Page 8 - By Any Other Name Fall 2019

Page 7 By Any Other Name

Cinnamon And Honey
When the smell of lilacs crosses my nose, you lan-
In Dark Coffee guidly turn to face me, “What in the world could’ve brought
By Pierce Hipp, Grade 11 you here, Jack?” you ask. I tell you I was born here, spent
my childhood in a place just eight blocks that way. You ask
I’m walking with you after our seventh date. You me why I speak such perfect English, and I tell you it’s be-
have your arm wrapped around me as we walk back to cause my mother’s from Chicago. I ask you where you were
your apartment in the cool air of late August. The night is from, and you told me, “Everywhere but here,” with a slightly
a shower of azure, washing the Renaissance Era buildings wider smile. Your mother was from Auckland, and your fa-
in their delicate thoughtfulness. I look at you and notice the ther was from Seattle. They met in Egypt and gave birth to
slight, yet deeply profound turn of your lips; a sign that you’ll you in Japan before moving to Poland for a less busy scene.
think about these mo- The countries swirl in an
ments tonight, tomor- eclectic mix of the world,
row night, and maybe and suddenly I’m lost on
many nights after that. my own street. I asked
You hug me closer, you what languages you
and your pink rain- spoke, and you listed so
coat tangles up with many you could write
my brown trench. Your a short story with a dif-
honey mane mixes ferent language every
with my cinnamon hair sentence. You always
making a sweet dark stopped yourself from
coffee on a rainy night learning French, though,
in the streets of Paris. wanting it to forever re-
The street- main a mystery, to hear
lights - held high by the words and intent and
their intricately de- let the feelings behind
signed, wrought iron them mean just enough
stands - glow an iri- for you.
descent orange, bring- When we get back
ing vibrancy and the to your place, our knees
warmth of life to the are like Jello; we’re
streets and trees. The laughing so hard. I tell
wet sidewalk, slippery you I have to go back
with puddles from the home and no dares or
evening rain, looks cherries on top can keep
glossy and alive. Our me, even if it sounds like
pathway reflects the music to my ears. I say,
reds and oranges from “Au revoir, mon chéri,”
the trees, blues and and you tell me “Süße
purples from the sky Träume, Stadtgeist”
mixing the whole night and, whatever it meant,
into a sweet rainbow it must have been some-
over a sweeter mo- thing clever because I
ment. saw you had that smirk
You’re hold- on your face that said
ing your dog’s leash you were playing with
in your other hand as your words.
he scampers through (Above) A Night In Paris, Ahmed Bilal, Grade 12, Photography. I see you disap-
the puddles. He looks around attentively, doing his best to pear as the door closes, and I stand there letting myself
guard you from whatever might make this moment even soak in the moment. As I walk away, I hear you playing “Clair
slightly less perfect. You made the right choice getting a de Lune” on that black violin you brought on our third date.
Rat Terrier; they’re a protective breed. You lean your head When I get back home, I play the piano version on the keys
on my shoulder and kiss my neck. I laugh. You know I’m my great-great-grandfather brought home from Vienna. The
ticklish. We stumble and step into a big puddle, and water song soaks up the night, and its melody encapsulates every-
splashes all over our shoes and drenches our socks. We thing about a walk home from a seventh date in the streets
laugh harder. We don’t mind. of Paris.