Today is June 19th, 2019. I walk through the park, a breeze blows through my hair. Dogs play, people have conversations that carry through the air. There’s a sort of peace here, only I’m here for one reason.

The man with the balloon cart sells avidly. Children scamper away, an assortment of color trailing behind. “I’ll have the red one,” I say, handing him $1.50. He smiles at me and I walk away towards the cemetary.

Twenty minutes pass and I’m standing in front of my brother’s grave. I look at the bright red balloon whos string I hold in my hand and I become the innocent eight year old I once was.

“Danny, I love it!” I exclaim, reaching for the red balloon’s string.

“Don’t let go!” he warns, tying it around my wrist. “It’s a gift that you’ll always remember me by.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gotta go back,” he says, crouching down to my level. “The war needs me.”

“Oh,” I frown. “But why?”

“Sometimes, we just have to do what we’re told, Munch.”

I remember that day. It was our last hug, and the last time I saw him alive. He was going to serve one year and come back. Two weeks before he was going to come home, his troop was ambushed and he died on June 19th, 2007. As a kid, I didn’t totally understand, but I knew he was gone. Standing over his gravestone, balloon in hand, makes it seem like he never left.

I come by on Christmas, days praising the military, our birthday that we shared, but every June 19th, I bring a red balloon. It’s my way of healing.

I tie the balloon to a rock by the grave and whisper, “I love you, Danny. See you soon.”

This week we continued our short stories. On day 5, the prompt was extreme weather. I chose to write about Hurricane Florence.

The house shakes as winds reach 130 mph. I’ve live in North Carolina for fifteen years, since I was born, and I don’t remember any hurricane being so severe.

I hold my younger brother, Ollie, tight as he clings to our dog, Maizey. Rain pounds our home while the winds howls. When the hurricane first started, I found a small, black portable radio in case we needed it. Now, I turn it on. The man’s voice cracks in and out but I understand what he says. “Hurricane Florence is now a Category 4 hurricane…”

Ollie, Maizey and I cannot leave our home. My parents went three hours away to pick up my older brother, Jason, from the airport. They’re stuck there, and I’m stuck here, looking after a seven year old scared out of his mind.

A BANG! goes off some distance away. Maybe another tree uprooted and crashed into someones home. This September, I’ve had to watch constantly for weather signs and new reports. I don’t know why, but this season has been pure destruction.

“I’m scared, Ally,” he whimpers.

“It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” I reply, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

I try to be brave. I try not to let my voice falter, but I’m worried. For us, my family at the airport, my friends, the community. All I can do is sit here in this house and wait until it’s not so dangerous.

In my creative writing class, we are focusing on short stories for the month of May. This week, we were given four prompts to make a short story from. On day 4, we did ‘What if…..?” and had to write a short little something about it, so this short story is based on that prompt.

What if you could wish your grandma who died, to be walking next to you on the sidewalk? Or your dead dog to run by your side? This gift I have is a funny thing. I can summon and interact with the dead, but I’m just a normal girl. I try not to summon people that much. Or do it in public. It’s not like other people can see them, but it’s an awkward time. Besides, not everything is the sunshine and rainbows we want if we get that person back.

But today, I wished my old dog to my side. I grab a tennis ball and we play fetch until my arms become tired and I can’t throw anymore. He comes and lays down beside me, and it’s like he never left. We go on a walk like we used to do, every single day he was alive. It’s kinda weird though. I’m the only person who can see and feel him.

As we walk down the sidewalks, I pass a guy who appears to be in his early twenties. He wears dark jeans, a black leather jacket, and a fitted white tee. Which is odd. It’s May. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. Crouching down, he pets Quincey and says, “Beautiful dog.”

“You see him?” I ask, shocked.

“Of course,” he says. “Have a good day.”

To

Get

This

Player

I have to

Run faster

Play tougher

Get a grip on my

Brain because it is

Spiraling out of control

Saying win you must win

You always have to get the

Win and it never stops. Never.

The poem I’ve written is a style of Oulipo poetry. I chose this style because of how it looks, starting narrow and simple, then expanding as the sentences get longer. The reason I wrote this poem is because it’s kinda about myself and how I feel. I play sports and losing isn’t fun, we all can agree. For me though, losing a game or running bad in a meet after working hard and having certain expectations can get inside my head. I turn into a nightmare, and feel like I always have to win.

As you know, April was National Poetry Writing Month. In my creative writing class, we wrote a poem a day, 30 poems in total. Poetry before this project was kinda just there. I didn’t love it, I didn’t hate it. It was more neutral for me. After learning and writing with different styles and patterns, it opened a door. It showed me new styles and which of those styles I really like, like limerick’s, abecedarian and free verse are my top 3. Part of it was challenging though. I wanted variety in the poems I wrote. I didn’t want everything to be about the same topic so having to brain storm something I enjoy and will feel good about was a little tough on some days. When there was a certain rhyming sequence, I needed the perfect word too. Overall, this made me feel accomplished because I learned so much and wrote so many poems. I hope you enjoyed this poem and Happy May!