You had me at hello

is what I remember best

from Jerry Maguire

I don't know if you

realized it at the time

but trouble started

long before I came here

When did you find out

that my smile truly was

more than just a smile?

When did you learn?

How did you feel then?

How do you feel now?

Because even though

I did not truly know

I felt trouble the instant

I laid eyes on you

A sidelong glance

completely innocent

completely non-committal

and yet, it captured me

Your eyes spoke,

revealing your soul.

They made me want to

just put my arms around you

and shield you from the world.

And even in that instant, I knew

that I never could, never would,

that even if I ever held you,

I would have to release you

again and again,

so that you could grow,

and not be trapped,

smothered,

in my embrace.

I take pleasure in your company,

and I cherish every moment,

every word, every look, every smile.

I take pleasure in seeing you tackle life,

confident or timid,

yet always striding on.

I do not remember the talk that day,

but I do remember when you

looked at me, and I drank in

the sight of your eyes.

As a brother, a shelter from the storm,

a guardian spirit,

or whatever you need,

I will be there for you,

as I have been

ever since.

Without ado,

without a word,

you had me at hello.

I watched as the rolling expanse of the hills spiked radically into the sky, piercing the earth with mighty tremors. Rocks crumbled under the dirtied wheels of the bus: little pieces of the Dominican Republic smashed underfoot.

“See that?” my mother asked from the seat across.

I squinted against the full shining of the sun and… there. Tiny houses were prominent in the tropical blur. Dilapidated dwellings, balanced on the treacherous slopes. Kissed by the midday glow, gleaming as forgotten stars.

“Yeah,” I said, my face pressed against the coolness of the glass. The beauty was absolutely breathtaking. Coating everything was a brilliant sheen, ruby-red in the high of noon. Gorgeous treetops and tremendous gorges sparkled in the summer sun.

The houses were a distinct beauty. Profound against the Dominican wilds, they were a refreshing breath of civilization. Made from rotting wood and rusted tin, it was fitting from a distance. The vibrant greens and sparkling reds complemented humanity’s chestnut tinge.

Something was something nagging me—realness, I decided. These houses were real, and real people live in them. But the vivid scenery made me all but forget this as I peeked through the bus window.

The Dominican Republic was a zoo exhibit, from what I could tell. An animal so abstract, words couldn’t describe it and minds couldn’t think it. Who lived in these broken homes? Who woke up to this rubious sky?

These questions burned green in the crimson of the sky.

Eventually the bus came to a lurching stop, tearing joint tracks into the dirt. A moment of instruction passed, but its meaning was deadened by our growing anticipation.

“Alright,” said Don, the man in charge. “When we get out, let’s form a group over there. One of the villagers will make a speech; just try to hold tight.” He paused, nodding thoughtfully, then continued. “His words won’t mean much to you, but it’ll be very important to them.”

Everything was much closer now, the dry ground an unwelcome reality before us. We were no longer photographers; vision was now the lesser of our crafts. We were here to help.

I came off the bus like a pirate off a plank—able to swim but unfamiliar with the waters. Gathering around the vehicle, I was filled with an uneasy trepidation. Everything felt very important, somehow. Crucial. I looked down at my hands and they were trembling slightly.

Are the hands that feed supposed to shake?

A large tree broke the earth in front of us, curdling the sun-baked ground into an ominous shade. Unseen at first, the community rested under this stain of darkness. Chestnut faces looked excitedly across each other, trying to gauge how to act through their peers. No one was worried, but many people—specifically the adults—cast careful looks upon us. It was a strong group, perhaps forty people were present. Their bronze skin was a rare gem on the emerald landscape.

When I had expected a dramatic hush, chatter filled the area. Livid conversations bubbled across the scene, eagerly replacing my anxiety with confusion.

An uncomfortable moment passed, and one of our group’s translators stepped from the crowd. Reaching a suntanned palm through the air, he found the hand of a dark-skinned figure and shook it. After exchanging a few foreign words, the dark man turned and began to speak to the crowd in heartfelt Spanish. His quick words washed over the crowd like a cleansing fire, his eyes burning with a wisdom born of tragedy. Passion and energy took his words by storm, inspiration evident on the audience’s faces. His steely resolve expressed a delicate yet unspoken thanks.

After the speech, Don regained our attention and explained our roles for handing out the food. As he looked around the group, there was a distinguishing finality about the moment. Before now, everything had seemed out of place, unrealistic. But now it finally clicked.

I knew that the mission trip was all about helping people. The “helping” bit always made sense—they made it pretty clear how we’d assist the locals. It was the “people” part that never really sunk in.

These were their lives. Real people, sheltered in those broken homes. They wouldn’t be gone tomorrow, replaced by another set of actors. Only they would be here, living out their life sentences on the scorched earth, hunger and fear hanging over their heads.

This was it—the “real world,” I guess you could call it. Constants like this are omnipresent here; where pain and suffering is eternal.

