Manford

 My Dearest Celeste~
Dr. Angel has suggested I write letters to you. She says that, perhaps, it will be therapeutic and that, in some strange way, it may make you seem closer than you are. I miss you, Celeste. Spending 54 years with you, of course I am going to miss you. I miss sitting in our front room, having our morning coffee; you commenting on how lovely it looks outside, while I complain about the current political status of our nation. Looking back on it now, I wish I hadn't complained so much. I wish I had been less of a grump. Your positivity was the combatant to my sullen disposition. Why did you pick me, Celeste. You could have had your choice of any strapping, young man. Why did you choose the tall, gangly fellow who decided far too young to grow up and be a man. I took everything too serious, you always told me that. But you did it with a smile and a laugh. Oh, I miss your laugh. I watch old home movies of us and I feel myself begin to crumble into pieces. For a man who has pulled himself together, pushed out softer feelings, and put up walls stronger than Berlin, I sure have become an old softie. Don't you get me wrong now, I still yell at the children who insist on running all over the damn lawn when there is a perfectly good sidewalk a few inches away. I still have to call and give an earful to that dimwitted dame from the social security office who's never sent a check on time in her life! And I still curse the farkakte mailman for delivering Deloris' mail to our apartment. Some things never change. Some times, I wish nothing ever changed. I wish you would still make cookies for the Rabbi Saperstein so that I could steal a few and not tell you (though I think you knew) I wish you would still turn on Barbra Streisand on a Sunday morning and dance in the front room in your soft, yellow nightgown until I would yell at you to 'turn off the damn Streisand! Always with the Streisand!' I'm sorry I was such a harsh boy, such a stubborn young man, and such an ill-tempered old dreck. You were, and still are, my everything. You're my lady and you always will be. Say hello to Angela for me, and I'll give your love to Ricky, if he ever calls. Goodnight, my lady.
 ~Your Manford

Molly

He came in again today. Same time as usual. He ordered his usual: tall, hazelnut latte and a bran muffin. I think about the similarities between his order and his appearance. He's tall, with beautiful hazelnut eyes. I first noticed him the Monday after I started working at 'Black and Brew' coffee house about a month ago. Since then, unlike most people, I look forward to Mondays. I wonder why he never comes in on other days. Does he only need coffee on Monday? Is he on some special diet? Surely it's not because he can only afford it once a week. He wore a cashmere coat last Monday when it was unusually cold for May. I imagine him in one of the few tall buildings in the city, looking out of  one of his many wall length windows and thinking about...oh I don't know... the next big merger or about the latest P.R. assignment or something business-y. He probably runs his fingers through his golden hair, and ponders about other things too. 'Why can I have everything I want and still no wife or girlfriend?' 'How did I get to this place in my life?' He's friendly enough when he pays for his coffee and muffin and gives me a half smile and I catch a couple of radiant, bleached white teeth. But I can't help but think he's hiding so much behind the mask of success and luxury. One of these days I'll get the courage to ask. I'll say something. I'll say.... That's about the time when Monique snaps me back to reality with her, 'guuuuurl, don't HAVE me make all of these orders by myself!' I apologize and try to get back to work. I'll think about the man with the hazelnut latte and bran muffin more later.

Marko

Mrs. Englewood has me on this assignment where I have to write about my life...I think. She wasn't very clear about what the assignment is exactly, but I guess it's like supposed to be a journal or something. So, until I figure out what she wants me to do exactly, I guess I'll just tell you some basic stuff. I'm Marko, I live on Crestwood Street in...in a state on the right side of the map. I'm not telling you what state in case some Rando finds this 'journal' and comes to murder me. The city isn't important either. It's usually pretty hot in the summer, and freezing cold in the winter. Like almost every other city you've heard of, except for maybe in like California or something. I live with my mom and my dad and my brothers. Sonny is older, Angelo is younger. I'm in the 8th grade now and I hate it. I don't think anyone likes Junior High. My dad said he did a lot of sports in school and so he actually liked Junior High. But that's like, one person in a thousand. I can't do sports. I would get run over and broken. I'm pretty small. Like....okay, think of a Chihuahua who hasn't really eaten in about a week; really tiny legs and a large head on a small body. That's me. That's what I look like. Also, I have braces. Also, my dad says I can fry tortillas with how much grease my hair and my face make. I don't know if that's a nice thing to say to your kid. My dad is a pretty funny guy (don't tell him I said that though) so I think he just said that stuff about my hair as a funny joke so I won't take it very serious. My mom did a lot of drugs in Junior High. She's pretty honest with us kids because she wants us to know how stupid it is to get into drugs. She cleaned up before her senior year of High School though and other than smoking when she's really stressed, she hasn't done anything hard since. People say that's where I get my looks is from my mom. She's also tiny, but at least her head is normal sized and her hair isn't made of grease. (I think she uses a special shampoo that takes the grease out, but I can't be sure) My brother, Sonny is winning at everything. He said he hated Junior High too, but that it just gave him more motivation to be better in High School. He's a junior now and looks nothing like me. He won in having better hair, he has muscles, he plays sports and he drives a car. I mean, it's a barely working 1989 Pontiac Grand Am, but it's still a car. He bought it himself with the money he made doing yard work. He works at a movie theater now, because he said that doing yard work made him feel like the 'stereotypical Mexican man.' My parents were both born in Mexico and they moved to the U.S. after they got married. They are legal, I promise. I say that cuz kids at school always say I'm illegal and immigration is going to come after me and take me away. Kids in Junior High are jerks. Anyways, Sonny has a car. He's the oldest of his friends too, so he drives them all around. He complains about it all the time, but I think he secretly likes the attention and the whole, "I'm cool cuz I'm the only one with a car" thing. My younger brother, Angelo, will hate Junior High. He's fat. He's 9 years old and already weighs like 100 pounds or something. The kids loves empanadas and elote and you can tell. He also has my greasy hair and has really bad teeth that will need braces too. I think the only way Angelo will be okay later on is because he is really funny. He makes our whole family laugh at the dumb/funny things he does. Like when we were coming home from church and he told everyone that he hated communion. My mom asked him why and he said, 'because the cracker things are super dry. They should give us tortillas instead. Tortilla communion, it just makes sense.' He was 7 at the time and we thought it was funny that he said, 'tortilla communion, it just makes sense.' So that's kind of a family joke now. I have a good family. Anyways, Junior High isn't good for a lot of people and I'm glad I have my family because they help me to see that everyone (except for my dad) else can relate. I think that's all for today, I'll do more of this 'homework journal' later.