Kristen McCullough

Mark Christensen
Advanced Writing
11.7.10

Calming Down

I look up from my math homework as Muse’s “Time is Running Out” weaves out of my laptop’s
speakers.
I think I’m drowning, asphyxiated. . .
The number I had been staring at calls me back to the page and I feel utter hopelessness cave
down onto my shoulders. I used to be good at time management. I used to be able to keep up in class. I
dwell on the one question I have been asking myself over and over the last few weeks; What happened?
I slam the red textbook shut and throw it on top of my backpack, lying deflated after a day’s
work of hauling fifty pounds of impending doom. I glance at the lime green post-it at my side, the list of
‘to-dos’ blaring at me. In another effort to continue the trudge of responsibility, I pull my Astronomy
book toward me.
An hour later I blink.
I hadn’t yet begun to read.
I nearly hurl the book at my closet door. Instead, I grab my duffle bag, shove a change of clothes,
my pillow, and trusty teddy bear inside and let the wooden door slam behind me.
After tossing the duffle into the trunk of my peeling-green Monte, I set to the road—long,
straight, and nary a hill in sight. Today, I am glad for this wasteland. My mind wanders as I drive, but
nothing can get the hulk of desperation off my shoulders, nor my legs to stop jumping in anxiety.
Ninety miles later I find myself being thanked profusely by my sister-in-law as she grabs my
brother’s hand and they escape into the night. I sit on their couch and pull out my American Literature
book and begin to read. A few pages in, I glance up. The monitor emits a low and constant hiss, but the
red alert light stays out of sight. I turn back to my book, but I catch myself peeking at the white speaker
every few minutes.
While I finally feel focused enough to get some work done—the ninety miles eventually lulled
my frenzied mind into a sense of calm—something still felt off.
I ascend the stairs.
 I recall Mm sister-in-law stressing just the right way to open the cream colored door. If I didn’t
push down on the handle, the top edge of the door would catch and make an almighty racket.
I don’t want to wake her. I just need to see her.
With minimal squeaking I manage to crack the door and push my head through. I suck in a
breath as I observe my niece’s slumbering form. The five-month-old was lying on her stomach, her
hands under her eyes as if she fell asleep rubbing them. I smile at her flowery pink pajamas. The shirt
has ruffles that stretch to cover the top of her pants. Somehow her clothes match the green and white
Winnie-the-Pooh decorations and blankets covering her crib.
I rush to swing the door back when she whimpers and turns her head toward me. I wait a
moment before leaning on the handle to push it open again. She had shifted to lay more on her arms,
one of her hands now exposed. This time, as I resist the urge to smooth down a piece of black hair on
the back of her head, I am shocked to observe how much she has grown. My eyes travel from her thin
tufts of hair to the curve of her back to the swift up turn of her diaper and I realize, the buzzing of my
ever-shortening attention span has diminished. I take a shuddering breath and sit next to the crib. I peer
through the bars at Jade’s one exposed hand—once not big enough to encircle my thumb, now deft
enough to attempt yanking my necklace into her mouth.
My breathing begins to match hers as her chest pushes her back up and down as steady as
waves rolling to shore. With every breath I feel a release of anger, anxiety, fear, and stress. With every
crash her breathing brings to the shore of my mind, I let myself think, for the first time in weeks,
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be okay.