The 2015 Treaty of Niagara

The child may be small, but she is mighty. Mighty from the day she was born, entering the world not with a wail, but with a roar. You want to admire the force of her -- to call it strength of character - but the truth is that her ferocity has always overwhelmed you.

Saturdays have become dangerous ground in your home. Too many hours unscripted, not enough activities in the world, and playdates are so fleeting. Your husband hides in the garage while you preside over the day’s activities. You are in attendance at a royal court; one made of glitter glue and pipe cleaners.

You feel her watching you from across the craft table and you know it is best – safest – to avoid eye contact. You concentrate on the badge you are stitching onto her Girl Guide uniform. This one – the Modeling badge -- will be affixed above the Social Media Literacy badge and below the Make-up Application badge. You flinch as the pin suddenly stabs through the dark blue material piercing your finger. The purple marker across the table is still clutched in the soft pink fist but it is no longer moving. The stillness sends shivers down your spine.

“Mommy?” Sweet as syrup. Don’t look up.

“Yes Muffin?” You are squinting at the needle and thread -- all your attention on that task.

“I was thinking we really need to step it up with my YouTube channel.”

“Ya think?” Needle goes in, needle goes out. You avoid the big blue eyes framed in doll-like lashes. You know those lashes are fluttering violently in your direction.

“My subscribers need something…more.”

Another stitch, and only a few more before you are finished with this badge. “Like what?” You know it’s a trap, but there’s no way to avoid it. The question had to be asked or you risk the accusation of being a non-attentive parent. There is no worse thing than appearing to be a self-absorbed mother. You would be shunned from the home and school committee meetings, invites to Jungle Jam Indoor Gymboree would be withdrawn. The shame would be unlivable.

“I thought Great Wolf Lodge could be a super way to get some new content for my fans.” Butterfly flutters, chicklet smile.

“Great Wolf Lodge?” You say it with your voice tight, your eyes squinted as though you have never heard of such a thing. What is this place of which you speak -- this abode of wolves and greatness? The ruse isn’t working, she knows you are false.

“I thought a week at the lodge would be the perfect thing to bump up my views.”

“A week?” There is panic in your voice that should have been hidden. You glance up and see that she heard it too. She shines a beaming smile straight at you, curls cascading over her La Senza girl T-Shirt. She knows she has you. You stare hard at the fabric in your lap. The One Hundred Subscribers badge is coming loose and so you dive on it with your needle and thread. “Maybe just for one night,” you suggest non-committedly but she has you on the run and she knows it.

“I couldn’t do any less than four nights.” Sticky, sticky, honey bees buzzing round her voice like nectar.

“Maybe two nights.” God, can you stand it? Two whole nights with deep-fried foods and mixed drinks in plastic cups. Hysterical moms, always either overweight or weirdly thin and dads with tattoos hidden under blankets of back hair that they have given up waxing.

“Three, and we need a themed suite.”

“Three nights. No suite. One MagicQuest game.”

“Done.” She smiles. Pearly whites peek through petal lips, and she launches at you. “You are the best Mommy in the whole wide world.” Arms around your neck, rosy pillow cheek squashed against your face. She smells as sweet as she sounds; strawberries, peaches, licorice kisses.

“I will let Daddy know and we can set something up,” I say.

“Don’t wait too long,” she says. “We want to get on it before we get too close to Christmas. I can’t have my Great Wolf Lodge vlog interfere with my seasonal toy review

She pulls away and swishes the waterfall of curls over her shoulder. “I will be in the kitchen if you need me. The lighting is better there and I have to record a quick thing on side pony tails before dinner. They’re the ‘it’ hairstyle for grade three girls this fall.”

She caps her marker and snatching her smartphone from the table, she disappears. You return your focus to the badges on your lap. The Cleanliness badge is beginning to fray at the edges; you had that one at her age too. It sat on your Girl Guide sash above your Telephone Courtesy badge and Leg Warmer Appreciation badge. You lost all of the badges of course, and the Girl Guide uniform, too. They disappeared with the rollerblades you used to love, sometime after you traded in your New Kids on the Block posters for Nirvana pictures torn from magazines.”

She is in the hallway now, her hair pulled to the side of her dangerously symmetrical head, golden strands, strawberry tinged, wrapped in a purple kink-free elastic band. Her arms hug the oversized teddy bear to her chest. The fluttery lashes return for the finale as you hear her voice, molasses, gumdrop, candy floss.

“Don’t forget to like this video. Thanks for subscribing and leave your comments down below.”


Written by: Sarah Scott
Photograph by: Garrett Carroll

Finding Faith at 30,000 Feet

I found God on Jetblue flight 794 to JFK.

Figuratively, of course.

We didn’t breach a cloud to find a bearded man in a flowing white robe shaking his omnipotent fist at us like we were teenagers doing donuts on his front lawn. It wasn’t some cinematic near-death experience where a high-school wrestling coach thwarted a terrorist by putting him in a full nelson. And the pilot didn’t heroically land our faulty vessel on the Hudson River—which is good, because I refuse to swim in un-chlorinated waters.

