Casey Fresh Words Competition

Spectacular Achievements in the Casey Fresh Words Writing Competition!

On Wednesday the 19th of June, the City of Casey hosted an awards ceremony for the 2024 Fresh Words Competition winners.

The night full of fun began at 6:00 pm and provided the award-winners the opportunity to mingle and take photographs with their families, friends, and teachers. Light, delectable refreshments were provided, accompanied by a live music performance by indie/folk/pop singer and songwriter Zak Gully.

The presentation of the awards ceremony began shortly after, with guests being treated to a captivating and inspiring talk by guest speaker Ren Alessandra. Ren is a national award-winning spoken word artist, poetry grand slam champion, and an experienced English teacher and educator.

Through Ren’s speech, we gained insight into the importance of first drafts, and why not to believe any piece of work is not good. After this, the awe-struck audience was able to interrogate Ren about her journey to becoming an author, and what she learned along the way.

Once all the questions were answered, the certificates and prizes were handed out to the award winners, with some reading out their award-winning pieces! The night ended with an opportunity to pose for group photographs and was truly a wonderful experience!

By Methuki Bogahapitiya (Year 9)

This year's Fresh Words competition saw a surge in participation, with 190 entries from schools across the region. This was Nossal’s most successful year ever in this competition, with SIX Nossal entries achieving awards, and three additional pieces short-listed!

Dr Briony Schroor and I were delighted to attend the ceremony, along with alumna Lola Sargasso, a previous leader of the Creative Writing Club and winner of many writing awards, who was on the judging panel and continues to support our school’s emerging writers.

Two Nossal students were invited to read their winning pieces at the ceremony and did so with poise and dignity: Megan Phoon (Y11) presented her poignant poem “Please Remember”, which won first place in the Y10-12 Poetry/Lyrics category, and Methuki Bogahapitiya read her nostalgic story “Time to Read a New Book”, first place winner of Y7-9 Creative Writing.

The following students are also to be congratulated for their wonderful achievements: Amna Bilal (Y9) won first place in Y7-9 Poetry/Lyrics with “Mother Bird”; Tashi Mallawa (Y10) achieved second place in Y10-12 Creative Writing with "The Glittering City”; Bobby Bhatia (Y9) was placed third in both the Poetry/Lyrics and Creative Writing for Y7-9; Aryan Wakankar, Scarlett Cutting and Dev Bogahapitiya were all short-listed in the top five for their respective categories.

Well done to all these students, and likewise to those who were not awarded but took the time to enter and hone their creative writing skills!

We have included the awarded and short-listed entries here for your reading pleasure, with the exception of Megan Phoon’s piece, due to its potentially sensitive content. We hope you enjoy them!

Ms Sue Lee-Ack

Creative Writing Cub Teacher Representative

Amna Bilal - This should be it Mother Bird - Year 7-9 Poetry Winner

1 word, 3 letters

A simple joke made for the ‘better’

Yet the word I heard rattles my bones

Courses through my veins, the word I now own

They don’t understand the inevitable effects

Of the words I’m forced to dissect

The butterflies engulfing my stomach, have turned to moths scratching my throat,

Can’t say it out loud so I wrote, and I wrote

I sit and wait, day and night, for you in the nest

I am left distressed by the emotions you possess

When were you forced to grow up

because what you did to me wasn’t out of love

Despite believing my mind is clouded with your fog,

I find hairs on my neck standing with the echo of the voice that can only cause sobs

Again and again in my head I am forced to repeat

Yet the words you say, can only make me feel defeat

The feeling I feel like paper that’s been stretched, not ripped

Not to the point where it’s that deep, but to the point where I’ve flipped

How do you walk around with zero guilt, regret, remorse on your back

When I know for fact that I wasn’t the first person you attacked

I wish I still knew how to cry about one thing at a time

I miss seeing the winsome, blooming flowers as a sign

Now all I can see is the clouds desperately holding on to the rain

One step closer to bursting, one step closer to forgetting your name

Childish laughs turn to screams

Determined to escape my head by all means

Parallels with childhood, you caused distinct pain

Like when I scrape my knee, and when you make me go insane

Concept of time ruining me forever, why is life changing

Those ‘joyous’ memories never fading

Accepting you’re now a star in somebody else’s sky

I wish it would’ve, could’ve been mine

This story is up for everyone to decipher,

after all isn’t life all about that and love, or is it neither

Now I watch from a distance as the cycle repeats

Wretched mirrors of each other: I’m all you could’ve been and you’re all I might be

