Page 30 of Silent Oaths
DearMama,
Ihope you’re okay.Imiss you so much.Today,Ihad oatmeal for breakfast, and it made me think of how you used to make it with cinnamon and sugar.Theydon’t make it like that here, butIremember how you did.Ialways will.
Itried to draw you again today.IthinkIgot your eyes right this time, butI’mnot sure about your smile.It’shard to remember everything, andIhate thatI’mforgetting little things about you.Itry not to,Ipromise.
Sometimes,Ithink about that night.Aboutthe bus stop.AbouthowIshould’ve stayed home like you always told me.MaybeifIhad, you’d still be here.Iknow you’d tell me that’s not true, butIcan’t stop thinking about it.
Losiento, mama.
Voya portarme bien aquí.Teseguiré escribiendo.Seguirérecordando.
Tequiero.Siemprete voy a querer.
TuJulian
Ifill the rest of the pages with random little sketches.
Inthe margins,Idraw funny faces like the onesMamaused to doodle for me on scraps of paper whenIwas little.Sometimes,Idraw thingsIsee in the courtyard, like birds or stray cats.Sometimes,Idraw her.
Idon’t want to forget my mother’s face.Thesoft curve of her cheeks, her bright eyes, the way her hair always looked a little messy after work.Overthe years,I’vedrawn her repeatedly.
It’sthe only wayIknow to keep her close.Evenif she isn’t here, even if she never would be again,Ihave the letters and the drawings.
Andas long asIhave those,Istill have her.
Thedoor bursts open without so much as a knock.Isigh, already knowing who it is.
“Doyou ever knock?”Igroan, snapping my notebook shut and tucking it under my pillow.
Maxwellstrides into the room like he owns the place, grinning from ear to ear.He’stall for his fifteen years, lanky, with a mop of hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed.Hisuniform shirt is untucked, one of the buttons missing, and there’s a smear of dirt on his cheek.Helooks like trouble.Heistrouble.
“Whybother knocking whenIknow you’re here?” he says, plopping down on the foot of my bed like it’s his own.
Icross my arms, leaning back against the wall. “Maybebecause it’smyroom?”
Maxwellshrugs, completely unfazed.That’sthe thing about him: he doesn’t take a hint.Ican’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just doesn’t care.Probablythe latter.Eitherway, it doesn’t matter.Hedoes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and no amount of sighing or glaring on my part seems to change that.
“Whatchawriting?” he asks, craning his neck toward my pillow like he’s trying to see whatI’vehidden.
“Nothing.”
Heraises an eyebrow, clearly not believing me, but thankfully, he doesn’t press. “Well,nothingsure seems to keep you busy a lot.Don’tyou ever get bored of being all...Idon’t know, mysterious?”
“Mysterious?”Isnort, shaking my head. “I’mnot mysterious,Maxwell.Ijust don’t talk to people who annoy me.”
“Ouch.”Heclutches his chest likeI’vejust stabbed him. “That’scold,Juju.Reallycold.GoodthingI’mtough.”
Idon’t bother responding.Instead,Igrab my sketchbook off the nightstand and start flipping through the pages, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.Ofcourse, he doesn’t.
Nomatter how muchIpush him away, he sticks around.He’sone of the only people who has tried to be my friend sinceIgot here, and even thoughI’verarely given him the time of day, he has never given up.It’sannoying, and, ifI’mbeing honest, kind of impressive.
“Whatdo you want?”Iask finally, looking up from my sketchbook.
Hegrins, pleased to have my attention. “We’replaying soccer in the courtyard.Thoughtyou might wanna join.”
“Idon’t.”
“Comeon, don’t be such a hermit.Youcan’t stay cooped up here forever.It’snot healthy.”
