Magdalena McKee ~ Martin Luther King Jr. Writing Contest Entry. Prompt: “Write a personal narrative about a time when someone demonstrated an ability to love and have compassion for you or others in a difficult time (a renewed dedication to humanity).” August: The first year of high school was going as well as lime green mixes with maroon; ‘marooned behind the gate with metal in my eyes. I was a bird drifting through space, my feathers slowly getting ruffled one by one, difficult to tell under a microscope but at a distance: disarray, disorder. Scalding showers and white tiles never helped, nor did the black behind my eyelids in bed. Nothing. 1 was unsure, unknowing at the time of how much I needed something, somewhere, someone. Until in the gym, though smelling sweaty and the floor sooty and concussions eminent, a blessing with sandy hair said: “Come to my office for lunch.” Ms. Berry: like a poisonous berry, sweet, makes you feel good at first, belly full. But later on you vomit it up and it has left you, dry heaving to try to rid yourself of the bum that stomach acid has left you. For the time, though, no more staring at conjugations on the walls while I don’t eat, no melting into the linoleum and seeing milky spots in my eyes. There were soccer balls, carpet, ike clothes, things I despised, yet now loved because of the reckless abandon of exploring places I never knew, of experiencing a setting unnatural to me. The beauty in chaos is all that it ‘was in that office. A family had adopted me, a family with only one mother and a half-sister. September and October: Walking with my two friends while everyone else runs too fast to see the beauty, the blur of trees. The individual leaves get lost in translation but walking under willows, tranquil as a Buddha, every leaf is defined and crystallized. Ms. Berry let us walk. She saw the sores under our skin and the blood oozing from our pores but she still loved us, she accommodated us, she mothered us. Post-concert depression found its way into my heart and made me sick, but a small dose of Berries could clear it right up. Singing with the voice inside ‘my lungs was no longer scary. I am finding my people, she is showing me my people.... November: A misplaced identity with all my soul beared onto thick creamy paper. I would have been alone had it not been for that seclusion from the normal population of purple and white mountain lions or my new family. Even sitting on the floor and staring at the drywall ‘was the most comfortable, rosy silence in my head, Just listening, simply listening, helped me to better understand my new family, genius in many ways, chaotic in more. I was, though I did not recognize it at the time, discovering myself, uncovering my true form, finding support in these walls, December: There were my dad’s sweaters, cellos, black and red acrylic paint, candles, and refuge in the office from finals to inhale the scent of Berries. Juniper lattes quelled my thoughts and inspired me, but of course they have left season again. That office is the only place that linoleum tiles under fluorescent lights appear beautiful, and it calmed my heart during the last week before Christmas. Words are only scribbles, and scribbles on a card mean nothing.How can I show her appreciation for the holidays, and how will she ever know she means more than any Christmas tree could? She has done more for me than Santa Claus can ever bring me gifts. January: The refreshing snow seeped into her office. There is now urgency. It is second semester. I am halfway through the motherhood that cradles me everyday at hunch when I walk into Ms. Berry's office. For now, though, she lets me keep peaches in the refrigerator and she softens my mind. February: My eyes swelled with tears when I told them to. She saw it, and she asked what I would do. She pulled me aside and shook me awake and told me to get help. | stayed alive for her. March: The snow is melting. April: The snow is gone. May: So it has really come. The days of lunch’s salvation in Ms, Berry's office are over. Finals week is half days, which means no more lunch. I bring her a muffin, she gives me a sweater. I make her a fruit basket, she hands me a journal, a journal that has seen the walls of many offices in many schools. How does she always know the one space between my ribs to poke to make me fall over and weep? She gives, and gives, and hands things over to people like myself who need nothing. She gives sweaters, hugs, support, plastic forks, and a space to always have refuge. To a person like me. To people better off than me. I need nothing, and Ms. Berry gives all. Her employment here may end, but this layer will always be here, the layer of my skin and mind buried inside the rest of the rings of a tree, the representation of a season. This year will always be inside of me.