Aryan Wakankar - The Cursed Rent - Year 10-12 Creative Writing Finalist

He was trapped in mesmerising at the monstrosity. The lower eyelids glared as the grille snarled at him, prepared to devour the air that came in its way, otherwise sliced by the sleek black body. The muscular structure on wheels prepared to trample over the asphalt and conquer any terrain that came in its way. It went above and beyond. It was unstoppable. It was a Defender.

After paying the surprisingly miniscule amount it took to rent one, James pulled the lush handle to unveil the luxurious interior. He slid into the black leather seats, absorbing the newly manufactured smell that lurked around the cabin - the roof, dashboard, doors were all meticulously stitched with grey furry Alcantara. The Land Rover logo emerged on the 11.4 inch touchscreen. James took a deep breath in and pressed the button.

The V8 engine roared to life and launched onto the highway. You see, most of the roads on Kangaroo Island were unpaved, perfect for the Defender. It blazed over the gravel, leaving dust storms behind for others to suffocate from. As the sun drowned into the horizon, darkness crept upon the Island. The eyes glowed, aggressively, beaming incoming drivers. Upbeat music banged through the Meridian Sound System.

All of sudden, the leather steering veered right, sharply. The all terrain tyres held in the screech as the creature crossed over the opposite lane and plunged into an extremely rugged terrain, freckled with potholes. James’s heart encountered a cliff of beats. Instead of softening, the airbag suspensions stiffened, hurling James around in his seat. He frantically shoved his feet onto the metallic brake pedals, only to flourish the number on the digital driver's display - 80, 90, 100, 110 - instantly, darkness robbed the lights, assassinating all the screens and headlights. The upbeat music was interrupted by tranquility. Except for the V8 of course - it grew louder and louder, minute by minute.

Gradually the silence was strangled in the wave of a violin tune - the tune that induces death. James’s limbs quivered. The luminescence managed to recover, however with a red hue - it projected James’s eyes, wide with horror. The black eyeballs slowly rotated to face the rearview mirror. It presented 2 large red circles. James could just make out the wrinkled skin along with the devilish grin encapsulated within the darkness. The long white hair fell back into the large boot space and brushed the cargo mat. She leaned back on the 2nd row seats, also engulfed in black leather, and folded her emaciated arms around the headrests. James sealed his lashes shut as his stomach lurched into his screaming mouth. The ground vanished.

After a brief sting of death, James’s soul woke up to the mess. A mess of limbs coated with blood. A mess of skin torn apart to unveil the shattered bones. However the Defender was not a mess. Not a single stain on the grey furry Alcantara. Not a single dent or scratch on the sleek black body. Not a single crack on the eyes. The muscular structure on wheels stood on the boulders, proudly, as if nothing had happened.

The Land Rover Defender made its way back to the renter. After making the final checks, the keys of the killer were handed to its next victim.

Bobby Bhatia - For in Grandma's Kitchen - Year 7-9 Poetry Third Place

For in Daadi’s kitchen

Oh what a delight

A haven of warmth

A place so bright

With a grand heart

She always welcomed me in

Her love

A beacon that would forever begin

Her big heart

A treasure chest so vast

Overflowing with golden love

Steadfast and steadfast

She'd wrap me in hugs

Her arms wide-open-wide

In her embrace

All fears would subside

In Daaadi’s kitchen

Amidst the clatter of pots and pans

She'd work her charm

With skilled hands

Her rotis golden

Buttered with care

Each bite

A taste of love so rare

But hidden within her fridge’s nook

A secret artifact

A sight to look

From me

A small request

A hush plea

We’d always have some Coke

Just her and me.

