Wish You Were Here

The Angle The Angle

Volume 1990 Issue 1 Article 29

1990

Wish You Were Here Wish You Were Here

Maryann Connolly

St. John Fisher University

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Part of the Creative Writing Commons

Recommended Citation Recommended Citation

Connolly, Maryann (1990) "Wish You Were Here,"

The Angle

: Vol. 1990: Iss. 1, Article 29.

Available at: https://6sherpub.sjf.edu/angle/vol1990/iss1/29

This document is posted at https://6sherpub.sjf.edu/angle/vol1990/iss1/29 and is brought to you for free and

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Wish You Were Here Wish You Were Here

Abstract Abstract

In lieu of an abstract, below is the essay's 6rst paragraph.

"Dear Family:

I wish you were here.

I wish you were here to walk the dusty roads with me, and visit the shacks along the way."

Cover Page Footnote Cover Page Footnote

Appeared in the issue: 1990.

This prose is available in The Angle: https://6sherpub.sjf.edu/angle/vol1990/iss1/29

Dear Family:

Wish

You

Wer

e Here

by

Ma

ry

ann

Connolly

I wi

sh

you were

here

.

I w

ish

you were

here

to

w

alk

the

dust

y

roads

with

me

, and

visit

the

shacks

along

the

way

.

From

the

road

,

we

recognize

the

stench

of

garbage,

and

as

we

reach

the

foot

of

the

hollow,

see

it

scattered

throughout

the

area

.

Several

small

children

,

disheveled

and

filthy,

play

in

the

leftovers.

With a

basin

of

rain

wa

ter,

a

barefoot

, weary mother,

aged beyond

her

years,

washes

clothes.

I wi

sh

you were

here

to

see

the

nine

children

who

live

in

three

roans

. They shy

away

as

I

sit

on

their

p::>rch

. Only one

tries

to

smile

-

an

older

girl

wearin

g a checked

dress

at

least

three

sizes

too

large,

and

held

together

with

rusty

safety

pins

.

Sitting

beside

me

, garbed

only

in

a

long

T-shirt,

a 4-ye

ar

-

old

boy

urinates

on

the

steps

. A blond

2-

year-old

plays

with

a

hammer

in

the

corner

of

the

porch.

Covering

his

leg

is

an open

wound,

obviously

days

old

as

the

blood

is

dry

and hardened, and

the

flie

s

flock

to

the

infected

area

.

I wish you were

here

to

spend an

afternoon

trying

to

get

an

11-year-old

to

a

doctor.

Bobby

has

cut

his

foot

deeply

.

He

is

rapidly

losing

blood, and needs

several

stitches

. The

onl

y

doctor

in

town

refuses

to

look

at

the

injury

because

the

patient

has

no

medical

card

. I wish you

could

see

the

love

and concern

of

the

neighbors

in

their

efforts

to

think

of

a

family

who

has

a phone,

or

a

car

to

take

the

child

to

the

hospital

(

30

miles

away) . But,

most

of

all,

I wish you were

here

to

see

th

e

tortured

look on

the

mother's

face

as

she

says

quietly

,

"My

son

cannot

have

stitches

until

looks

at

the

blood-soaked towel and,

holding

back

her

tears,

tells

us

she

has no

rnoney

.

I wish you were

here

to

take

over

one

period

of

recreation

to

teach

these

children

how

to

pla

y,

real

i

zing

you must

teach

them

again

tanorrow

.

Children

who

ha

ve

never

played

an

organized

game

before

.

Children

wh

o

don't

know

how

to

follow

rules

,

or

let

another

have a

turn.

Ch

i

ldren

who

quit

the

game

before

they

dare

lose.

Children

who

are

rough,

bitter

and

resentful.

Girls

who

are

tougher

than

rnost boys

we

know

,

who

must be

to

surv

i ve

in

this

atmosphere .

I wi

sh

you were

here

so

that

you

could

return

home

with

some

concept

of

what

life

in

Appalachia

is

like

.

To

return

with

a

new

awareness,

a

new

encounter

, and

so

much

rnore - a

new

se

n

se

of

gratitude.

To

return

to

thank

God

every

day -

or

several

times

a day -

for

the

blessings

he

has g

iv

en

our

fami

ly

.

To

thank

Him

because

we

have

not

had

to

grow up

in

an atmosphere such

as

this

-

one

of

poverty,

filth

and

ignorance.

