The Burnt Ones My grandmother loved the burnt ones potato chips cooked to a bitter edge offered across the kitchen table as we played word games until our eyes crossed in the smoky kitchen she let me fill in empty crosswords in books she had set aside and chastised me only a little bit when I took too many My grandmother was razor thin despite her faithful daily intake of one can of Narranganset prescribed by her doctor Bavarian-Canadienne bones chiseled by sixty years of up and down up and down up Grafton Hill down to the factories her sharp bones carrying her home My grandmother slapped me once after I sassed her thoughtlessly in the backseat of my mother’s car my cheek smarted imprinted with the bony heat of her fingers I never knew the right words to say to my grandmother after that so I said very little until she died having nothing to offer My grandmother the orphan is buried in Northboro a skinny slot in a big family plot she never did take up much space her name is carved on a book of stone between relatives who never sat at her kitchen table but they had a place for her when the tubes came out and the smoke cleared My grandmother loved the burnt ones that no one else ever wanted but that we would have given her gladly even if we did want them were she here now I’d slice and fry up a batch of potato chips and push them to the edge of burning and show them to my grandmother so she would know what I could not say before Mustache There’s a mustache where your face should be a furry shadow cast long over me a mustache is all that’s left I try to call your name catch the hem of your postman’s shorts at the knee in my fat little fingers but those are gone too I remember you coming home from work with samples with other people’s names, smiling it didn’t seem strange then it was Christmas every week with little boxes of Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops and you weren’t afraid to hug me then when I ran to the end of the driveway to meet you one day I was cold and reached up for you and you said “no don’t touch me” and it got colder and I never did touch him again because I always obeyed him we all did In the photos of you looking down reading serious alone I keep expecting it to have faded like a ghost story but you’re always there your mustache swallowing your face shadows covering words I don’t understand I can’t forget and I wonder if that’s what I inherited from you the curse of memory an intractable, unmovable self and the fear fear is all that’s left to us sometimes but not all that’s left of me I know it I know this But in my dreams where you are muttering and speaking of haunting and of angels and red sin all I can see is your mustache and all I can feel is how cold the world was when I couldn’t touch you anymore.

When I was younger, I thought everyone’s heart raced all the time. The flickering in my chest was a constant companion, a daily yet unpredictable surprise that would pop up when I was drinking a Coke or running on the softball field, leaving me breathless. It seemed to appear at random, and I accepted it as an annoying part of life. I was diagnosed with anxiety in my twenties, and I brushed off the recurring rapid heartbeat as a harmless symptom of my ever-churning mind. It wasn’t until my thirties that I uncovered the reason behind it all, that it was not my brain but my imperfect heart. My family doctor performed an EKG one day and had what he called a “serendipitous discovery.” The jagged waves of the test confirmed I have Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome. The heart condition caused my anxiety, not the other way around as I had assumed. Every time I drank caffeine or exercised, the accessory pathway through my heart was triggered, sending it into flutters. It explained why asthma inhalers never helped when I was short of breath as a child; the stimulating effect of albuterol caused my heart to race even more! Learning I had WPW solved many mysteries for me. I thought I knew who I was, but so many of my limitations that I thought were inner flaws were a physical condition that could be managed. The electrophysiologist I was referred to attempted to do a catheter ablation to cure my WPW, but found that key structures in my heart were too close to the pathway causing the problem. There would be no quick and easy solution. I studied the condition and myself instead. I learned to cut off caffeine, avoid nicotine, and eat heart-healthy foods. I took up calming activities like yoga that made me stronger while not activating my heart. When working with challenging patients as an occupational therapy assistant, I learned meditation and deep breathing techniques to bring down stress and relax others. Now that I knew the cause of my issues, I felt more in control of my physical quirks, and WPW made me better at my job. Having WPW has forced me to examine myself, my habits and my state of mind. I want to live a long life full of interesting travel and challenging studies. I will never call a congenital heart defect a blessing, but mine has shifted my perspective in a positive way. Understanding myself and how I can give to the world is a gift. It has taught me that life is delicate but worth fighting for and I am in control of my path, as much as any human can be. I can’t run very far or climb a mountain, but I can share myself and my knowledge with the world through writing and helping my patients. There is an increased risk of sudden cardiac death with my condition that I have learned to accept, but I am doing what I can to soften the possibility. I want to write novels and teach, and my heart will not hold me back. It is an important piece of me, but the sum of my whole is stronger than any one part.

My son is the reason I started going to college, back in 2009. At the time, I was a new widow and aimless in grief. But I had a baby to look after, and I realized I couldn’t drown in sorrow. He gave me a reason to wake up every day and keep moving forward, and he still does. I earned my associate degree in occupational therapy assisting, and because of that degree I was able to support my son as he deserves. He was diagnosed with autism in the second grade, and I was able to use my education to help him process and adapt to the world. I also discovered that I love helping new people every day and using my creativity to find ways to reach challenging patients. Working with a mental health population in a state psychiatric hospital, I was able to share my love of literature and writing with them through self-expression and journaling groups. Writing helps people learn themselves and identify emotions; it helps parse our rollercoaster lives. There are some things that cannot be said aloud, and writing is often the key that unlocks a vital door. My education and love of learning have helped me process my own emotions, and I can now share that feeling with others in a way that is therapeutic. In my years working at the hospital, I not only taught but I learned. My patients shared with me stories about their troubled lives, and more lighthearted topics such as the best Italian restaurants in Cleveland. I was new to Ohio back in 2009, and the local community at the hospital helped me explore this unfamiliar world I found myself in. I discovered neighborhoods and exciting places to visit through them. Healthcare is a give and take role, where patients’ recovery and appreciation are just as fulfilling as any monetary reward. This community in northeast Ohio helped me recover from my grief. I would like to continue exploring my passion for writing by returning to college to complete a bachelor’s degree in English, focusing on creative writing. The stories of those I’ve met are carried with me everywhere, and I am inspired by them. My son also continues to inspire me, pressing onward even though school was difficult for him with his learning disabilities. He is as strong as his father was, and the greatest gift I ever received. His love keeps me focused and I know he will do wonderful, creative things. I have faith in the future because of him, and want to create stories that will make him proud.