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sweetIn this year's winter issue, we invite our readers to savor avariety of sweet experiences, told through narratives thatare touching and melancholy, silly and heartbreaking. Beginning with the innocent euphoria of a birth, we make ourway through the sweet sentiments of the present moment,from the saccharine delights of sticky desserts and candies to the pleasures of physical intimacy; from the tendersimplicity of our animal companions to the delicious tasteof new love. But we also relive bittersweet memories—memories of the almost loves of our childhood, snatchedfrom our lips, and of buried stories we carry within us; oftroubled relationships brought into a new light and storiesof our passed loved ones, evoked by enduring reminders.Whether drawn from old memories or budding hopes, wehope you enjoy the varied sweet flavors of these stories andpoems.2memoryhouse magazinetable of contents winter 2016her bumppeter hallidayepitaph for a giant pixie sticka.j. huffmanon satisfactionlaurie kolpsweet toothjim rossscrutinizing the nun's storycarol lynn grellaschickennina robinsremember lovesamara crutchfieldan ode to sugar piecarol lynn grellaschristmas at lethenancer ballardwifely houdini promisecarol lynn grellasthe diet starts tomorrowsamara crutchfield681112141619222432363

memoryhouse staff4editorial boardisabelle limvanessa mabrooke naglerkeshav prasadmarisol sobekdesign editorabbie reevesphotographerbrooke naglermemoryhouse is a quarterly student-run publicationthat curates the personal narratives of the uchicago community through creative writing and visual art. in addition,the organization features a performance ensemble calledmemento and hosts a variety of literary events, performances, and workshops each quarter.to learn about joining memoryhouse or submitting work,please visit editor-in-chiefabbie reevesmanaging editormeera joshiperformance directorrachel harringtonperformance ensemblekelly collinsisabel getzdrew harringtonmay huangchi lefounded 2012, alida miranda-wolffcover photo: "baked" by alejandra velasco5

her bumppeter hallidayI reach for itplayfully pokingwith desperate fingers, dedicatedto cracking the morse code.Your sighs showing your impatiencewith mewith yourselfwith time.fong chaiI speak to itwith a tender tone. Tryingto calm her (us)with the wonder of the world waiting.I kiss itdreaming of the approaching daywhen my precious matryoshkawill finally be un-nestedinto our waiting arms.67

epitaphfora giantpixie stickOh my sweet! How you shall be missed.And though a part of you remains with me,inside me, driving me through laborious daysand lugubrious nights. The memory of youstill lingers on my tongue. My heart stutters,blood thickening. My body surges, forward.I will not collapse, though the sightof your hollow shell disheartens me. I promise,you life was not digested in vain.a.j. huffman89

on satisfactionfong chailaurie kolpI crave Bavarian cream,a lingering tongue-lickswirl of ecstasy,around the edgeindulgencewithout the caloriesbut you sayit might cause cancergive me custard instead,a watered-down, letdown dripof sticky disappointmentlike the tears that poolbeneath my pillowwhen shower steamfills the roomwith wetness,your voice a tenorsinging Pavarottiwhile my fingersfinish what you started.1011

sweettoothjim rossBy the time I was five, Iplayed mostly with other boys. But I still playedwith Roberta. I was theonly boy she invited to her 4th and5th birthday parties. We liked playing together, just us two, in her basement. I especially liked hiding together beneath the basement stairs.After our fifth birthdays, whilewe played in her driveway, Robertacocked her head one day, threw herpigtails, and said, “Let’s play a game.”Out of her pocket she pulled a footlong strawberry Twizzler. Holdingit up, she said, “I’ll put one end inmy mouth. You put the other end inyour mouth. We’ll eat until we getto the middle. And then, there’ll be12a surprise.”She positioned us face to face. Iheld one end between my teeth whileher teeth held the other end. An exceptional glee covered her face. I began chomping from my end, carefully, hands at my side. Every now andthen, when it seemed the Twizzlerwas popping out, she nudged it backinto her mouth or mine.The distance between us shrank.Neither of us said a word, exceptfor her saying, “Keep it in.” Myheart raced. The middle came closer. I could feel her body heat. Shereached her hands out to hold ontomy shoulders. Then, in a moment,our lips touched.I flinched as our lips grazed. Ahalf-inch segment of Twizzler, withmy front tooth sticking out of it,dropped into Roberta’s hand: thefirst baby tooth I lost.After that, I don’t rememberplaying together much. Her fathermoved to a different house. She andher mother moved to a tiny houseby an old windmill. And then theymoved again. And again. We didn’tattend the same school except forseventh and eighth grades, but eventhen we were in different classes. Bynow, people called her Bobbi.In high school, every now andthen, I saw her at church. If I wasserving Mass and luck was on myside, I held the communion platebeneath her chin as she leaned herhead back, eyes shut, mouth open,tongue extended, while the priestplaced a wafer on her tongue.After high school I moved away.Decades later, I spearheaded areunion of people with whom we’dgraduated from elementary school,which ended in 8th grade. I got a leadon who’d know Bobbi’s whereabouts.Then I learned Bobbi ‘got into a badmarriage' and spent days and weekssitting on the couch, lights off, in between flights of exuberance. Beforeshe turned 30, Bobbi ended her life.I tried contacting Bobbi's 85-yearold mother by phone three or fourtimes. She never picked up. I neverleft a message. I never got to ask,"Why?"*The adult tooth that replaced theone that fell out when I flinched wasnever a good tooth. It chips oftenand has been fixed repeatedly.Now and then, I string a Twizzlerfrom my teeth to my outstretchedhand. I see Roberta’s face, ecstaticstill. And, I picture learning together how hesitating in love can costyou your teeth.13

