Elizabeth Corallo (17)
content warning: suicide
Mågnata
He always focused on the clouds around the sun.
“There are four today, Em!” Bradley points above to the thin wisps poking around the sun in the center of the sky, the ocean below yawning good morning to us. I shake my head and turn to my brother, a smirk creeping up the corner of my mouth. He turns to me with a goofy grin, eyebrows raised as he points again to the clouds. I laugh at his excitement.
“I know, Bradley, but look at the colors of the sky.” I gesture to the oranges and pinks that roll over each other like watercolors, mother nature’s gradient of pastels tinging the world with roses and daisies. The sun shines like a toddler with fistfuls of candy, all giggles, toothy. Bradley shakes his head.
“No one ever pays attention to the clouds. That’s why they’re my favorite part.” He brings his knees up to his chest, resting his chin against his bony legs. His eyes remain glued to the clouds floating across the serene morning scene. I ruffle his sandy hair and he laughs.
“What about cloud watchers?” I tease him. He was so dramatic for thirteen. His eyes, blue and sparkling with the sky’s daisies a moment ago, darken slightly at the words, as if a cloud was passing across his own face. But he grins and shakes his head again, his mind retreating further behind the clouds. I never could pull him out of those clouds once they settled upon his forehead.
I lean back on my arms, spreading my legs out on our picnic blanket and sighing in the sea breeze. Closing my eyes and letting the wind caress my cheeks, I listen to the waves splash against distant rocks. My brother quietly hums. Looking back at this moment, I wish I had kept my eyes open. They were always closed around him, and I think that’s what I regret most. What was he doing when I wasn’t looking? When I was busy in my own dream world, what was he seeing that I should have noticed? What did those clouds hide from me? God, what did I miss?
One morning during the summer, we went swimming under the sunrise. Instead of sitting on the picnic blanket and counting the clouds, Bradley wanted to dance in the early morning ritual of the ocean’s tide falling from high to low. I was more than delighted to dance with him ー it’s so rare that my brother does something really fun with me. I thought he only watched the sunrises with me because Mom forced him to. I thought he was just too uncomfortable around me. I was still only seventeen and he was only thirteen.
But he was only thirteen.
I didn’t notice the scars until we got in the water, after the golden daisies from the morning sky fell on his arms. He was grinning that goofy smile of his, eyes bright as sea glass. I was laughing at something he said when I noticed the white marks on his skin. I grabbed his arm and ran a finger over the scars. He tried to pull away, but I had already seen them. He hid his arm behind his back as seagulls flew above us. I looked down and dug my heel into the wet sand while the puzzle pieces connected in my head. A breeze began to play with the ends of my hair, and I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest as tears sprung to my eyes. I blinked them away as I glanced up at him, his eyes darker than I had ever seen them as the sea glass shattered inside his mind.
“Bradley, what is this?” My voice came out lighter than a wisp in the wind.
“Nothing, Emily.” He clenched his jaw and ripped his arm from my grasp. “It’s nothing.”
I remember staring at him as if a stranger had jumped out of the sea and took over my brother’s body. I realized this is what he did when I had my eyes closed, but now that they were open, what could I do? I stared at him as my heart drummed and the water churned around me, biting my ankles and whispering those dreaded “what ifs” into my ears until it all became too overwhelming. I backed away from my baby brother, now scarred and wide-eyed, and turned towards the sky for answers it could not give me. I had to tell my parents. I had to fix my brother.
“Please,” Bradley began to beg. “Please don’t tell Mom.”
The sky was not pink that day, but a deep orange—a splatter of scarlet with blotchy clouds poking through, an amateur artist’s attempt at a sunrise—and dimmer than it had been before. I wish I told my mother about the scars and the way the golden daisies fell upon my brother’s head like a warning. I wish I didn’t believe that protecting him and hiding him were synonyms. I wish I could see the clouds around the sun sooner. I wish I had opened my eyes.