My no-fun parents would vilely veto

But Daadi was never zero

She was always my hero

For in her eyes

I could never go wrong

In her love

I felt ever so strong

Memories now flicker and fade

But her love

Oh, it never betrayed

In the quiet moments

I still see her visage

Her kitchen

Her love

Her empowering Taj

This Daadi, is for you

Oh Daadi

I’m getting déjà vu

The place where love and memories would always strike alight

For in Daadi’s kitchen

Oh what a delight

Bobby Bhatia - The Daring Drop Down - Year 7-9 Creative Writing Third Place

I stood there, a solitary figure perched on the precipice of uncertainty, my soul engulfed by the shadow of impending peril. Swathed in layers of thick fabric, a futile attempt to shield myself from the relentless onslaught of fear, I gazed upon the sheer face of the cliff with dread. Each breath I drew felt like a laborious task as if the weight of my apprehension were suffocating me from within. My heart, that relentless drumbeat of anxiety, pounded against my chest with terror.

The sign next to me read “ABSEILING.” It was written in a Times New Roman font that seemed so uninviting and expressionless. Its paint was peeling off from three of its corners and it looked like it had been scratched by smithereens of glass.

With trembling hands, I grappled with the unforgiving metal of my harness that was “FERNO” branded. It was cold. Each buckle echoed in the silent expanse.

Despite the chill that permeated the air, rivulets of sweat trickled down my spine like ballet dancers.

As I took that tentative step over the edge, the world around me seemed to blur into a kaleidoscope of vertigo. The ground beneath my feet felt unsteady as if the very earth were conspiring to betray me in my moment of need.

I gazed below. The beauty was awfully good.

With every fiber of my being screaming in protest, I clung to the rope with a desperation born of sheer terror. My hands – sweating.

I took the first step down.

The rock – jagged. The height – tall. My feelings – we don’t talk about that.

My left foot lowered and I completed my second step. I was getting the hang of it.

As I finally converted my petrified visage into the slightest smile - I slipped. The loss of footing sent my heart plummeting into the depths of despair. Panic seized me, its icy grip tightening around my throat as I fought to regain my balance against the relentless pull of gravity.

I steadied my body and shoulders and pressed on.

Halfway down, I stole a fleeting glance over my shoulder and was met with a breathtaking panorama of nature's splendour - the verdant canopy of trees, the rugged majesty of the rocks, the vast expanse of sky stretching out before me like a painting.

I pivoted my head back to the pathway down. The tranquility of the view was short-lived. The rocks, with their jagged edges and unforgiving surfaces, seemed to mock my feeble attempts at progress.

My next step was my boldest…almost ten centimeters down. Yup - I was just that insane!

As I executed my next step down, I just had to pause and applaud my ingenious decision to choose the most ill-suited footwear for this perilous journey. My ten-buck Kmart shoes I had donned for camp offered such little traction on the unforgiving surface, their soles slipping and sliding with each precarious step. They were on the edge - slowly ebbing away with each step…like me.

I commenced a few more taunting steps down the treacherous edge of the cliff.

Finally came the moment of truth - the dreaded lean-back. With a sickening lurch in the pit of my stomach, I relinquished control of my destiny in the hands of a stranger I had just met ten minutes ago whose name I didn’t even know. The young instructor whose arms could be replaced by twigs, held on to my dear life as I cautiously leaned back in the harness. I felt as though I were dangling over the precipice of oblivion.

I perpetrated the last few steps on the much-unruffled rock surface.

I discharged probably the third or fourth-last step down when a gut-wrenching twist of fate occurred - my foot slipped.

I was hurtled towards the rocky earth below with a sickening thud. I landed with a bone-jarring impact on my buttocks, the sharp edges of the rocks tearing into my glutes like the talons of some monstrous beast. Pain blossomed.

As I lay there, battered and bruised from my behind, the sound of applause filled my ears like a distant echo. Through tear-blurred vision, I saw the much-trusted group teacher approaching, a smile of admiration on her face. “Well done, Bobby! I clicked a few photos of you!” She remarked jovially.

All I could wish for now was that my embarrassing falls wouldn't be in the yearbook.