scrutinizing thenun's storyThe day I watched the Nun’s StoryI draped a snowy scarf around my neck,wore my brother’s dark cape backwards,my hands folded and tucked for prayer.I placed my father’s dollars,tucked inside in my pocket,my suitcase packed beside mefor a life’s excursion containing nopossessions save a handful of memoriesstilled within and ready for releaseas soon as my feet passed overthe threshold of the rectory. And whencalled to cut my hair, I heard myselfsaying, ‘send the remnantsto grandma who will weave a lovelymacramé out of anything.’ In my heartI quelled the desire to be fulfilled—to put another’s dreams before my ownyet I’d felt unworthy, not ready to cross.So I returned my brother’s black capeand stroked my nearly cut curls,and thought what a disappointmentI would have been to my motherhad I ever attempted such holiness;14brooke naglercarol lynn grellas15

chickennina robinsTo cuddle with a chicken, firstfind a comfortable chairIn your uncle and aunt’sCosta Rican kitchen.Make sure you’ve finishedyour fresh grapefruit juiceand fed the chickenstheir lunch of corn kernels.Manhattan,school,all the fights back there,the cars,erasedin two little yellowclosed eyes.I bet you thoughtonly kittensslowed a heartbeat.Sit down.Wait for herto be handed to you.Grab her anklesand pull her close.Wrap your other arm around her.If she’s tired from eating,running the farm,and you’re lucky,she might fall asleepagainst your twelve-year-oldcuddles.1617

rememberlovein a haze alejandra velascosamara crutchfield18Remember love like voiceswhen morning whispers the day into being.Your name in my mouth—a blueberry burst on my tongue.Kiss me for the flavor!Brush the web of slatted windowsunlight from my hair—away, away, sun!Be butterflies,quiet and simple.Unlearn gravity'sharsh ellipses, hushyour nuclei. Let me bewith my love in the half-dark,murmuring, and I will press blueberriesto his lips, one by one.19

fong chaiBe butterflies,quiet and simple.2021

an ode tosugar piecarol lynn grellasBecause she is a feathered thing,I hold her in my upturned hand,and yet she never tries to flythough she spreads her wings-and croons I love you every timeI pass her by. There are dayssince we both know there’s somethinggreater past the window’s ledgebeyond this place called home.And yet I’ve robbed her of the rainthe verdant grasslands in the springthose days I hold her near andwhisper gently through her unlockedcage, forgive me tiny one, forgive mefor this crime. I’ve made your kingdomsmall, and even though you singyou are a captured soul; the cruelest thing.she cries for the wild hollowsof a tree. A cacophony that breaksmy heart. Those days she’s like a childI take her in my palm and make a homefong chaiinside my skin. I cradle herin a silent benediction2223

