At times, I breathe ice
cold smoke pillows out with each exhale, no fire can melt this breath of lone ice.
At times, I breathe fire
gray smoke escapes my nostrils,
I exhale truth, a truth of liquid flames
—a windstorm of longing to belong.
Sonia Chintha is an Indian American writer who lives in the Washington DC area. She blogs, writes poetry, and fiction. She is also an English teacher who believes that our experiences teach us more than any test. She is the founder and co-editor of Good Little Girls.
“March of 2014,” I told my Rheumatologist last Autumn at my 6 month check-in. “Okay, let’s get your blood work done today; I’m going to
I was eight years old when Esperanza fell off the swing. In the backyard, she stood on a flimsy piece of wood, rotted from many rains and held together by two strings, rocking her body back and forth. While she reveled in her weightlessness, I sensed impending catastrophe. From my spot safely in the grass, I pleaded with her to stop. Barely hearing my pleas, she rose higher, closer to the sun with each swing. I turned away from her. Bracing myself, I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears. She called out to me, determined to show me that if she swung high enough, she could see above the hedges separating our yard from the neighbors, above all the rooftops neatly lining around the cul-de-sac, to somewhere even more distant. Perhaps she even believed that she could reach back in time, back across the ocean, to her childhood in the Philippines. So she swung, higher and higher and higher.
I have this need well belief really that I simply must be the number one person there for every friend in need. What this means