I remember when I was younger, I used to have nightmares about my mother having cancer. The thought of it would make my mother ask if I had been crying in the night. When I was younger I said that I would protect my mother and that I was here for her.

A few months ago, my mother started coughing. She thought nothing of her symptoms and didn’t let it get in the way of her work; now she is going to die soon. My grandmother followed shortly after passing away first.

I imagined grieving to be something like breaking down in tears in the middle of class, but nothing happened. When I showed up to my grandma’s funeral, I was the only one that didn’t cry. Grief affected everyone differently though; some were disrespectful, some cried, and some didn’t care at all. Grief is a strange thing. At first, I didn’t cry. My friends all texted me and sent their blessings and best wishes and kept asking if I was alright, but I was alright. I just didn’t seem to think about what had happened since then; I had other things to worry about.

Grief was expressed very differently within my family. My family swore to each other to never mention what had happened within our family to outsiders to preserve our superficial code of honor. When my mom left, life felt different; my elder sister took over the house. She threw out the majority of my mother’s belongings. She also took over my mother’s room and proceeded to clean out the entire house to suit her needs. The house seemed to be a lot emptier, I try not to think about my current situation often as it doesn’t make me feel any better in any sort of way.

Now you just kind of notice it, things, where you would normally think, would be here would be somewhere else. The house no longer seemed to be my home, I am homesick even while I am at home.

The tropical stench of the clustered bananas was a smell I could never forget, reeking of moist socks, sweet alcohol, and rusted copper, stenching the entire house.

But I seemed to always forget about my grandmother.

At last, my mom retrieved a banana bread recipe from the dust. It was strikingly crisp and flat and white, with few vanilla extract splotches. “Let’s make some banana bread for po-po,” my mom said. Just looking at the bananas made me scrunch my face; but because it was for her, I inhaled and smiled willingly.

I locked my eyes at the recipe every now and then, making sure everything was right. The warmth of the preheating oven gushed into the effort I put into each ingredient, ensuring the measurements were exactly flat, the butter microwaved to a shiny, translucent glaze free of clumps, and the brown sugar clusters crushed into glistening granules.

While revolting, the crusty banana peels with mushy flesh made for the perfect mashable secret ingredient. I used all my strength to scoop and fold and stir, scraping the sides of the bowl to dissolve all the powder.

Through the blurry oven window, I could see the globs of batter rise and crisp to a firm golden brown. The banana bread suffused mellow sweetness, baked yeast, and toasted butter.

It was time for the special delivery.

In her suite, my grandma was pan-frying plantains. I handed her the box of muffin tops, the smile on her face making me feel as warm as the sizzling frying pan. She showed me how to fry the plantains in thick slices, dripping in some oil. They smelled sweeter than bananas.

While I was otherwise useless in the kitchen, I could plan my banana bread journey. First: the grocery store, where I can learn from my mom’s righteousness. Second: The produce section, where I can grab the spotted yellow bananas over the green. Third: Home, where I’ll make more banana bread, so my grandma can enjoy them sooner. Fourth: My grandma’s house, where my banana bread takes me so I will never forget her again.

Eight seconds on the grand scene of my life is not much; it is only an infinitesimally small fragment of my life. But these eight seconds can change the outcome of something more significant than the rawness of those eight seconds alone.

I could feel my arms vibrating as I went back to the serving line. Stepping back away, counting the exact six steps that I need, is a process that has become second nature. I was nervous... I knew that the fate of this game was in my hand and my hand only. The whistle blew, signalling for the beginning of those eight seconds. And what was left was deadly silence that permeated the gym; the sound killed the room. Dropping my head as I stared into emptiness, I narrowed my attention into myself and nothing else. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.

Slowly, lifting my head as I brought myself back into reality, I fazed out the irreverence—the players on the bench, coaches, and audiences. Only the net and the target existed in my realm. I tossed the ball high into the sky with my left hand. Right-left, right-left. My eyes tracked the spinning ball as I stepped into my jump, swinging my arms behind me.