christmasat lethenancer ballardI24n my sixth grade social studiesclass we learn that holidaytraditions remind us that weare part of history, a historythat defines our past and shapes whowe are and who we might become.Our textbook doesn’t explain thatfor those who aren’t sure of theirhistory, or present circumstances,or their claim on a future, there aremagazine articles, television specials,and Christmas recipes to help youfollow along.In the first week of December Momhangs up the red felt advent calendarthat she has made from a pattern shesaw in Good Housekeeping. Dad isaway on business, and I tell Mom andmy four younger sisters and brotherabout the holiday story we’ve read inEnglish class.“It’s about a man and a woman whodon’t have any money for Christmaspresents. The wife cuts and sells herhair to buy an expensive watch chainfor her husband and her husbandsells his watch to buy combs for hiswife’s long hair. It’s very sad, but alsokind of beautiful.” When I ask Momif she’s read The Gift of the Magi, sheshakes her head and says it soundsfamiliar, but she can’t rememberwhere or when she heard it. Thisis a familiar response to questionsabout her past, but I hadn’t realizedI was asking about the past. I amdisappointed that the story, whichfeels baffling and profound, didn’tmake more of an impression on her.After dinner Mom pulls me asideand cautions me for the fifth timein a week, “This Christmas is aboutbeing with family, not presents.” Herremark feels like a little stab, as if Iwere being accused of being greedy.Or needy. I don’t say anythingbecause I know it won’t do any good,and I need to finish my homework.The following week my sisterSusan, who looks a lot like NatalieWoods in Miracle on 34th Street,hops out of the car to drop off alibrary book. Mom has pinned a littleplastic Santa Claus to her coat. “Areyou coming to my winter concert onThursday?” I ask hopefully.Mom pulls a handwritten list oferrands from her purse. “I don’tknow, we’ll have to see whether wecan get a sitter.” Dad has told methat Mom played clarinet in highschool, and I’m about to ask whethershe participated in any winterconcerts, but she is already scoldingme. “I hope you’re not expecting abig Christmas. We’ve tried not toburden you, but things are tight thisyear. You need to set an example forthe others.”“Uh huh, I know.”I don’t actually know anything.My parents never reveal anythingabout the household budget, andno one is asking for extravagantgifts. Maybe Mom heard this line asa child. Maybe she is trying to snipour hopes in the bud, so that anypresents we receive will seem like amiracle from heaven, or Santa. AsMom resumes her speech, I stareout the window at the stiff, colorlessgrass on the library lawn, trying toquiet the gnawing in my stomachthat tells me Mom doesn’t care howmany times she repeats the samething, or what I think. She putsher list back in her purse. “ AndChristmas is really about family, youknow.”“Oh, I thought it was about Jesus.”My shoulders and arm fly up to blockher swat. Mom is the most religiousperson in our family, and she doesn’tlike smart remarks.When Mom lowers her arm, herhair is vibrating with anger andfrustration. “I don’t need lip fromyou, young lady. I have more than Ican do as it is, and your father is outof town until Friday.”I drop my shoulders and forcemyself to look at the Santa Claus onher lapel and then at her face. “Whatdo you want me to do?”Her eyes skid past me. “Herecomes your sister. Try thinkingof someone besides yourself for achange.”On the third weekend inDecember, Susan, Patti, and Tig goout shopping with Dad. The smellof coffee, the lingering sweetness25

26of buttered cinnamon toast, andthe faint tinkle of Christmas carolson the radio lures me down to thekitchen to finish my homework.Mom opens a plastic bag and pullsout a hideous white plastic garlandand six Styrofoam balls covered infraying gold thread that she’s boughton sale at the grocery store.I pretend to read as I watch herout of the corners of my eyes. I amwaiting to see if she will ask what Iam reading, or recall that we sangthe song playing on the radio at ourwinter concert. I can imagine hersitting down in the empty chair nextto me, and saying, “What are youworking on?” She’ll bring her cupof coffee over, and we’ll sit and talkabout Johnny Tremain. She’ll tell meabout the books she read when shewas in school, and say she enjoyedmy concert and is proud of me. AndI’ll tell her I really don’t like movingso much, and she’ll tell me sheunderstands how hard it is to makenew friends again, and then she’llhug me. This is crazy because Momwould actually say she is too busy tosit and talk about the concert or thebooks she’s read.Mom climbs up on a kitchen chair.“Nancy, can you hold the end of thegarland, while I wind the other endaround the curtain rod?”I consider telling her that thebristly white plastic garland doesn’tlook at all real, but this would onlylead to a fight. If Mom wants todrape white plastic fringe acrossthe top of the kitchen window, whydo I care? Gingerly I lift the end ofthe garland, and she steadies herselfagainst the top of the window frame.“What was Christmas like whenyou were a kid?” Mom grew up inCorinth, Mississippi, so I know shedidn’t have snow.“I don’t know, it was a long timeago.”“Did you have a tree?”“Yes, of course.”I ignore the slight condescensionin her voice. “Did the stores inCorinth have moving figures in theirwindows?“Yeah, some, I think.”“What were they?”She exhales exasperation andlooks at me over her shoulder. “Idon’t know. Why would you want toknow that?”“Just curious. What did you do atChristmas?”She pauses. Her mouth becomesa thin line. After a long second shesays, “We went to church. Everyonewent to church.” She probably didgo to church on Christmas, but shesounds like she is making this up.Or doesn’t want to tell me the truth.She is an only child, so maybe herChristmases were lonely.Mom threads the loop on the topof a Styrofoam ball onto the sectionof the garland she has wound overand under the curtain rod. Aftershe secures the ball to a fringy whitefrond she looks down at me. “Thingsare tight this year, and the things youwant cost more than the gifts for theyounger ones. You’re going to haveto show a little maturity.”I moan in protest. “Mom, have Iever complained?”Her face goes blank, as if she’sconfused by what I’ve said. She turnsback to the window. “I need you toset a good example. Let the youngerones open their presents first.”I grimace.“And no long faces. Try thinkingof someone besides yourself for achange.”I drop my end of the garland,scarcely caring if the weight of itpulls the rest of the decoration down.“Why don’t you just forget about meand make your life easier?” I snarl,furiously collecting my books andpapers. I’m furious at her stupidplastic garland, I’m furious at herrefusal to even try to understandme, and I’m furious at my ownstupid idea of doing homework inthe kitchen. Before I reach the topof the stairs these rages burn off, andI hate knowing that I’ve let Momdown, and that I will always let herdown because I’ll never be one of thechildren in the handmade reindeersweaters on the cover of GoodHousekeeping.School ends, and Susan and Ispend our first vacation morning inour bedroom, relishing the freedomwe’re given while wrapping presentsfor the rest of the family. After lunchwe use the empty ribbon spools totransform our wrapped boxes intobaby carriages and racing cars. Westuff the smallest gifts into emptypaper tubes which we wrap tolook like candy canes. When weemerge mid-afternoon and placeour creations under the tree, Momstops to admire them briefly beforecomplaining that she has a lot to doand isn’t getting any help.I suggest she skip the cranberrysauce and mincemeat pie. “Nobodybut Dad likes mincemeat, and you’vealready made a pumpkin pie.”“You need to think about someonebeside yourself,” she chides.“Christmas is about being together.”Susan and I roll our eyes and agreeto coat raisins in flour and grease pietins with Crisco for the mincemeatpie recipe Mom has clipped fromFamily Circle magazine. As soon asshe leaves the room Susan grumbles,“Mom wants us to act like ShirleyTemple or the Bing Crosby family.”I waltz over to the cupboard,mimicking the children we’ve seenpretend-skating in a Christmasspecial, then skate back to thecounter with a box of raisins andblow flour-snow onto Susan’s face.Susan shakes her braids and wipesher face with her sleeve. “I don’t getit. We’re not supposed to want anyChristmas presents, but ”“We’re supposed to tell Mom whatwe want, because she doesn’t wantto get something we don’t want,but she won’t let us pick anythingout, because then it wouldn’t be aSurprise!” I skate a Crisco-covered27

