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» cardinal directions | rewrite

north.

travel to the north with me. do you feel it? it's already on your fingers. lead from your pencil. study more. we want you to go to a good college. do you have a test tomorrow? did you let the dog inside? you're irresponsible. you're not going to get anywhere in life with writing. we want the best for you. we love you.

you hear that? oh, no, they're not yelling. no. that's the wind in your ears. and that girl walking out – oh, well, i guess she wants to be called a they – well, she's going out. on a bike ride. to the dollar tree to buy nerd clusters and back again with the candy tucked under her jacket. she'll be back, because she has no choice. where else would they go? what would make her life easier?

oh, it's not all bad there. there's a dog at the door – of course he barks, what do you expect – look, he's bringing you a squirrel. here is your bedroom, and here is the place where you'll listen to music and smile. here, feel the grains of uncooked rice under your fingers, make sure they're clean and swish it once - twice - thrice - oh, we have to go now. she is coming back.

welcome to the north pole. the love you'll find there is piled atop branches, buried under snow and cold hearts that are unwilling to melt for you.

south.

turn here, off the side of the road; it is small, but look, they can fit so much.

so much of what? that's a good question, and the answer is everything. of importance. look, there's your cabinmates. there are nine others, and they'll all call you whatever you want them to. you and your session will be a family, you will put your arms around them and cry, and you will hike to the star and scream to the valley that you love being jewish.

you'll laugh down the waterslide and you'll listen to your counselors tell you about their stories, their lives. you will walk two hills and play cards while morning dew forms around you. you'll pick blackberries from a tangle of thorns. you'll sit in a crook next to the river, and you'll sing prayers after you eat, and you'll laugh as you win your game of night fox. they call it being high on camp.

can you hear them already? they're singing in the sanctuary. morning prayers, baruch ata adonai. blink again and the entire congregation at camp is here. shabbat means a sea of white clothes and dark hair and tallit spread above you. shabbat means chicken and brownies and laughing until you hurt, and it means clapping out a rhythm under a sea of stars and strums of guitars.

welcome to south. you'll never want to leave.

east.

what does music feel like? can you pick it up and turn it over in your hands? i cannot, but i know it's there. i suppose that is what love here feels like.

because no, you can't see them. but you know you would learn another language just in case you do one day. you know they're beside you when you pour a new cup of tea. you hear them in the swoop of a bird's wing and an author's song, and the clicking of keyboards. you hug your pillow, you pretend it's them.

and even still, you don't know them. you don't know their favorite color (or maybe you do, and you see their smile in the early sunsets) and you wonder if it's turquoise blue or sage green or muted pink (it is brown, unbeknownst to you). you've never seen their face (or maybe you have, and they're not ugly like they tell you they are) and wonder what it will look like if you ever meet them. you've never rode a rollercoaster with them or baked with them or jumped on their trampoline in the dead of night.

and you want to. or maybe you don't, and the screen is your preferred anonymity. but you are friends, or maybe more, or maybe not.

in east, you will take screenshots instead of pictures.

west.

they're all up ahead. go catch up. they're going to leave you behind -

that is a lie. they are not going to leave you behind. you are engrained in their memories, you are a person they won't forget. your sharp edges will be dulled by rushing water and they will forget your childhood crush, but you - you - they will not forget. and you won't forget them.

do you remember where you sat for lunch throughout middle school and high school? i do. in fifth grade, i sat on two green tables, one with you and one with them, and i laughed more with them but they grew up and don't want to play truth or dare anymore. in seventh grade, i sat in the lane, under a tree and by a classroom. the people by the tree were so, so much fun to be around, but we are the loosest definition of friends. and i miss them, but i don't miss you. you're still here. we sit by the health office now, and i sit with another group too but i don't know if they will stay.

do you remember? i do. i remember it all. they tell me they forgot about how my nickname was created and what we wrote about and why they held my hand. i'm glad someone remembers. i'm glad it's still you.

there are certainly the most memories to be made in west.

well, i can't tell you which way is home. i suppose they all are, in a way.

northwest could be your home if you chose. i personally like southeast. but it's up to you to find a way; it's up to you to choose where to make your home. i hope whichever way you choose brings you peace. i hope you make – no. i hope you define – your own directions.

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