Dev Bogahapitiya - Storm's Fury - Year 10-12 Creative Writing Finalist

The big strong waves crash onto the rock wall protecting land from the wrath of the seas, as the ocean god raises his trident. The once calm, soothing waves turn into ferocious monsters barrelling their way towards land. The high gust of wind makes trees dance around precariously, as the leaves fling forwards and back. I make my way battling the elements as I slowly walk along the rock formation, a nice little walk having turned into a full-blown attempt of survival. Below me, sand lifts into the air and travels everywhere tiny particles slingshot towards me. The rocks now have less grip than bald tires and with every step I take, there is a drop awaiting my fate. I see a small opening for a cave in the corner of my eye and hurry there. The sky above me rumbles with thunder and lets out a lightning bolt, sparking an unfortunate tree as it finds a wave to release this energy. I rush into the cave and breathe a sigh of relief as I watch the world collapse before me. I venture deeper into this magnificent dark abyss, with the little light coming from the outside fading as everything disappears.

After a short time of walking around, I come into a small room dimly lit by torches with different symbols etched into the stone walls. The sombre feeling that I felt outside transcended into here and I felt alone. As I sat down on the cold hard floor, staring into the great unknown, I contemplated my entire life and how unhappy I had been feeling. I stood up and walked up to the rock that had been in the middle of the room and saw a tiny plaque in the middle of it. The old plaque surrounded by the fading, rusting gold with cracked ivory inside of it read

"Through the storm's fury, we find the strength to shape our own sunlight."

I stood there for what seemed to be an eternity, repeating the phrase in my head when I felt a strange aura forming. I was touching the rough, hard, and ancient exterior of the rock feeling all the thoughts echoing around my mind flow into it. Then myriads of colours flew all around my head as the room I was inside of started spinning rapidly. I fell to the ground as the symbols came to life, guiding me through the newly opened passage. The drab walls having turned into whitewashed walls, with the symbols becoming alive with each step I take. Vibrant colours echo throughout the cave, with the feelings that I felt before going away. The rock that was previously a solemn piece of nature, now birthed a tree with golden fruit growing from it with the plaque shining in the light of the brightly lit torches. The whole cavebecame reborn as I walked around in awe. I felt a wave of calm refresh over me and for the first time in a long time I felt free and happy. I didn’t feel lethargic or tired, but cheerful and glad.

After spending a while inside of the cave, I walked outside to the thunderous storm I was trying to escape from. To my surprise, the angry sea that shooting waves at land had calmed down as the king went to sleep. The sea looked still, with the waves only rippling slightly as a small gust of wind hit it. The grey and black sky above had transformed into the light blue hue with the sun shining down brightly from it. The trees swayed side to side ever-so gently as I walked along the rock bank, the sun shining on my face. The world had turned a page into a new chapter, the stormy dark atmosphere being turned into a carefree and mystical one. The cave had shed its old hard exterior and grown into a colourful inviting place. I had begun a new beginning, and it began today, at this old place hidden the magnificent hinterland where birds soar across the mountain range and where schools of fish swim through the crystal-clear sea. A place where nature conquers above all, even the most volatile of nature.

I had conquered the storms fury and found my own sunlight.

Methuki Bogahapitiya - Time to Read a New Book - Year 7-9 Creative Writing First Place Winner

The books continued to pour down on me. I coughed and ventured out of the dust cloud. Thousands of micro-sized particles danced through the sullen air. I waved my hand around, desperate to clean up my mess. I could just about see where I was standing through the dim light. The rosewood bookcases skyrocketed to the top of the mahogany roof. Adorning the shelves, stacks of books lay nestled where they could. After decluttering and cleaning the mess, I hopped on the birch wood ladder and flew across to collect the only book I would read.

It was 7 years ago when Gran died. I still remember her, as she lay motionless in her casket. She was the one that cared for me throughout my entire life. Her greying auburn hair would fly across the room as she twirled with joy. Sparkling emerald green eyes, clouded by a grey shadow, would twinkle with delight as she used to dance with me. I still remember the night before she passed. It was a dreary winter evening, and she sat me on her lap. Gently, she whispered to me not to fret, her constant reassurance scared me the most. It is a continual pain for me to bear each passing day, but I knew my Gran was going to pass away much sooner than she had told me.

After years of reading the same book, I had memorised it by heart. Yet, I couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t let her memory die. This was her book, and I was not going to forget her. Not now, not ever. That is what I thought.