paper towel around the rim of the pietin. “We could do what she wants,and see how she likes it.”“What do you mean?”“You know how Mom is alwaystelling us to let the younger onesenjoy Christmas, and not to pick outpresents for ourselves, even thoughwe’re not supposed to look at thetags to see who the present is for?”Susan pops a raisin in her mouthand nods.“What if we put all our presentsin the back, behind the tree? Thenshe could see how patient we can be.Maybe she’d like that better.”We both know she wouldn’t.I glance at the empty doorwayand step closer to my sister. “Wecould sneak downstairs at 4:00 inthe morning. Mom and Dad willbe too tired from wrapping to wakeup. If Patti, or Tig, or baby Kat hearanything, they’ll think it’s Santa,and they won’t dare come out toinvestigate.” Susan’s eyes widen.We are strictly forbidden to comedownstairs on Christmas morningbefore Mom and Dad wake up. “Itwon’t take long. Are you chickeningout?”On Christmas Eve night I lie inbed, listening to another telling ofThe Gift on the Magi on my transistorradio. I can’t quite puzzle it out. Dellaand Jim gave up what they cherishedmost. Surely this was unselfishness,and yet it came to nothing. I feelsorry for the couple, but I also envythem, even resent them a little, for28being so loved without having to doanything. I wonder if you have tobe willing to give up what you wantmost to feel loved. This doesn’t seemquite right for a Christmas story,but .I wonder if you haveto be willing to give upwhat you want most tofeel loved.I glance at the clock and boltawake. “Psst, Susan. It’s 5:15.”Susan and I tiptoe down the steps.Even in the dim gray-blue light Ican see presents spilling out fromunder the tree. Susan points. “Ithought this was going to be a smallChristmas .”I put my hand to my lips. Quicklywe check tags and shift packages. Iam trying not to make noise, but myheart is beating in my ears. SuddenlyI hear thrumming in the kitchen,and we freeze. “It’s the refrigerator,”I mouth. But we are spooked now,and quickly scamper back upstairs.I pull the blanket over her head,and before I know it, the room islight, and someone is poundingon the bedroom door. Susan and Iyawn and stretch dramatically as wefollow Mom and Dad and my otherssisters and brother down the stairs.Patti leaps over the last t

Whether drawn from old memories or budding hopes, we hope you enjoy the varied sweet flavors of these stories and poems. sweet. 4 5 print design memento memoryhouse staff design editor abbie reeves photographer brooke nagler editorial board isabelle lim vanessa ma brooke nagler keshav prasa

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