My Mom, my Best Friend. By Gianna Gorvan

   In my life, I have been blessed with a mom who is also my best friend. I know, this is such a cliche that every teenage girl says, but I truly mean it. Now, my mom had me very young and that is something I am extremely grateful for. Having my mom as a mother is like having a sister who is just slightly older than me, sure this has its downfalls but the good always outweighs the bad.
   Like any set of best friends, we go shopping, more often than most and than I am sure Dad would like us to-- but that doesn't stop us, we go out to eat, take 9000 selfies every day, we even dress alike. I have a lot of friends who I consider "best friends," but, no offense friends, my mom tops all of you. I know that no matter what I go through, who I talk to, she will always be there. She always has been there, through all of my spurts of anger and tears of joy, which is one trait that I aspire to inherit from her. She is the kindest person I have ever met. We fight like crazy, only because we are basically the same exact person, but at the end of the day we always end our disagreements with her showing me some act of kindness towards me. I can only hope to have the willpower to show people nothing but love, even when I want to scream in their faces.
   I spend more time with my mom than I spend with anyone else. Not just because we live together, but because I enjoy spending time with her. She is a fun person to be around, she makes me laugh and smile when I think that all I want to do is cry, and she knows just how to comfort me. I cannot say thank you enough times for everything, for letting me play my 'awful' music every time I step foot in the car, for letting me steal all of her clothes literally everyday, for not freaking out when I scream at the top of my lungs, and for funding and fully supporting my shopping addiction, because we all know that it is very real. I am a handful, I know, but for some reason my mother treats me like gold, which makes my heart so happy and me realize just how lucky I am.
  My mother has given me the world since I was born. She has put me first in every single situation and I am so eternally lucky to be able to say that, as I know there are some children who do not have the luxury of having a relationship with their moms. Yes, my mom has told me "No," I am not a spoiled rotten brat, but I have to admit that I am spoiled. My mother doesn't ask a lot of me, not even for me to clean my own room, except on the occasion that we have company over. All she asks is that I "continue to get good grades" and that I be kind and respectful to those around me, and myself. I am appreciative for this because she pushes me and makes me want to do my best so that I can continue living the life I am, but also continue to make her proud. I know that she doesn't just take me to get my nails done or drive me to the mall and chauffeur my friends around because she feels like it, because I know there are millions of other things she could be doing, but whatever her reasoning for giving me all of these luxuries is, I want to show her that I notice it and appreciate it.

    Mom, if you see this I hope you realize I think the world of you. You are the reason for majority of my smiles, my laughs, and a small percentage of my tears, whoopsie daisy. You push me to be a better version of myself and radiate the light inside of me to all those around me. I wish everyone were like you, I truly do. You are my biggest inspiration and role model, but most importantly you are my very best friend. I know this might have made you cry, which I apologize for, but thank you for all you do, from the bottom of my heart. I could not imagine any other mother doing the things you do for me or making me, and the rest of the family, so happy 24/7. You are the best in not only my eyes, but many others' too. You are someone special, and I will be more than grateful to inherit any quality you hold. 

Thank you for everything, Mamma, I love you with all of my heart. 


Some pieces from our selfie collection:

#carselfie

#snowselfie

#goldenhour

We Were Here by Liv Przydzial

We Were Here

by Liv Przydzial

Sad songs flowed from my guitar,
the same words I sang after fights with my parents,
after losing my dogs,
after leaving friends, sometimes for just a few hours, sometimes forever.

I was alone in this world now,
trapped in this cold, bitter loneliness,
while around me was just the opposite.

I had no one, so it seemed.
My mom and dad were far, far away,
my sister was long gone at some school in some town,
my dogs in the sky, out of reach,
my friends across the wall but not here, not with me in the present.

I was lonely. Quite lonely.

Perhaps a walk?
I stood from my nest of blankets on the shaky legs of a newborn fawn,
a nest of blankets I would normally have shared with Bentley and Sylvia,
her tired body lying across the length of the bed,
me in the corner,
and Bentley stretched out over us.
Those were the days in which, among the chaotic tornado of life,
I had forgotten to appreciate the cramps in my neck the next day from not sleeping comfortably.
Physically, maybe I hadn't, but at least I slept in peace, in security, in love.

'Twas too warm for shoes.
Why should I care what people think if I am still alone in their midst?
I clambered down the hot pavement, my feet burning only a little step by step.
What a day!
The fresh breeze brushed through my messy hair just as my mom once did,
and my ankles brushed the soft wildflowers that we used to braid into crowns together.
I gently plucked one from the root, just as mom had taught me,
and breathed in a memory.

