Sonder

“Blue jay.”
“Hmmm?” Dee looks up from her salad, a piece of lettuce, dripping with salad dressing,
hanging from her mouth.
“It’s a blue jay,” I say again, nodding to a small blue bird pecking at a scrap of crust on
the ground. “Almost never see those around here.”
She looks up at me blankly for a moment, the shred of lettuce remaining unnoticed in the
crease of her lips. “You're such a geek,” she replies, and looks back down at her salad. She uses
her hand free of a salad fork to brush a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles before shoving
another fork full of lettuce and tomato into her mouth. I love it when she does that. “I hate it
when you do that,” I say.
“I'm sorry?”
“You smile like a dork,” I reply laughing. Dee just rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone.
I watch her for a moment. Maybe a little more than a moment. Then return my gaze to the blue
jay, which appeared to have multiplied. Two blue jays hopped around the piece of crust. One
pecking, then hopping back to allow the other to get a jab. Kind of like a dance. A tango of
unspoken understanding. I grin. “That's a good line, I'm gonna write that down.”
Dee put her phone face up on the table along with her salad fork. “What has inspired you
this time?” she asks. The wisp of dark chocolate hair she pushed behind her ear had slipped back
out and hung right over her eye.
“The blue jays actually,” I replied.
“Blue jays? I thought there was only one.”
“Well there was,” I nod my chin over toward the blue jays, but they had already flown
off. The piece of crust lay half pecked on the stone patio, getting stale in the sun.
“Aww so sad looks like your little friends left you behind,” Dee said with a smirk.
“Ohh shut it,” I laugh. I reach into my bag and pull out a beaten red notebook. Its spine
had long since been creased and cracked, its edges battered and worn. Dee pushes the last few
bites of salad over to me. I look down at the leafy green shreds, half submerged in a thick layer
of dressing.
“Want it?” Dee asks.
“Yeah I think I’ll pass,” I say, pushing it back to her, “You have quite literally drowned
your food.”
She scrunches up her perfectly done eyebrows so that it forms a small wrinkle on the
bridge of her nose. “It adds flavor,” she pipes.
“It should be a felony,” I retort as I open the beaten red journal and flip through towards
the back quarter.
“You're gonna need a new dream diary soon,” Dee remarks. I give her a dirty glance, but
reach back down into my bag for something to write with instead of responding. Most of the
writing utensils I own consist of snapped pencils, dry pens and a highlighter with a fraying tip. I

look over at Dee, about to ask if she had anything, but her hand was already outstretched with a
ballpoint pen in between her fingers. I reach out gratefully but she snatches her hand back before
I can reach it.
“This is the third one this week,” she snaps.
“I know, I know. Sorry Dee. I’ll give it back I promise.” Dee hesitates, but then slowly
lowers her arm to hand me the pen.
“It's my favorite pen. Don’t you dare lose it.” I quickly grab it before she can snatch it
back again and uncap the pen with my teeth. Tango of unspoken understanding, I write and mark
the date right after. I sit back, satisfied, and look up. Dee is leaning over the table trying to get a
good look at the open page.
“What’s your latest work Mr. Shakespeare?” Dee asks, trying to make out the journal's
words upside down. Before I could respond, Dee snatches the journal off of the table and sits
back, holding it up in front of her face. She flips back a few pages, glancing at each page’s
content before moving to the next.
“This looks interesting,” she says, “‘Flower.’” Dee glances at the date. “You wrote this
two days ago.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“And you haven’t thought to share it with me yet?” she asks.
“Well it isn’t finished yet. I’m writing it for Professor Larson’s class.”
“Larson?” Dee glances down at her phone and taps the screen a few times so that it
wakes up. “Professor Larson’s class, as in the one you have in forty-five minutes?”
“Uhhhh- yes?”
“Then what are you doing here? You should be writing!”
“Well-”
“No, never mind, I’ll help.”
“You? The poli-sci major?” I ask trying not to scoff.
“Yes me dummy, you clearly don’t have the ability to do it on your own terms. Now lets
see.” Dee’s eyes dart across the page. I notice how dry my mouth has been as I watch her and
reach for my glass of what had once been a Coca-Cola. The golden-brown liquid had long since
been consumed, but the sun had melted the remaining ice cubes just enough to create a light
brown sip of coke flavored water at the bottom. I tilt the glass back and down the last sip. It's
cool on my tongue and returns some moisture to my mouth. I allow one of the ice cubes to slide
past my lips and tuck it in my right cheek with my tongue. It's cold enough to sting a little but I
let it sit there anyway. The icy slickness of the cube is refreshing against the heat of the day. Dee
is absorbed in the journal muttering words to herself. I blink and then blush after I realize I had
been staring. The ice cube has already melted down to a third of its original size. I push it
between my teeth and crunch down to finish it off.
Dee reaches a hand into her bag without removing her eyes from the page. She pulls out a
dull No.2 pencil riddled with bite marks. I lunge across the table in defense but she only slaps
my hand away and I slump back down to my side.