It was a sombre afternoon, I had curled up into a ball by the corner, draped a blanket on top of me and opened Gran’s book. As I did, I began to wonder what she had told me. The night before she left, Gran had muttered something in an inaudible whisper; I couldn’t hear what it was, but it sounded like a plea. Despite the myriad of thoughts spindling through my mind, I had finished reading my book, again. Mindlessly, I opened it again and continued to turn the pages, inhaling the welcoming scent of vanilla. Expecting the book to finish again, I was lost in a trance of watching the pages flip, yet I came across a page that seemed glued to another. Intrigued, I pulled open the page and gasped at what I saw. It was Gran’s handwriting. I could feel my eyes watering, yet continued reading.

‘Please, my beloved granddaughter, please, move on.’

Bursting into tears, I rushed out of the room. Gasping for breath I glanced at the picture of my gran in the hallway. A space that once provided joy and euphoria now seemed to have lost that spark. It seemed like her eyes were almost pleading with me to put the book down. Yet, how could I? There was nothing left for me, and I would never do that. A day after Gran’s note, I sat down again, ready to pick my book up. Yet, I paused. From a distance, I could see a gentle haze of white growing and within seconds it engulfed me.

I sat still in my chair, which happened to be swimming through this time loop. Pictures glided past, and I cried with anguish when I realised it was my memories of Gran. I watched, trembling with despair as her face floated by. I was chained to these moments, imprisoned in my mind, the key to my freedom happened to be outside. Unable to release myself from the jail cell I was in, I collapsed helplessly and glanced at the pictures I had held so fondly, float away.

After that show, I couldn’t help but wonder if what Gran was suggesting happened to be right. I was so caught up in the adrenaline rush pumping through me, that I never considered the peculiar performance. Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes and let the darkness engulf me…

I could finally understand what Gran was trying to tell me. It was okay to let go. That doesn’t mean forgetting someone or something, it means learning to move on, while still celebrating their memories. Rather than mourning the loss for years, it meant to learn to live without her. Maybe she was right. I will never forget my Gran. Not now, not ever.

It was time to read a new book.

Scarlett Cutting - Strangers - Year 10-12 Creative Writing Finalist

stranger; a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar.

She sat in that splintering swinging chair and admired the mellow colours of spring rising to its peak in the September airs, and realised there was a fate worse than an ending relationship. It was to be strangers and sit in it forever. For to be loved, she now understood, was to be known. Aster bought her roses every anniversary, but the flowers Dahlia would wish to be buried amongst in the many years to come would be tulips, such as the lilac ones peacefully swaying in the breeze a few metres away. Her husband would come to know that. There is, however, something so sinister in the way a person can enter your life, such as Aster, and after one conversation be permanently gone for the rest of it. Why must his only purpose be to show how little she can be loved?

She finds nature is the best and worst thing to be with in an individual state; the openness of the hills and the swift movements of the sage leaves is like a key to unlocking her brain’s ability to truly ponder in its thoughts. In which she thinks of devastating thoughts such as this. Dahlia rises from the chair, drooping her head from inner shame as Aster can be seen from the broad kitchen window making a cup of steaming coffee in light of the morning’s rays. The bitter smell intrudes her nostrils as the window is propped open, causing her to carelessly pass by the broken string of their hammock buried in the overgrown grass. Aster would find it later, though he could have no hope in fixing anything as the fabric itself was torn and stabbed in the branches from the slow fall. The kitchen, as she enters, holds a sense of relief in the guilt, a symbol of their life built together in the hardwood floors hand painted, or the cabinets Aster installed after their second month of moving in, although the colour was a questionable choice.

Laying on the highest shelf, gathering dust in its small world, was the yo-yo from their first date. Though the lights were broken and the string colourless and grim, Dahlia decided to bring it out of its hollow environment for a moment. It’s strange, she thought, a month before the date Aster didn’t even exist in her world. What was she doing back then? Existing, living, so close yet so far apart from him without a clue that he was anywhere nearby. How many people has she existed next to, and never come into contact with. How many more will she? More importantly, what if she hadn’t gone to that arcade in the following few weeks, where Aster was working to save money for his year of travel? Of course, he never went after falling in love with Dahlia, but he was sure they’d go together one day.

