4 Sisters of the Apocalypse

14- Beth

I'm on a ferry boat to Staten Island. It's a dreary Island even in the summer. In the winter it's a setting for horror stories and broken dreams. It's a grey frigid morning.  I hate boats. I'm not a good swimmer and it's so cold. I don't wanna be crammed inside with all of those people sniffling and sneezing--brushing up against me... On the deck there's just a few of us crazies bracing the icy mist that cuts through you like thousands of frozen mosquitoes. I pull my clear rain poncho over my dirty blond bob and pull out one of mom's journals out of my Hello Kitty backpack. I know I'm not five years old but I miss my mom and she got me this for the first day of kindergarten. Nostalgia floods through me in waves and momentarily warms me up. I sniff inside the bag and there remains a faint smell of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and crayons. Oh I miss the days when a new box of crayons thrilled me. Each differently colored waxy crayon, untouched with perfectly pointed tips. To get the 64 pack of crayons was like going to heaven itself. I sniffed the bag again. A grumpy old man in a NY Jets beanie gave me a sideways look. Then he slumped down on the slippery white bench and closed his eyes.

When I peered into the bag it was there! A brand new box of Crayola Crayons. The 64 pack! How could I have missed it before? When I packed the journals it was empty. Wasn't it?

At random I pull out a plain brown journal. It feels as if it is covered in burlap. I run my fingers over it's rough surface. I enjoy the feel of it. Sewn in the center is a small black cross. I enjoy feeling the different texture of the burlap and the smooth cool metal cross. I've alway appreciated the underappreciated senses, touch, taste and smell. I can always tell when cookies are finished baking just by the smell of them. Oh how I'd prefer cooking, drawing and playing the piano to going to nursing school. I love the idea of nursing the sick but if I had my druthers... I'd do something artistic. But that's not practical is it? I couldn't make money doing it? My art couldn't save the world. I opened the crayon box once again and ran my fingers across the tips. So many colors, so many combinations. Endless possibilities. Since when did I become such a poet?

I opened the journal.

Dear Beth,

Do you remember drawing when you were little? You stopped doing it so much. You shouldn't stop, you have a real gift. (I'll explain in a bit.) I saved all of your best work in a portfolio but we lost them the summer our basement flooded. I cried. You told me, "Don't worry mama I'll draw you more." But then you got sick and you drew less and less. I thought it was because you were sick but you said it scared you to draw sometimes. I wonder why?

You got me this journal when you were 7. It was for Mother's Day. You said it reminded you of me. Sturdy, dependable, natural with Jesus smack dab in the center!. Such a sweet thing to say. You always look at the heart of a person and not their outward appearance. Such a gift! You are all of those things and more! If there's a daughter I can count on it's you Beth!

Mom had highlighted all the parts about me in Neon green. Green is my favorite color. I don't believe it's a coincidence I picked out this journal. Mom wants me to read it. Tears streamed down my cheeks just as the mist turned into a rainstorm.  No longer able to brave the weather, I ran into the covered part of the ferry. It's much warmer inside but once again I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with the other passengers. People are coughing, sneezing, eating Egg McMuffins and drinking stale coffee. I think which is worse: the crowd or the rain? I opt to stay. It's only 7 more minutes to Staten Island. When I get to my dorm room I'll read some more. Maybe I'll call dad and tell him I need the semester off?

My mind drifts back to when I was little... before I contracted autoimmune diseases... My body cannot seem to tell the good guys from the bad guys. I'm the good guy! "Why did I stop drawing mom? What was I so afraid of?"
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