The moon reflects my wishes and regrets back onto me every autumn night. I never got to take my brother to the autumn harvest moons, those big, bright nights that people get all excited about on the news. I don’t bother with the picnic blanket anymore, and I never close my eyes when I sit at our spot on the beach. Sometimes, there’s a Blood Moon and I am reminded of the scarlet blotches that penetrated the sky at the last sunrise I saw with Bradley before he killed himself. Tonight, I sit on the damp sand and watch the clouds float silently past the glowing moon. And I think of Bradley’s funeral.
It wasn’t big. He didn’t have that many friends at school and our family is pretty small. He was only thirteen. There were a few rows of brown metal chairs set up in our backyard, a podium with a pastor from some nearby church that we’ve never been to, and a cloudy sky. My brother’s casket was brown, shiny, and far too small for his body. He was supposed to grow taller than our 6-foot father, be happier, smarter, more successful than all of us. He had the brightest future. But that’s generic, isn’t it? They always say that the dead had a bright future ahead—the dead had the most to live for. But I like to think Bradley would have had a bright future ahead of him, because he could feel everything around him in that unique way that only the real geniuses of the world can understand. He always had me on the edge of my seat, always made me watch him with a closer eye as he laughed about sea turtles and spoke of the clouds in the sky. He was only thirteen. He never saw his mind as I saw it, though, because he hid behind those clouds and never paid attention to the colors between the sunrise.
My mother cried the entire time. My father couldn’t look into the open casket, but he choked up when it was closed, lowered into the ground, and a little girl threw a yellow flower into the grave. The funeral was over as quickly as a bad dream, and a few of our relatives stayed at our house that night. Not even twenty-four hours after Bradley was buried, they began to sift through his belongings, picking apart his room as if it was a stranger’s yard sale. I couldn’t bear to see my younger cousins arguing over who should have his old toys, so I drove to the beach where we used to watch the sunrise. That’s when I discovered the moon.
Tonight, the moon burns my eyes as I stare at its stillness above the ocean, the damp sand sticking to my jeans. My eyes blur with his memory, but I can’t tear them away from the moon. The clouds climb on top of each other as the water begins to ripple beneath. I count them as they pass until they cover the moon fully, the bright light of the evening fading away as the grey scars overshadow it. I tear my eyes away and a few tears slide down my cheek, burning against the autumn chill.
Mågnata.
A Swedish word for the wavy reflection of the moon against a body of water. Bradley taught me that. He taught me a lot of things that most thirteen-year-old boys don’t think about. Maybe it’s the things he knew about the world, the things like mågnata, that made me realize there was a price attached to having a valuable mind. Maybe if I had been able to teach him that there is always the sun in the center of the clouds, maybe if I opened his eyes, then maybe he would be able to watch the moon with me tonight.
My chin rests against my knees as the stars poke through the cloudy midnight sky like secrets poking through a conversation. I turn my head and pretend that it’s Bradley’s goofy smile staring back at me. I pretend that he’s pointing to the grey clouds and that there are no white scars on his arms. I pretend to poke his shoulder and tell him that the moon is more beautiful than those silly clouds. I pretend to ignore him when he tells me that there’s more to everything than just one side, more to everything than just good and bad. I pretend he’s still here with the moon and mågnata warm beneath us. I pretend there are more sunrises in his future. I pretend it's bright again.
Bradley taught me a lot of things. He taught me about the sunrises and the responsibility of being an older sibling. He taught me about mågnata
and countless other useless facts to treasure. He taught me how to look at the whole picture: clouds, the sun, colors, and the moon.
I just wish I saw it sooner.
Elizabeth Corallo is an emerging writer and student who concentrates on poetry, book reviews, short fiction, and creative nonfiction. She has written poetry in The Global Youth Review, and is forthcoming in The Hellebore. She currently runs a book review blog called the SeaglassBookNook, serves as the Co-Summer Programs Director of The Young Writer's Initiative, and is a journalist for EntrepreYOUership.
content warning: suicide
Mågnata
He always focused on the clouds around the sun.