“You’re going to ruin it,” I protest.
“No, I’m fixing it,” She responds.
I stand up, flustered, and walk around the table. Dee doesn’t even glance up as I place my
hand on the back of her chair and peer over her shoulder. I cock my head to the side as I read
what she wrote:

“Flower” - 4/17/23
My life is like a flower
Doesn’t that sound nice?
My life is like a flower
Little will suffice
I look so vibrant standing there
A living breathing thing
An empty thoughtless creature
No won’drous dreams to sing
I look so vibrant standing their
To amuse the passerby
My stem is strong, my face is pretty
But inside I see a lie
I struggle to keep appearances
So the lookers can be happy
For when I droop, and sink
They frown and call me ‘scrappy’
With winter comes cruel coldness
Much too much to bear
And so I whither, shrivel, brown
And the lookers leave no care
I find myself alone and empty
They find my truth revolting

But thoughts and feelings have long since passed

My case of beauty molting
And then comes spring and with it strength
Enough to put on a mask
I wait for the lookers again
A long and daunting task
This cycle repeats no breaks or stops
I remain a pretty, empty husk
For which you may enjoy
But winter always comes with dusk

So I must go shed again
My life is like a flower
Now doesn’t that sound nice?
My life is like a flower
You never get it twice.
One day there is a difference
A day after darkness falls
When man of age comes to me hence
And sits and stares at the world of grey
He then looks down at me
He smiles and reaches a tender finger
His touch as soft would be
I puff my empty chest out high
Green color flows to my leaves
I try to please him best I can
But he frowns at this and heaves
Contently confused I relax the mask
A twinkle shows in his eye
I sit and watch him gaze unbroken
Understand him I do try
He sits and sits through all the cold
Remains when ice blows swirling so
The snow builds up past his waist
Yet sitting there he does with throe

And soon then Spring returns along with those first lookers

I gather strength to please this man
Who has waited to see me shine

I spread the color through my veins, as bestly as I can
But when he looks at my beauty now
The twinkle has fleeting gone
The smile is weaker, running dry
But the mask I do keep on
He breathes in, a deep sad sigh
Making his last glance at the trees
With no words spoken from his lips
He stands up and leaves

I pause a moment, rub my eyes, and read again. I reach down and lift the journal gingerly
out of Dee’s hands. She looks up at me, clearly amused by my reaction.

“You just wrote this?” I ask.
“Yup,” she chirps.
“Like just now?”
“Yes sir,” she smiled. “Also I crossed out a piece at the end of your portion because it
was dumb and didn’t make any sense.”
I look at her and then back at the journal and then back at Dee. She wasn’t wrong. I had
added the last few lines just to close up the work because I was tired and done trying.
“What’re you doing as a poli-sci major Dee? You got serious talent.”
“I am a woman of many talents my friend. Some call it a gift-”
“I call it pure luck,” I retort playfully. I walk back to my side of the patio table, tripping
on my shoe lace in the process. I stumble into the chair, creating a great deal more noise than I
am comfortable with. I take a quick glance around to see if anyone is staring and then turn my
attention back to Dee, who is now looking straight at me with her face in her hands and a straw
between her lips as she sucked up the last of her drink. She had a habit of chewing on her straws
after she finished her drinks, which, of course, she hated about herself, but only made me like her
that much more. More wisps of hair had fallen in front of her face. She blew them away a few
times, but to no avail as they slowly fell back down in front of her eyes.
I fold down the corner of the page with “Flower” on it so that I can access it more easily
when called on at Larson’s writing seminar. Dee lets go of the straw in her mouth and sticks her
hand into the empty glass. She fishes around for a few moments before pulling a nice big ice
cube out and popping it into her mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” I say, shaking my head.
“And you're a poet who can’t write poetry,” she retorts.
“Harsh, that's harsh.”
Dee shrugs and sticks her hand back in the glass to grab another cube. I roll my eyes and
flip back towards the middle of the journal to a page titled, “DEE: Who are you really?” Dee
looks up at the sound of pages flipping. Now it's her turn to roll her eyes.
“This again? How long are you gonna keep this up?”
“Until I figure it out,” I reply, “Or until I die trying.” The page is filled with a list of
every single female name, that begins with the letter “D”, that I could think of. The majority of
the names had been crossed out, though new ones are written whenever I think of them.
“This is what you get for being my best friend of three months,” I say with a smile.
Dee scrunches up her eyebrows again. “Look, it's not my fault that your room number
happened to be three-fourteen which also happened to be my favorite number and happened to
be on the same dorm floor as me.”
“True, very true, but it doesn’t change the fact that ‘Dee’ isn’t a name. It’s a letter, and it
most definitely stands for something else.”
“It doesn’t,” Dee replies matter-of-factly.
“So you’re trying to tell me that if I somehow managed to get a copy of your birth
certificate, it would simply say ‘Dee Anagin’ written at the top?”

