by Margaret E. Gillio
I fell in love on a bus ride down the southern coast of Turkey. Steep roads, rickety bus, and views of Mediterranean blue. This memory saves me and your father from suffocation. 2:00am during the pandemic. I lie awake, microwaving peas in my mind. Spaghetti. Fried rice. Meals you and your brother can eat if your parents are sick, not dying, in bed. Sometimes, you criticize my hang-up with health. Drink water. Sleep. Eat vegetables. Orders that you like to ignore. My attempts to keep you alive despite daily disaster. Don’t read Michael Pollan in a crisis. By then, his ideas are too late to save you. Better to dive headfirst into Stephen King. When you put down Misery, this world looks free from mental derangement. I teach you to drive, circles around, and around the empty school parking lots. You practice parking the car where the school buses should be. I build a playlist—”Add It Up,” “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” “Road to Nowhere”—while you try to stay between the lines. The songs are old, you say. We hum and spin in the same circles day after day. To love the same things as you age is not a sign of personal failure. The city will push you. Prowl her streets. Every woman has a love affair with a tree. Climb it. Climb as high as you want to fall. Then, keep climbing. People will need your vision as you tower above the rest of us. Practice spotting the obvious. Marigolds are better than roses. Never fucking settle. Embrace an unpopular ethic. I taught myself to hate Amazon. They drug us with convenience. The craven need to pay less for what we don’t want. Pay attention to what unsettles you. Some of the least interesting people are legends. Public Enemy was right about Elvis, John Wayne, and Arizona. You are old enough to let someone break your heart. You will destabilize. You will recover. Then you will know what you like. Demand love be showered upon you in cups of coffee. In the absence of my recovery, you will go on. You will love someone as much as I love you. Love is impatient. Listen for your heartbeat. Transform as love surprises you.
Tiger Lily
by Pia Quintano
Margaret E. Gillio is a creative writing professor at SUNY Finger Lakes Community College, where she directs the creative writing program. She holds an MFA in poetry from Minnesota State University and a master’s degree in English language and linguistics from the University of Arizona.
Pia Quintano is an NYC-based writer/artist who especially likes to work with animals. Her paintings were sold at the Frank J. Miele Contemporary American Folk Art Gallery in NYC until it closed.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 