Ava Tabaranza

Honorable Mention: Nonfiction

“Ang Sakit Sa Loob Ko” 
by Ava Tabaranza 
12th grade, Mount Olive High School

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People tend to have strong assumptions about my childhood when I say that I’ve been to casino hotels more than the average adult. My grandparents lived in Atlantic City and spent the bigger half of their retirement in casino hotels rather than their own home. When I close my eyes, I can hear the sounds of the machines, the smell of cigarettes, and the sights of the lights. What I particularly remember the most is the flooring. It was bold and overwhelming. My parents would be off winning what I assumed were fun coins while my grandparents shuffled us all around the ground floor. My grandmother would grab my hand tightly and drag me through the carpets; it was shorter than taking the tiled pathway. I liked taking the pathway. There were strokes of green and orange that I would follow, and when it ended, I would jump onto the next one. The beige tiles against the red-patterned carpets were what I imagined it looked like when Moses parted the Red Sea. Of course, as a child, I imagined that the Red Sea was actually red, like blood or wine.

“Grammy, I don’t think we can go on the carpets.”

I’d look at my sister, barely above three feet and gaze up at my grandmother.

“C’mon Av, it’s OK.”

It felt less comforting and more rushed as she grabbed our hands and hauled us across the floor. I always kept my head down and didn’t look up. I was afraid of getting caught or in trouble, which had happened before. So my ears were directed to the sound of her smacking flip-flops, and my gaze focused on her shiny red pedicure. I was always ashamed when I was called out, and when I was, my grandmother would grab me by the arm and bring me over to the segregated, beige floor.

 “When can I play the games?” I would ask.

“You’re not old enough,” she would respond.

After the security guard told me to move, I never asked again. Instead I would watch from the sidelines. I can remember the distinct, pungent smell of booze and cigarettes. The smell that lingered from the casino into the parking garage. That smell is reminiscent to me. Whenever the scent dwindles in the air, I feel like a lost kid in her second home. When I wasn’t at the Borgata, I was in an empty home. Only the echo of wind chimes passed through the windows. I’m not fond of the home because, quite honestly, it wasn’t. The TV groaned of middle-aged news reporters, the tile on my soles gave me chills, the food came from a bag. It wasn’t fit for children or a family. A glass coffee table sat in the living room and porcelain statues of angels and horses resided on countertops. The only sense of comfort I got was at night. A lullaby lulled me to a light slumber. My long hair was combed by her almond-shaped, red nails as she sang “Atin Cu Pung Singsing.” Her accent was apparent as she sang the ethnic song. It was about a little girl who lost her precious gemstone from her mother. Until I was older, I didn’t understand the meaning of the song or that my grandmother wasn’t even on tune. That didn’t matter though. I would fall asleep in her arms as she rocked me back and forth, back and forth, while I gazed up at the castle projected on my ceiling.

 I haven’t heard her voice in over a year. The song is no longer a reassurance of her presence but rather guilt and regret over our last moments together. I’m no longer a kid and things don’t seem as simple anymore. Visits became fewer until our last one. Her eyes were red as she wept. She held my face, said, “I love you,” and left. I didn’t understand, and I still don’t, but I feel tainted. I can’t look at her the same. So the birthday cards from the mail stay vague, her slippers are hidden away, and our voices have disappeared. Our weaponry of words are disarmed, which hurts like an atomic bomb. It feels as though everything is destroyed; there’s no coming back from this. I’m only left with the memory of what I took for granted. Dancing in the kitchen, listening to “Funny Face,” and the sound of her voice, which I miss the most. One of us wishes the other would return, and the other wants to leave the other behind. I can’t tell which of us is which, but both of us are led by our pride. So forever apart, my heart will ache, Ang sakit sa loob ko, longing for what I once had.