“There are four today, Em!” Bradley points above to the thin wisps poking around the sun in the center of the sky, the ocean below yawning good morning to us. I shake my head and turn to my brother, a smirk creeping up the corner of my mouth. He turns to me with a goofy grin, eyebrows raised as he points again to the clouds. I laugh at his excitement.
“I know, Bradley, but look at the colors of the sky.” I gesture to the oranges and pinks that roll over each other like watercolors, mother nature’s gradient of pastels tinging the world with roses and daisies. The sun shines like a toddler with fistfuls of candy, all giggles, toothy. Bradley shakes his head.
“No one ever pays attention to the clouds. That’s why they’re my favorite part.” He brings his knees up to his chest, resting his chin against his bony legs. His eyes remain glued to the clouds floating across the serene morning scene. I ruffle his sandy hair and he laughs.
“What about cloud watchers?” I tease him. He was so dramatic for thirteen. His eyes, blue and sparkling with the sky’s daisies a moment ago, darken slightly at the words, as if a cloud was passing across his own face. But he grins and shakes his head again, his mind retreating further behind the clouds. I never could pull him out of those clouds once they settled upon his forehead.
I lean back on my arms, spreading my legs out on our picnic blanket and sighing in the sea breeze. Closing my eyes and letting the wind caress my cheeks, I listen to the waves splash against distant rocks. My brother quietly hums. Looking back at this moment, I wish I had kept my eyes open. They were always closed around him, and I think that’s what I regret most. What was he doing when I wasn’t looking? When I was busy in my own dream world, what was he seeing that I should have noticed? What did those clouds hide from me? God, what did I miss?
One morning during the summer, we went swimming under the sunrise. Instead of sitting on the picnic blanket and counting the clouds, Bradley wanted to dance in the early morning ritual of the ocean’s tide falling from high to low. I was more than delighted to dance with him ー it’s so rare that my brother does something really fun with me. I thought he only watched the sunrises with me because Mom forced him to. I thought he was just too uncomfortable around me. I was still only seventeen and he was only thirteen.
But he was only thirteen.
I didn’t notice the scars until we got in the water, after the golden daisies from the morning sky fell on his arms. He was grinning that goofy smile of his, eyes bright as sea glass. I was laughing at something he said when I noticed the white marks on his skin. I grabbed his arm and ran a finger over the scars. He tried to pull away, but I had already seen them. He hid his arm behind his back as seagulls flew above us. I looked down and dug my heel into the wet sand while the puzzle pieces connected in my head. A breeze began to play with the ends of my hair, and I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest as tears sprung to my eyes. I blinked them away as I glanced up at him, his eyes darker than I had ever seen them as the sea glass shattered inside his mind.
“Bradley, what is this?” My voice came out lighter than a wisp in the wind.
“Nothing, Emily.” He clenched his jaw and ripped his arm from my grasp. “It’s nothing.”
I remember staring at him as if a stranger had jumped out of the sea and took over my brother’s body. I realized this is what he did when I had my eyes closed, but now that they were open, what could I do? I stared at him as my heart drummed and the water churned around me, biting my ankles and whispering those dreaded “what ifs” into my ears until it all became too overwhelming. I backed away from my baby brother, now scarred and wide-eyed, and turned towards the sky for answers it could not give me. I had to tell my parents. I had to fix my brother.
“Please,” Bradley began to beg. “Please don’t tell Mom.”
The sky was not pink that day, but a deep orange—a splatter of scarlet with blotchy clouds poking through, an amateur artist’s attempt at a sunrise—and dimmer than it had been before. I wish I told my mother about the scars and the way the golden daisies fell upon my brother’s head like a warning. I wish I didn’t believe that protecting him and hiding him were synonyms. I wish I could see the clouds around the sun sooner. I wish I had opened my eyes.