I hope

before

you

put

this

letter

aw

ay

, you

can

take

one

moment

f

rom

your busy

lives

, and

thank

God

that

we

have had

parents

who

cared

so

much

for

us

that

they

taught

us

, rnostly

through

example,

how

to

love

,

how

to

gi

v

e,

how

to

care

for

one

another

.

And

pray

-

yes

,

pray

hard

-

that

we

may

nev

er

take

these

blessings

for

granted

.

Yes,

dear

family

,

for

a

fe

w weeks,

or

a few da

ys

- O Lord,

just

for

a few

short

hours

- I w

ish

you were

here!

-4

0-

Love,

Maryann

A

Cold

Mourning

by

A.

Denisse

Tedesco

A

pale

morning

light

penetrated

the

cracks

in

the

window

shade

and

came

to

rest

upon

my

closed

eyelids.

I

drifted

slowly

into

consciousness

and

stretched

beneath

the

warmth

of

my

down

comforter.

With a

smile,

I remembered

that

it

was

the

first

day

of

Spri

ng.

Old

Man

Winter

had

gone

to

sleep

and

I

could

now

look

forward

to

warmer,

longer

days.

Fully

awake, I

rolled

out

of

bed

and

proceeded

towards

the

kitchen

to

perform

my

daily

ritual

:

worshi

pping

the

automatic

coffee-maker

.

As

the

coffee

brewed,

I

searched

the

refrigerator

for

milk.

Having

discovered

the

carton,

I was annoyed

at

finding

it

empty.

My

frustration

grew

as

I

shuffled

through

the

pantry

for

the

powdered

milk.

A

fruitless

search.

I

grumbled

and

did

what

I

had

to

do.

I

grabbed

the

first

sweatshirt

and and

pants

I

could

find

and

pulled

on

my

sneakers.

Since

the

grocery

store

was

only

a

block

away, I

didn't

bother

with

my

windbreaker;

a

nice

jog

would warm

me

up.

The

morning

was

cold,

much

colder

than

I had

anticipated.

The

wind

seeped

through

my

clothes

and

a spasm wracked

my

body.

I

began

to

run

quickly,

thinking

the

sooner

I

got

the

milk,

the

sooner

I would

be

back

in

my

warm

apartment,

enjoying

a

cup

of

hot

coffee

and

the

morning

paper.

I came

to

a

street

crossing

and

jogged

to

the

other

side.

Once

there,

I

noticed

a

huddled

figure.

A

heap

of

ragged

blankets,

brown

with

caked

dirt,

shivered

as

the

wind

blew

across

and

through

it

.

Approaching

the

quivering

mass,

I

noticed

a

woman

curled

up

beneath

the

wretched

pile,

desperately

trying

to

keep

herself

warm. I

forgot

about

the

bitter

wind

and

stopped

at

the

corner.

I saw a

face

soiled

with

years

of

suffering

and

pain

and

loneliness.

It

was

ageless;

or

rather,

to

discern

her

age

was

impossible.

A

small

hand,

rough

and

calloused,

covered

with

cuts,

appeared

from somewhere

beneath

her

shaggy

wraps

and

tried

to

pull

them

closer

around

her

.

Useless

to

do

so,

since

pulling

them

up

cov

ered

her

neck,

but

uncovered

her

feet.

They

were

colorless.

Whitewashed,

almost.

I

recogni

z

ed

frostbite.

Suddenly,

she

looked

up

at

me. She

didn't

say

anything;

her

face

betrayed

no

emotion.

It

didn't

occur

to

me

to

smile.

There

was

nothing

to

smile

at.

The

woman

cur

led

up

into

a

tighter

ball

than

before

. She

placed

her

head

on

her

knees.

A

freezing,

starvin

g

fetus

in

the

womb

of

an

uncaring

city.

One

of

many,

but

I

never

really

noticed

them;

I

always

had

better

things

to

do.

She

turned

her

head

to

the

side

and

let

it

rest

there.

A

long

sigh

escaped

from

her

chest,

one

that

suggested

her

fight

was

over.

. f h t

I

left

her

to

her

privacy

and

walked

the

rest

o t e

way

o

the

store.

So

engrossed

was I

in

my

thoughts

that

I

didn't

hear

the

owner (who was a

friend

of

mine)

greet

me

as

I

entered.

He

tapped

me

on

the

shoulder,

waking

me

from

my

reverie.

I

smiled

-

41

-

1

Connolly: Wish You Were Here

Published by Fisher Digital Publications, 1990