I had this image in my head. A small child was smiling up at me, his eyes glowing with a newfound hope. Lives changed in an instant with my help. They would be saved by the work of my hands, the weight of their world held easily in my palms. The future of their village balanced on my fingertips.

But this dream was broken, smashed. Unhelped, unknown, unloved by the earth around them. Burned alive by the rest of the world’s ignorance, a country-wide shadow the only proof that they ever existed.

My brother and I took camp at the front of the bus, tasked with handing out the water. Instead of bottles, the liquid came in little plastic pouches. Everyone was given food items to deliver, and we now formed a pathway around the bus. Rice and meat, water and medicine, and bags and utensils lined the vehicle, mixing the smell of exhaust with a much sweeter fragrance of hope.

Eagerly, people started to walk through the lines. Children strolled alongside their parents, clutching food packets in the way that toddlers would hold a stuffed animal. Striding protectively beside them, the adults accepted the water gracefully when they went by.

Silence held many people, their darkened glances casting terrible shadows around them. But sometimes new faces would light up, expressing thanks in excitable Spanish as they took the pouches. Person after person arose through the village’s destruction, their bright eyes finding new hope through the torrid darkness.

It was a wonderful thing that we were doing, but it didn’t seem like enough. Here, getting food was a constant struggle: a battle the villagers had to face every day. Days from now, they’d be hungry again. Misery would never leave them.

People who are poor for one day can’t be imaginary for the rest. They would be living like this even after I left, I knew, risking death upon the jagged earth. They’d always be here, long after I leave their lives. Each day we don’t come back would be a day ruined. Our ignorance would taint their impoverished minds, reminding them of the easy life. My life, mocking them from a world away.

Years later, they would still look up at the hands that feed, only this time they’d be empty hands. Hands trembling violently with ignorance and doubt. Seeking my eyes from oceans away, they would find my tainted vision. They would remember how I helped them years ago, and wonder where that person is now. Noting my satisfaction, regarding it as ignorance. My ignorance, and my innocence.

I’m sorry if I don’t have a leg to stand on, I thought.

Sorry if I don’t have the hands to help.

I was about nine years old. Growing up in post-communist Romania, I was immediately captured by the bewitching, glossy world of foreign-language cable television (read: languages other than Romanian, Russian, or Hungarian) that made its appearance during the early 90s. So I slowly started to learn English. And Spanish. And French. Portuguese. Italian. German. I soaked it all up, like a sponge. Everything looked and sounded fascinating to a child's eyes, and learning was effortless.

But there were ongoing fights over the remote control between me and my (elder) brother. Bigger and stronger, he always ended up winning. So I finally decided to seek my revenge, and and I did so by composing my first poem (in English):

To my brother 

Roses are red,

Violets are pink,

Daesies are white,

And you sure stink. 

Yes, I actually misspelled daisies. Considering I had been learning English from television, I find it quite amazing that I misspelled one word only. And he didn't really stink; he just made me really mad.

I love my brother now. We don't fight any more. We take care of each other. Well, he takes care of me a lot more than I of him. But we don't punch each other, we hug each other. We live on two different continents, but we text daily. We exchange cute cat videos as well as nerdy scientific or political articles. We try to meet up as often as possible. So I now find that acerbic poem very endearing. I'm happy our dysfunctional, stressful relationship as children turned into a heartwarming connection through time. So I think the moment is ripe to rewrite that poem.

To Steli

Roses are red,

Irises are blue,

Daisies are white,

And I love you. 

Mihaela C. Ionescu – December 1, 2016

we were too young to be legends but he wanted to leave his mark, so he used my skin as his canvas. i accepted. i bit my lips, plugged my ears, and closed my eyes, emptying my body of all it had to offer so it would be ripe for the harvest, ready to be coated.

his favorite color was violet. he dotted my cheeks with bursts of blue, drizzled some red in the background and let it clot. added ice to counteract the swelling as the black faded to yellow. he framed it so he was superman and i was a soundbite. his fist, my breath, speech balloons. he called it pop art.

when he wanted to keep things simple, he'd smash my teeth into a mosaic, just to kiss each piece and place them in rows and columns, rows and columns, each line etched by god. he collected the colors my gums bled in vials. he called me a stain. he would not work with pigments that had no purpose, he would not rest until my mouth decomposed to silence, until my molars aligned with the nails on the floorboards and all of my matter was squared away in boxes with walls ready to rupture.

eventually he knocked them over like dominoes and swept them to the side. cubism, he said, does not look good on you. he asked me to pose with him and i obliged. i wanted to be good for something. as we undressed, he asked me not to make a scene, told me his art was only a summary but it still had meaning, said if i thought i was more than a crude expression of reality then i was dreaming, called me a stain. he said he wished he had chosen a pigment that he didn't have to strain. he told me to detach my head from my soul and let him in, let him in, let his motifs cull. he drew his brush and began to paint, began to pant, and brushed shapes across my chest with his lips, each circle the size of my breasts, each spiral bigger than the next. he said we were an infinite pattern, an illusion.

when i had nothing left to give, he hung me up at the bar next to a portrait of a woman, bruised like a peach.