some observations

by Elaina Bayard

A little tilt upward of the lip: sun showers, foggy mornings, warm tea and cookies, birds singing, a text from a hometown friend, Albert the aloe sitting on my desk.

A grin, closed-lips: all eight of my cardigans, shitty children’s theater, dancing with my mother, writing a particularly clever line, Borzois, card games on Friday nights, weaving in the last end of a knitting project, swimming laps, art museums, my lucky necklace.

A smile, all teeth: concerts, roadtrips, a bed piled with blankets on a snowy night, sand between my toes, parking lots after midnight, sanderlings, emails from my grandmother, a five-star book, my friends on stage, concerts (but not getting home from them), giving a good book recommendation, weekend animated movies, a long quiet walk where I hold all these things and more in my palms, cradled.

subtitles of a smile half-written

by Tarini Malhotra

Do you ever wonder if the willows that whisper breathlessly in the wind, like us, are scared of change? I knew you in another life; you had that same twinkle in your eyes. But sometimes the world defies continuity: Giggling stars and shy moons can find their home in bubbles spilling glitter and my oxidized silver jhumkas that refuse to relinquish their shine. Today, the purple sky and gold sneaking through leaves caught me off-guard, but nothing felt more true than the realization that to be known is to be loved. Perhaps sunshine and rainbows don’t only come from clouds and the mystical heavens. They seep through my dog wagging his tail when I call out to him on FaceTime, and my family sending me selfies from nights out, and sitting in comfortable silence with friends. What brings you joy? People, and sunsets, and books that are little treats for me. 

So do you, perchance, want to get coffee with me, as a metaphor for love? And maybe you’ll tell me that I can’t just use the word “perchance,” and I’ll remember the friend whose vocabulary I stole it from in high school. Maybe we’ll listen to Urdu poetry in music that we only half-understand, and maybe we’ll go to India Point Park, and the way the water catches the light will fill me with warmth. And maybe flitting smiles will make hope permeate through the crunchy leaves on the ground and light up the gravel in this strange, beautiful place we call home. 

tell me about it 

by Gabrielle Yuan

My happiest days are the ones where I’m running from one end of campus to another, having numerous conversations at once with friends, only begrudgingly interrupted by segments of class and mandatory meetings. Some of the brightest parts of my day come from sitting in the dim alcove of the dining halls, chairs hastily pulled from a variety of different tables just to create a mismatched, half-circle of loved ones detailing the busyness of our days. I’m beaming now at the thought of resting my head on my tallest friend’s shoulder (my only friend at Brown who towers over me), listening to his breathing and the way his body slightly rocks forward with each joke passed around. Then, suddenly, I’m lying on the floor of my best friend’s dorm room, the mattress topper she lugged all the way from Virginia rolled out for me, where just months ago I was sleeping on the floor of her childhood bedroom with the very same mattress topper, listlessly talking about the tidbits of our days just remembered. Time then passes painstakingly, preciously away when I’m waking up in the morning to walk eleven minutes down to Coffee Exchange, reserved exclusively for weekday mornings, and usually catching up with new friends. Imagine me convincing them that a large French vanilla latte with skim milk is a small everywhere else. The most tender moments are the ones I can barely remember when I try my hardest to recollect, and the ones I dream about most when I’m finally alone. 

pockets of joy

by Jessica Lee

As I find myself trudging along through these dreary days and patiently awaiting spring’s sunny return, here are some of the little joys that have brought a smile to my face on the rainiest and gloomiest of days: Making the most of the blizzard and frolicking through the snow without a care in the world. Walking around the Main Green and spotting Murphy (the presidential pup) or friends across the way. Participating in some intense (and nostalgic) rounds of Among Us, where friendships were tested, and trust was broken. Attending a birthday party with a room full of strangers, and leaving with new friends and future lunch plans. And, finally, dreaming of the cherry blossoms that will be blooming oh-so-soon! 

the glimpses

by Hallel Abrams Gerber

I love a little message: goofy acrostics for friends’ birthdays, small excerpts and poems I find when I’m bored, rambling voicemails to my grandmother as I wait for the RIPTA.

I love the small adventures: searching Providence for the cheapest cold brew, organizing random excursions to Paper Nautilus or down past the bridge with friends.

I love being fifteen minutes (maximum) from so many people I care about.

Since I started college, I’ve kept a “one-line a day” journal. Writing small reflections on the things I’ve done, people I’ve seen, and my general state of being. The book fits five years. Every day, I see what I did this time last year and get to watch as my friends’ names become more frequent, as my days grow more full. I love how it all adds up.

pork floss 

by AJ Wu

There are many foods I miss from home, but at the top of the list is my mom’s pork floss buns. Light and airy, a satisfying but not overwhelming amount of pork floss, folds of green onion, and butter—they clear those sold at just about any Chinese bakery. I got COVID fall of my junior year and suddenly had a lot of time to spend quarantined in my Barbour double. I decided to get into baking. (What better activity for someone who had very recently lost their sense of taste?) After a semi-edible batch of mochi donuts, I tried my hand at pork floss buns. It may have been the autumn chill, hostile ghosts, or the aforementioned loss of taste—who knows—but my dough stubbornly refused to rise, the predominant flavor was yeast, and I sadly picked at my rock-hard bread rolls for days. Deterred, I set down the chef’s hat and gave up my pork floss bun dreams. 

Until the other week. Enough time had passed, perhaps, for me and bread dough to bury the hatchet. It could have been a variety of factors—benevolent ghosts, Mercury in retrograde, K telling me about something called “blooming your yeast beforehand”—but whatever it was, my apartment was soon filled with an aroma that had accompanied some of my coziest childhood memories. I sent my mom a selfie beaming by the batch of fresh buns. It’s nice to get a chance to try again, to level up.