The net was an impenetrable wall that blocked all views and passage to the other side, but flying high into the sky, I could see what the other side offered. I flew like a bird with only freedom on its mind. I swung my right arm. Bang… The boom reignited the gym with sounds and cheers. I was the bird. I am no longer imprisoned to the ground.

8 seconds… In 8 seconds, I experienced the nervousness of facing challenges alone. In 8 seconds, I learned the notion of being accessible and not bonded to the limits that I set for myself. And because of those 8 seconds, I surpassed myself. Therefore, the ability to value and reflect on each second to the finest is what separates those who overcome from those who succumb.

The classroom was painted a sickly shade of cat vomit beige, highlighted by the green tables and chairs laid in nonsensical patterns. Everything smelt like decade-old butter and wet dog, though I couldn’t tell if it was coming from the teacher, or the room itself. I was sitting at the table closest to the windows, along with five other classmates who looked like they would much rather put a shard of glass into their eyes than listen to the teacher.

The teacher- Madame, she called herself- reminded me of watery ramen noodles. Her damaged yellow hair was pulled into an unflattering bun and her squinting blue eyes were the exact shade of the dollar store mouthwash I used that morning. She had the air of a particularly villainous headmistress of an underfunded orphanage.

I stared at the clock. It stared right back. The minute hand moved a quarter of a millimeter, as if to taunt my very existence.

“Bondraw too le monde! Are you having a fun first day à lecole? Let's introduce ourselves to. En frahnçais, si te plate.” She spoke in a very heavy French accent, but everyone agreed that it was fake. There was nothing genuine about her sandpaper voice, or the way she rolled her Rs like a wet tea bag slapping the pavement. Madame was a show, a spectacle- an anomaly that children gawk at at the circus as their terrified parents usher them away.

“When you say my name is, you say gem mappel! It is tress simple! And then introduce ta fam ille and your hobbies. Begin!” She smiled. Her thin, dried lips stretched into nonexistent as she proudly showed up the red lipstick stuck to her big front teeth. The words fell from her mouth like dead leaves and dried up bugs. They cluttered on her shoes, on the carpet, and started crawling to me. I could see why French was the language of romance, of crimson roses and sweet chocolates; it is complicated, cruel, pretty until the roses wither and the cocoa turns bitter in your mouth.

It was late October and we were driving by an abandoned asylum. To tame our thirst for adventure and discover new fears we decided to explore. We hoped to head home with cold sweat backs, rooted legs, and the gift to interpret the wind as summoning ghosts. White rays of light blinded us as we drove past the restricted entrance. The sky was pitch black. An eerie spirit wafted around, nurturing a tidal wave in the pit of my stomach. The gravel under the tires echoed like cracking spines, meanwhile, in the inside of the car, all I could hear were our hammering hearts. Regardless of our jumpy nerves and seized throats, our eyes were glued to the windows. It was sickening to look at. Rusting metal bars restrained everything inside, the windows were shattered, while overgrown vines suffocated the buildings. As we drove further the buildings started to evolve into ancient temples, colonized with forests of weeds. We got out of the car to take a closer look, when we got to the bottom of the cobblestone stairwell our feet were rooted in place. My nose was red and numb. The wind whipped my face and tangled my hair as if warning me of a storm. Reality started to blur and I became unconscious in my thoughts. My emotions were taking a toll on my mind. My pumping heart and twinkling eyes when we started the adventure and my fluttering stomach, and paralysis from feeling watched, all short-circuited my body. Leaving me standing in front of the old structure feeling trapped, minuscule, and exposed. My attention snapped back when I heard a scream in the distance. Then I knew it was time to go. With a mental numbness, we quickly piled into the car and drove the rest of the way in silence. There was a nonvocal acknowledgment that the night’s events would not be mentioned again, we came with the intentions of a light fright but left with sinking hearts.