“The Moody New Yorker vol. 2: #pandemicsummer.”

FICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFIC- THE DREAM JULIA WOJTKOWSKI I miss the pale walls, the way the sun would glare off the endless rows of lockers in the early morning, the faces I would see walking to and from class. [...] FICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYEDITORIALESSAYSFICTIONPOETRYED ***** And so the two and a half Indians marched their way out of the white clapboard home, down the rickety wooden stairs, and into the fields of grass up to the end of the street. [...] My gaze catches the red spots dotting the curb of the road and my heart flutters as I clench the door of the car to see the delicate red petals of maki, our precious poppy flowers, slowly occurring more and more often, making it known that we are coming closer to our destination. [...] As soon as the car lurches to a stop, I nearly run to the door, crouching down to fit through the door frame, and as I walk through the beaded curtain, I am transported to a sight that will never cease to make me smile. [...] We walk down the middle of two fields, stopping often to pick the pretty flowers near the edge of the path and to check the season’s harvest.