• heart heart heart A wise man once said, “Everything you do in life will be pointless, but it’s important that you do it.” This man was Gandhi. I feel it won’t matter if I do it or not, everything and everyone in my life will be pointless. What does the world have to offer for a small pathetic girl like me anyway? I guess Gandhi would tell me I have to figure it out, and that’s exactly what I plan to do…
    The sun rose, softly caressing my face, as my eyes opened slowly, allowing the world and all its surroundings to enter my mind and pull me out of my dingy, befouled, old bed.
    My day began like any other, except for the fact that this day would never come again. ‘9-23-10’ is what read on the calendar; this was the day, the day that was dreaded to remember. But as I found a single tear roll down my face, I made my way out the door and onto the brick paved street, just because I have nothing doesn’t mean I should cry. I can’t afford that kind of behavior from myself.
    No matter how hard I tried to erase the memory, though, I can't stop thinking about it. How she isn’t here for me anymore, and she never will be, never again. But my trails of thoughts were interrupted by a woman. “Du ar en flicka.” She said warmly with a restful smile on her face. “Comen?” she questioned, “Du ar en flicka.” After she had said it twice all I understood was that I was hopelessly confused.
    “Du are in what?” I asked, still as cluttered as ever. I have lived in Sweden for about five years now and yet I haven’t even considered learning their language; it might’ve come in handy in a situation like this. “I’m sorry m’am but I honestly have no idea what you’re trying to say to me, “I tried to explain, but when she didn’t get it I rolled my eyes and walked away.
    This wasn’t an unusual thing to happen to me though; I always get stopped by people on the street and occasionally the regular police man telling me I’m doing something wrong… or at least trying to. But after a few seconds of them trying to interrogate me, they realize I’m just another stupid American and I don’t know what I’m doing. It doesn’t bother me though, I’d actually rather be in prison than the rat hole I live in.
    After three minutes of walking I finally made it to my destination, the book store. Although this is a foreign country they still have books in my language, because this isn’t an ordinary Swedish book store. This book store is small and quiet, and run by the nicest of people. They were a little, old, American couple who have known each other for 64 years. And honestly they’re the only thing that makes me happy anymore… it’s like they’re family.
    “Oh, Camille darling!” a small women cried as I entered the small store, the bell ringing from on top of the door. She was old, fragile, and withered but stepped out from behind a damp old desk and huddled me in her arms. She was cold and gaunt but I didn’t want to let go, this woman and her tired lovely husband were the only ones I had left. “How are you sweetheart? Would you like something to drink, you look freezing?” she asked in her beloved and decrepit voice.
    “Oh no, Marge, I’m fine.” I said not being able to hold back a smile, “You work too hard. Let me help out a little.”
    “No,” she replied sternly, her arms crossed across her cream colored evening dress. “I’m not letting you work anymore than usual. Now go sit down, I got a few of your favorite books out on the counter and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”
    I smiled back knowing nothing on the earth could make me happier than the way this little store does. It’s small and quiet and insignificant to the untrained eye, but I love it, and that’s basically why. This is all mine, and it’s the only thing I really feel I have to call my own.

    * * * * *

    The sun faded as the hours passed by slowly. I lay there in my bed praying for sleep so I can wake up and have a pleasant tomorrow and soon enough my prayers were answered, for I fell into a dreamless slumber.
    The morning came like any other, just a war against me and time basically. I couldn’t pull myself to get up but it was almost nine o’clock and Marge was probably waiting for me.
    I pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and a fitted gray shirt. And just as usual I began my walk down the same old street, to the same old place, on the same old time. Everything in my life is aggravatingly the same, but in a way I like it that way. I’d rather have a heaven-sent life that replays itself on a daily basis than a star-crossed one even if it is erratic.
    But just as that word crossed my mind it was as though a bullet had just shot through the side of my head. My feet had stopped, as usual, but this was no regular occasion. What sat in front of me was a sight that could make the toughest of men cry for days on end, what sat in front of me was flames, many of them, swallowing the lovely book store whole. The one place that I had loved was gone, and all the belongings and people inside of it… all gone. And lying there on the ground full of ashes was a sign… and the words read “Fodelsedag Lycklig!” the only words I remembered in this language. Happy Birthday.
    9-23-10, that was the day to remember. I remembered, that was the death of someone very important to me, my mother. 9-24-10, that was the day today, the day I stand here looking at what, in my eyes, is the end of the only thing I had, it’s my birthday. It’s supposed to be a day to celebrate, but now it’s just a day of grieved. Malice, my life is full of it, and everyone pours it on me like gravy on Thanksgiving dinner, but I have no thanks to give. Because I am answering my own questions, I’m fighting my own battles, and I’m living my own life… so don’t expect me to thank you for anything. heart heart heart

    By: Maralicia T.