The moon reflects my wishes and regrets back onto me every autumn night. I never got to take my brother to the autumn harvest moons, those big, bright nights that people get all excited about on the news. I don’t bother with the picnic blanket anymore, and I never close my eyes when I sit at our spot on the beach. Sometimes, there’s a Blood Moon and I am reminded of the scarlet blotches that penetrated the sky at the last sunrise I saw with Bradley before he killed himself. Tonight, I sit on the damp sand and watch the clouds float silently past the glowing moon. And I think of Bradley’s funeral.
It wasn’t big. He didn’t have that many friends at school and our family is pretty small. He was only thirteen. There were a few rows of brown metal chairs set up in our backyard, a podium with a pastor from some nearby church that we’ve never been to, and a cloudy sky. My brother’s casket was brown, shiny, and far too small for his body. He was supposed to grow taller than our 6-foot father, be happier, smarter, more successful than all of us. He had the brightest future. But that’s generic, isn’t it? They always say that the dead had a bright future ahead—the dead had the most to live for. But I like to think Bradley would have had a bright future ahead of him, because he could feel everything around him in that unique way that only the real geniuses of the world can understand. He always had me on the edge of my seat, always made me watch him with a closer eye as he laughed about sea turtles and spoke of the clouds in the sky. He was only thirteen. He never saw his mind as I saw it, though, because he hid behind those clouds and never paid attention to the colors between the sunrise.
My mother cried the entire time. My father couldn’t look into the open casket, but he choked up when it was closed, lowered into the ground, and a little girl threw a yellow flower into the grave. The funeral was over as quickly as a bad dream, and a few of our relatives stayed at our house that night. Not even twenty-four hours after Bradley was buried, they began to sift through his belongings, picking apart his room as if it was a stranger’s yard sale. I couldn’t bear to see my younger cousins arguing over who should have his old toys, so I drove to the beach where we used to watch the sunrise. That’s when I discovered the moon.
Tonight, the moon burns my eyes as I stare at its stillness above the ocean, the damp sand sticking to my jeans. My eyes blur with his memory, but I can’t tear them away from the moon. The clouds climb on top of each other as the water begins to ripple beneath. I count them as they pass until they cover the moon fully, the bright light of the evening fading away as the grey scars overshadow it. I tear my eyes away and a few tears slide down my cheek, burning against the autumn chill.
Mågnata.
A Swedish word for the wavy reflection of the moon against a body of water. Bradley taught me that. He taught me a lot of things that most thirteen-year-old boys don’t think about. Maybe it’s the things he knew about the world, the things like mågnata, that made me realize there was a price attached to having a valuable mind. Maybe if I had been able to teach him that there is always the sun in the center of the clouds, maybe if I opened his eyes, then maybe he would be able to watch the moon with me tonight.
My chin rests against my knees as the stars poke through the cloudy midnight sky like secrets poking through a conversation. I turn my head and pretend that it’s Bradley’s goofy smile staring back at me. I pretend that he’s pointing to the grey clouds and that there are no white scars on his arms. I pretend to poke his shoulder and tell him that the moon is more beautiful than those silly clouds. I pretend to ignore him when he tells me that there’s more to everything than just one side, more to everything than just good and bad. I pretend he’s still here with the moon and mågnata warm beneath us. I pretend there are more sunrises in his future. I pretend it's bright again.
Bradley taught me a lot of things. He taught me about the sunrises and the responsibility of being an older sibling. He taught me about mågnata
and countless other useless facts to treasure. He taught me how to look at the whole picture: clouds, the sun, colors, and the moon.
I just wish I saw it sooner.
Elizabeth Corallo is an emerging writer and student who concentrates on poetry, book reviews, short fiction, and creative nonfiction. She has written poetry in The Global Youth Review, and is forthcoming in The Hellebore. She currently runs a book review blog called the SeaglassBookNook, serves as the Co-Summer Programs Director of The Young Writer's Initiative, and is a journalist for EntrepreYOUership.