“Yup.”
“I don’t believe you. Dee is like a spy code name or something. Are you a spy? Is that
what this is? What’re you FBI? CIA? Definitely CIA.”
For a moment the table is dead silent. Then Dee bursts out laughing. It’s beautiful, her
laugh. Almost melodical. Sweet and tangy, with just the right amount of wheezing rasp like that
of a forty-year-old dad at a barbecue.
“You get your two guesses for today,” She snorts in between laughs, “but if I was really a
spy I wouldn’t tell you what my real name was because then I would be a really bad spy,
wouldn't I?”
“You wound’t have to tell me,” I respond, “I would be able to tell from your facial
expression.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Lets see what you got.”
I look down at my list and pick the next two that haven’t been crossed off. I stare straight
into Dee’s eyes. Those teal green eyes that shimmer when the sun hits them. Those eyes that are
easy to get lost in, even when they send daggers straight through your soul. I pause for a
moment, forgetting what I was supposed to do. Dee taps the table with her nails impatiently.
“Well?” she asks.
“Right right,” I say, flustered for another one too many times today. “Lets see.”
I refocus my look. “Delilah.”
“Ooooh pretty name. I’d like to name my daughter that someday. Maybe. Probably. Or
my twelfth cat if I end up becoming one of those crazy old cat ladies because I can’t find a
husband. But no, sorry, not my name. Still just Dee.”
“Wait twelve cats?”
“Twenty-seven actually, but that's a story for another time.” We grin at each other. When
she makes no further comment, I shake my head and move on.
“Okay, how about this? Denise,” I say.
“Ew, no. Seriously? Denise? That's honestly disgusting. There’s no way I am giving
Denise energy, is there? Hard pass.”
I snap the journal shut and slide it back into my bag.
“Was worth the shot,” I shrug. I reach across the table and tap on Dee’s phone screen.
The screen lights up, displaying the time. Her lock screen is an image of a small white flower
with a bright yellow center. It was pretty. Vibrant, even. Catches the eye. Kind of like Dee.
“You got class in six minutes, looks like,” says Dee, “Better get going.”
“Yeah, your right.” I stand up, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Dee does the same. She
looks at me with her arms out wide, reaching towards me.
“What’s this? A hug?”
“Yeah,” says Dee, “isn’t that something best friends of three months are supposed to do?”
“Guess your right,” I reply. My cheeks turn bright red for a second, but then it all washes
away when she steps in close. I can smell the shampoo in her hair. I close my eyes and allow my
mind to drift for just a moment. Though it was a moment too long as I did not notice Dee’s hands

moving suspiciously behind my back. Dee darts out from under my arms, a flash of red in her
hands.
“Race you back to campus,” She calls. I rush to follow, but hear the sound of books
hitting the ground as my bag suddenly becomes much lighter. I turn around and realize Dee has
fully unzipped my bag. I let out a sigh and kneel down to pick up the scattered textbooks. As I
look around, I realize there was something missing.
“My journal!” I exclaim. “That brat.”
I look over my shoulder but Dee had already disappeared up the street with the red
notebook. I re-zip my bag and leave some cash on the table for the food, before dashing in Dee’s
general direction.
I almost trip on my way back to campus as I get distracted by a small group of white
flowers, growing in an insignificant clay pot next to the sidewalk. They are similar to the one on
Dee’s lock screen. I am surprised to realize I haven’t noticed them before. I make a mental note
of their location so that I may possibly get one for Dee in the future.
By the time I make it back to campus my cheeks are flushed and I have two minutes to
get to class. I look around frantically for Dee but she is nowhere to be found. Exasperated and
slightly annoyed I begin my trek towards Professor Larson’s class, beginning to try and think of
an excuse for the missing assignment. Though I take no more than three steps before something
catches my eye. A flat red journal lay on the bench ahead of me.
I jog up to the bench and peer down at the battered, old journal. It’s mine. A single white
flower lay across an open page. I pick it up and roll its stem between my thumb and forefinger
before bringing it up to my nose. It smells peaceful. Fresh, like a morning after a rainstorm.
Almost like... like Dee’s shampoo. I look down at the open page. It’s the list of female D-names,
only this time all of the names have been crossed off. All but one that is. Down at the very
bottom of the list, under all the scratched out guesses, in Dee’s twirly, neat handwriting, was a
single name, circled and underlined.
“Daisy.”