Nope, I’m afraid my epiphany was much subtler than that. Kind of like how a parent’s silence hurts more than the back of their hand—but in a good way.

Wait, wait, wait. I’ve, “shot my wad,” as they say. For this spiritual awakening to actually mean something, it’s going to need a little backstory.

First, an introduction. My name is Larry, and I’ve been hopelessly neurotic for as long as I can remember.

Good. Now that we’ve been formally introduced, allow me to take you back six-months before my fateful flight. Join me in the waiting room of Dr. Spellman, M.D., the finest General Practitioner within my healthcare network.

Dr. Cold Spell—a nickname I gave him after a particularly frigid prostate exam—was my first line of defense against any inexplicable pain or sensation. If my stool changed color, I made an appointment with Dr. Spellman. If my nose was bleeding for no discernible reason, I made an appointment with Dr. Spellman. And every year on October, 23rd, when I’m re-eligible for my free physical, I dropped trou, turned my head and coughed for Dr. Spellman.

This visit, however, had nothing to do with irregular bowels, bloody nostrils or testicular fondling. The fear du jour on this occasion was an odd and persistent metallic taste in my mouth. It was similar to the one you get when you floss like you’re strangling your molars with piano wire, minus the bleeding and sensitivity to popsicles.

Yes, I already consulted my dentist. No, he didn’t have a clue. As a matter of fact, he gave me nothing more than a compliment on the pinkness of my gums and a complimentary toothbrush. Once again, my fate and sanity were in the poorly circulated hands of Dr. Spellman.

My name was finally called. But first, I had to pass the gauntlet of preliminary tests. I took off my shoes, stepped on the scale, lifted my tongue, rolled up my sleeve, and all of the other things one must do to see the all-knowing individual in the white coat. The only obstacle that stood in my way was the most trying one of all, the Wait of Indeterminable Length.

What would it be this time? Five minutes? Fifteen? Thirty? AN HOUR?

Knock, knock.

HURRAY! Dr. Spellman is here to tell me exactly what’s going on in my mouth—while wearing his usual you should save your money for a psychologist expression. Proceed, Dr. Spellman.

Huh? You CAN’T say what’s causing the taste? You’re PRETTY SURE it’s not brain cancer? You DON’T see the need to run anymore tests?

Join me the following morning at 3:38 AM, as I fire up my laptop while my cat lets out a hostile “meow.” Sorry, Zeus. I tried to go to sleep, I really did, but I just couldn’t get the fear of death out of my head. Unlike you, I only have ONE life.

After my dentist and Dr. Spellman offered nothing more than a shoulder shrug, I turned to the one source I knew would at least try to give me an answer; Google. Alright, Google, what’s this “persistent metal taste in mouth?”

I have a brain tumor. OR, I have a rare blood disorder only found in Eastern European livestock. OR, I can ask Dr. Plath, the Manhattan Diagnostician whose close rate is second only to Dr. Gregory House. I choose option “C.”

That ALMOST brings us up to speed. It explains why I’m heading to New York. It explains why my cat now sleeps in the bathroom. But what it doesn’t explain, is how I found God at 30,000 feet. I will now reward your patience with an answer.

There I was, enjoying a Superman-eye view of the world, when it hit me; something’s missing. Nothing tangible, like a neck pillow or an iPad. Nothing crucial, like my credit card or driver’s license. It was something I’ve never lost before. It was my sense of fear.

How, in this tiny, airborne compartment where people pop anti-anxiety medication like breath mints, am I finally at peace? The answer is surprisingly simple: it’s out of my hands.

I am 30,000 feet in the air, hurtling through Earth’s atmosphere like Zeus’s disapproving hiss, and there’s nothing I can do but sit back, chew my Terra BLUES® Potato Chips and hope for the best. As anticlimactic as it sounds, that’s how I found God.

Not a Christian God, or a Muslim God, or one of the umpteenth-thousand Hindu Gods—they can keep their talking serpents and 72 virgins. I’m simply referring to an almighty entity that’s keeping this minuscule shuttle we call Earth safely coasting through our infinite universe.

WE are suspended in spacetime, perpetuating an existence not even our greatest scientific minds can fully explain, and there’s nothing we can do but sit back, play nice and trick ourselves into thinking we have some say over our destiny.

Depressing? I say LIBERATING.

Tomorrow, instead of asking Dr. Plath for a THIRD opinion on my mysterious ailment, I’m going to wake up bright and early. I’m going to put on a comfortable pair of shoes. I’m going to walk to 189 Spring Street. I’m going to stand in a ridiculously long line. And I’m going to wait until I successfully replace this tell-tale taste with the supposedly unparalleled flavor of a Dominique Ansel Cronut. I have faith that God, whoever (he/she/it) is, will take care of the rest.

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Matt Crump