, but lights of green, orange, red, blue, and yellow, all beckoning to me to come closer. And suddenly, the lights start moving, and my face is pressed against the cold glass of the window. I slowly see houses passing by, with glowing reindeer posing beneath the colorful glass orbs like sweet hard candies strung across the sky. Snowmen stand smiling in a state of whimsical confusion as to why they stand upon beds of grass instead of snow. An inflatable Santa Claus is frozen mid-chuckle, standing tall and swaying with the wind. 

I’m a child again. I hear “Last Christmas” on the radio, coupled with my own soft giggles of pure, innocent joy. I see my parents seated before me, my father behind the wheel, gently easing the car forward as its engine whispers like the reindeers’ breaths. I’m amazed by those beautiful, enchanting lights and keep my palms on the frosty window with the wish that I could reach out to hold the winter magic in my fingertips. I am happy. So perfectly happy.

Then, I open my eyes and watch those lights fade away, out into the night, burned by my own doubt. I miss those nights.

Beach scene image courtesy of .gov site.

“Those Places On the Beach”

I slowly walk along the shore with the sweet morning breeze running its fingers through my hair. The sun warmly kisses my cheeks to the sound of the ocean whispering in my ear as mounds of sand part beneath my feet. The sand is rather fine; it’s silky, but at the same time grainy. It reminds me of the ash of burned incense sticks. I spend many of my hours doing this, walking on this beach with my only company being the wind, the sun, and the sea. I started going here more and more often after I turned thirteen. Before that, I knew of this place but hardly ever went, as I’d have had to go alone. Now, I’m sixteen, and I go almost every day.

Sometimes, I dig around in the sand. I dig my hands into the ground and lift them into the air, watching the flurry of fairy dust fall to the ground like the snow globes from my early childhood. There are always many things to be found in the sand. Some of them are pretty, like the beautiful sea shells, finely sculpted by nature. Some of them are not so pretty, like the strands of seaweed vomited onto the shore by the ocean. Some of them are pretty but broken, like the sand dollar I found, chipped and cracked by age. But the sand dollar was strong. It was wise. It knew life long before it met my own. There are always many things to be found in the sand.

Sometimes, I just sit upon a log, serenely staring into the depths of blue, holding out my fingers to wrap them around the clouds. They are always too far away, but that is alright. There are already so many tantalizing things in the world that will always be just out of reach. It’s like those places I know down along the shore, many miles away. They are familiar, yet foreign. No matter how many days I spend walking out in an effort to reach them, I never do for most. I could take as many steps as stars in the night sky, but many of those places keep retreating farther and farther back into the darkness the closer I get. I only ever come close enough to see a few, and there are some that I just keep coming back to every time.

There’s this one place that is just a house. The first time I came, I saw a familiar little girl inside. I could not see very well, as a sheen of fog was cast before my eyes, but I was certain of the familiar face. She sat near a woman she closely resembled, her mom, I knew. But instead of blankly inspecting the carpet like the girl was, the woman was crying. Both the girl and somehow myself knew what had happened, why she was crying, but the girl was not yet old enough to understand the depth of her mother’s feelings, let alone how to react to them. The girl felt sad too, but not in the same way as the mother. I don’t come to this house as often as the other places, but when I do, the scene never changes. 

On that first day, it did not take long for me to realize that I recognized them both. I was very, very familiar with that little girl. I knew everything about her personality. I knew everything that had happened in her life thus far. And I knew everything that will happen to her until she reaches the age of sixteen.

And I knew then that that little girl would grow. That bittersweet innocence would meet sadness, guilt, fear, doubt. Life. But there are always many things to be found in the sand. There are the beautiful sea shells, finely sculpted by nature. There are the strands of seaweed vomited onto the shore by the ocean. There are the sand dollars, chipped and cracked by age. There are always many things to be found in the sand.

Once, after I had been going to the beach for awhile, I went to visit those places as I frequently did. This day was different though, for a great rainstorm had hovered over that part of the beach with cackling wind, bellowing thunder, and trembling lightning. Yet feeling a little as if it was just the wind drawing me closer, the thunder calling my name, the lightning beckoning me forward, I followed the sandy shore for many miles until I was greeted by a new sight. I had reached a new place, finally. Well, it was actually the same small house that belonged to the mother and the little girl, but the home somehow looked brighter and newer this time, even without really being any different on the outside. But inside, a different scene was unfolding with vivid clarity. It felt familiar too. 

The little girl was older now. Her mother was still crying, for something else, I knew. But the girl saw her mother’s pain, felt her mother’s pain.  And this time, she wiped a tear from her mother’s eye, held her mother’s hand, and whispered in her mother’s ear. They embraced, neither able to tell the other’s tears from her own. Then, holding each other tight, they smiled through the tears, and the rain clouds above me parted ways for a winking ray of sunshine.

That little girl was me.

Image courtesy of .gov site.

“My Midnight Musings”

My voice that echoes off the stars… I often wish to say things that I never want to be heard. Those nights, I lie on the roof of my house, watching the stars, my friends, wishing that they weren’t so far away, so I could whisper in their ears. But instead, I cradle my journal, and I speak to the unhearing but eternally remembering pages: …holds fire in between my ice. I know the sky has watched me for long enough to know that I am a person of many feelings with my chests of gold and blue. The sky knows that while these treasures ought to be shared, some ought to stay buried in the sand. I look down at my notebook. Emotions trapped in space afar… It can be hard to carry such weighty things through sand, but it must also be hard for the sun to be the first to rise each morning. It must be hard for the clouds to hold up the sky, too. But at least here, on this rooftop, at this hour, there is nothing else in the world but the moon, the stars, and my musings. No fear. No doubt. No responsibility. …just free at midnight must suffice.

“Four, Not Three”

When he stepped through the door, he found that what he had left behind had vanished. It had only been a year, but 2,447 miles of distance made it feel much, much longer. Why were the cabinets replaced? What happened to the sofa? When did the walls get painted white… were they always white? There were people home, but at the same time there was no one because the air of grief and longing had smothered their presence. They were his family. He recognized them right away but did a double take because he did not believe what his eyes knew. Only a year had passed, but… Dad looks so stressed out… Kaelyn’s grown up so much… and Mom… His heart sank to see his mother so frail as a quiet tear tip-toed down his face. But upon seeing him, the grief and longing released its hold on the family. His dad’s eyes were young again, his sister filled with child-like wonder once more, and his mother’s pale complexion conceded to the beauty he knew.

They embraced. They embraced for a long while. 

“You must be hungry after your flight,” his mother finally whispered between sobs. “Sit down. We were just about to have dinner. ”

His mother just knew he was hungry. Some things never change.

As he sat down at the seat he’d occupied since childhood, the cushion on his chair breathed a wistful sigh. Kaelyn began to set the table; she laid down three napkins, but then she looked up at him, laughed softly at herself, and took out another. He got up to help her prepare the table and went to grab chopsticks.

“Where are the utensils?” he asked, staring blankly into the drawer he once knew.

Kaelyn just smiled and opened the one beneath it, taking out four pairs of chopsticks. Four pairs of chopsticks, she reminded herself, not three. Their mom set down a pot of stewed fish as their dad carried over four bowls of fresh jasmine rice. The family sat down at the table and, per tradition, Kaelyn and her brother said an invitation to their parents to begin eating. The kitchen air, once stale from silence, quickly filled itself with lively dinnertime chatter. Dinner’s ready.