a Women Writer's' Showcase
by Mimi Wang

All I want to do is. . .

Arms positioned like a windshield wiper, wipe away the unclean white fog and see the Hudson River emptying into the ocean. And absorbing the mist that falls like cold sweat on my upper lip and cheekbones.  

Slide my wet sneakers across the too-tall grass, kicking up sprays of water, like quarters plopping into wishing fountains. The grass that has yet to be cut since it sprouted from the yellowed frozen soil in March. The tall grass, growing fuzzy grain tips, that catches dewdrops like beads on a necklace. 

Poke my finger, like a guilty puffy-cheeked child into the clouds, and make it rain.

I always feel inspired by rainy days. I love the anticipation of the first rain. And the anticipation of the sun peaking through at the tranquil moments after it stops raining. I love the fresh laundry-and-grass-stain smell after it rains. The irony of the two scents melting in the chilled air invigorates me.

Last weekend, even with the anxiety of the AP Calculus Exam building up, I still found time to sit on the dusty white lawn chairs on my terrace with my feet propped up on the matching white table. I was humming Pachelbel's Canon in D quite loudly, competing with the shy songbirds. How I was "studying.”

I walked through Freedom"Park" on Abbot Blvd. The strip of grass that we Fort Leeans refer to as a Vietnam War Memorial, which cuts between the town's long rows of mansions. There was also a long row of weeping cherry blossom trees following the mansions.

The pink blossoms that I saw in full radiance the week before were fallen and scattered all around the tree in a loose pink layer, 2 inches deep. I kicked the petals around, upturning soil onto the immaculate flowers that more or less floated to the ground, and wouldn't have touched the soil otherwise.

When I was satisfied and a little sad, looking at the ugliness I created, I picked two perfect blooms from the untouched parts of the pile and stuck them in my shirt pocket. But I had to be careful on the way back, because if you hold one of the stems of those fragile flowers and twirled it between your thumb and index finger, the petals would fly off like a catapult. And you'll be left with nothing but a tiny green star on the stem. The flowers were gone, after only a few weeks of living.

The rest of the week was still foggy, rainy, dreary, wet, but I love the peace it creates.

Mimi is currently a 17-year old New Jersey high school student suffering from severe senioritis. Writing is her salve, alliteration is her pitfall.  She is quite fond of clinky bracelets, marshmallow cereal, and the letter x, among other things. Contact Mimi.