Down the street, I skipped,
the symphonic chirps and chatters of the birds bringing music to my ears.
I whistled back, just as I did to my parakeets,
now long gone, but here in memory.
They were here!

Into the woods, I bounded,
just as I did with my sister every day after school.
A race, was it? Some sort of competition?
The memories had blurred in my mind,
but the feelings wage the same waves in my heart.
My sister is here. This is Sylvia.
We are here together, skipping into the woods,
jumping on rocks, leaping across streams, climbing trees.
We are here, at last.

Down the path I frolicked, the leaves leaving a patchwork of ever-changing shadows across my face.
I came to the point in the path in which I found mom.
She was here, in this archway of vines.
She was here, in the birds' nests softly embedded in the twigs.
She was here, in the berries she told us were 'gold for the soul',
when everyone else told us they were poisonous and that we shouldn't even touch them.
She was here, in the bright morning glories that she'd wake us up early to see.
She was here, with me,
here.

And from my enchantment, I burst into the open sun,
just as I did when we went on bike rides with my dad,
my tiny feet pedaling as fast as they could to get up the hill first,
my dad letting me win, of course.
There were the benches from which we watched the sun fade into the night in a dazzling watercolor display.
This was us. We were here.

Bentley used to race down the path to swim here,
used to soar into the water with one giant leap.
He was never happier. I was never happier.
As I stood here, a smile came upon my face.
He was here, one big furry ball of love and happiness,
so why shouldn't I be happy too?

And as I crossed, barefoot,
the pointy, sharp rocks dividing the bank of the water,
I came to the realization that this bank, this here bank of this pond,
was just like my family, metaphorically.
Most of the bank was beautiful, soft, caressing,
but these sharp, stabbing rocks,
where the scary spiders of my childhood lived,
represented our struggles.
Our family had never been perfect, but in that imperfection were the best lessons learned.
The bad must also be appreciated.

Once I crossed the prickly rocks, I bolted across the grass, kissed by the sun,
down this hill and right up the next, just as I would with Sylvia.
I came to the picnic table, where other families had sat and eaten together.
I used to watch them from the other side of the pond,
hidden from view on a tree arched over the water.
I had envied them,
envied them so so deeply.
But those were their stories, not mine.
In a way, though, those families were my families, just the same.
I was a part of their tradition. I was here with them.

As I ran, I passed the raspberry bushes.
Oh, grandma. All raspberry bushes remind me of her.
I used to race to her garden first thing every time we visited.
She had fields of raspberry bushes, so it seemed, and I would stand on my tippy toes just to reach the sweetest, juiciest ones at the top.
I'd always come back with red juice all over my face, scratches from the thorns down my arms and legs, and a full belly of berries.
And right here, she was with me.
We were here,
together.

Still further down the path, I came to the spot in which my grandpa tried to teach me to fish.
It was not really here, in this spot,
but in my mind, he was here.
This was us,
this was our spot.
We were here.
Are, here.

The woods opened up from here into a small clearing in which a stout little house stood.
A perfect little house, flowers of every color one could imagine covering the porch,
their radiant gardens overflowing with beauty.
The old grandma and grandpa had shared this garden with me,
teaching me how to smell the rainbow and showing me that snakes weren't all that bad.
They were my family too, in this sense.
They had shaped, molded, me.
They were part of my history, and now part of my present.
As I stood in their garden, looking at the dead flowerbeds and remembering what once was,
I watched the gardens immediately come to life in my mind.
We were here.

And as the path continued back into the woods,
I came to a place in which I found a piece of myself.
A turtle was it? Yes, there was a turtle on the path,
a few little boys my age there, tossing the poor guy around.
I stood, frozen, formulating a plan in my mind.
But it was quite too late. I was already in the middle of their circle.
Not a single of us spoke as I snatched the turtle from one boy's hands and ran to the bank of the pond,
gently setting him down and allowing him to waddle back in, unharmed.
This spot right here, those boys, and, for god's sake, even that turtle - were my family.
And they were here. We were here.

And finally, I arrived at a little rock.
'Just a big hop over from the edge of the water!' I would encourage Bentley.
I finally got him to jump over, and from that moment on, this was our place.
Standing on this tiny, tiny rock I realized that we were here,
just as we had all been in all these places around the pond,
just as we were back then.
I sat down, criss-cross applesauce, just as I did when I was a kid, and watched the fish in the water below as the realization washed over me:
Everyone was here with me. Maybe not physically, but they were here in mind and in heart. In memory, we were here.
And that is all that I could ever need, all that I could ever ask for.