“Dahlia?”

His voice cutting through the sound of the distant arcade, she realises he has been standing with a bouquet of scarlet roses in his hand, a soft smile adorning his face. But it was a smile she realised she did not know. A beautiful, amazing smile that she was sure someone would memorise every crevice and image of, but she had much less interest in. When did she forget to remember its beauty? She knows she did once, but roses after roses each year replaced the memory till she had nothing. Replaced the beauty of him.

His bulky bags stacked next to the front door, she makes a steaming cup of tea in light of the morning rising so elegantly through the sky. There was the grief that Aster was to become simply another chapter in her life, when he was the one writing her story for years. But if people can move places so quickly, that meant there was another waiting to take his. The sweet scent of her tea wafts through the air ever so calmly, replacing the grey-scale atmosphere that was thundering over the house. The last of his footsteps echoes towards the lingering front door, and all that Dahlia would have left of their time together is a mutual glance, before he stepped out of her life forever. Every shared memory, laughter, tear, was destroyed in that single step. But very close by there was a stranger, and all she, or anyone had to do, was look.

Tashi Mallawa - The Glittering City - Year 10-12 Creative Writing - Second Place

The city skyline glows in all its prestige, a beacon against the midnight sky, as I stand on the platform. The PA system pings pleasantly.

“The next train is arriving in 30 seconds”. A harsh breeze stings my face and I burrow my chin further into my scarf. It’s been frightfully cold ever since ‘VOTs’ became the new normal.

VOTs, Virtual Oxygen Transporters, are thumbnail-sized purple chips implanted into the back of the ear. The VOT’s are connected to ‘Bases’ across the planet. Oxygen is transferred virtually from Bases to the body. A stroke of technological genius, and a popular substitute for oxygen masks. Oxygen masks were a blatant reality-check 150 years on from the worst climate disasters Earth had ever seen that wiped out billions and left an atmosphere unviable for humans in its wake. The inconvenient nature of the masks forced us to confront the vivid past constantly in the present.

The monorail arrives. Within seconds, I’m gliding over the spectacular city. It’s miraculous, the way people picked themselves up to rebuild their lives after losing everything. We arrive at the next station and the carriage empties. The accompanied silence is pleasing as I survey the shimmering skyline. My eyes are scanning the skyscrapers when I spot a VOT base, just as it implodes.

A flurry of explosions sound in quick succession and I’m violently thrown to the floor as the monorail groans and the carriage is thrown into darkness. I scream as more explosions sound, covering my head with my arms. A few moments pass in muffled silence. I force myself to open my eyes and stand. A guttural sound leaves my throat.

I’m facing a city on fire. Every single building is burning, windows blown out, ferocious flames purging from them like a dragon. A dull thud sounds behind me and I whirl around, immediately stepping back. All the people on the platform are clutching their chests, gasping. I can’t hear them; everything is subdued, like I have cotton buds in my ears. One girl, vibrant red hair piled on her head, is pounding against the carriage doors, eyes trained on mine. The more her face contorts in pain, the more my hearing returns.

I watch as people collapse to their hands and knees, backs arching upwards like a stretching cat as they spew blood, violently coughing. One by one, their eyes roll into the back of their heads, and they slump to the ground. Then it hits me. These people can’t breathe. I turn back to the city where smoke billows into the sky. The VOT base imploded and now the whole city is in flames, and no one outside can breathe. The VOT’s have failed. Everyone is breathing in toxin-filled air instead of oxygen.

My heart sinks as I watch people drop like flies while I breathe easy with the inbuilt oxygen facilities in the monorail still functioning. The red-haired girl is the last person standing outside.

She sinks to her knees, almost defeatedly.

“Please,” She mouths faintly. I can’t watch her die.

I recall humans can survive three minutes without adequate oxygen. There’s still time to save her.

I determinedly run to the door and stick my fingers into the wedge to pry it open. It opens suddenly, and I hastily clamp my lips shut and hold my breath. The girl slouches forward, like her entire body is weighed down. Crouching, I clutch the collar of her cotton-candy shirt and heave her deadweight body toward me. My lungs snarl in pain, burning like the city, begging for air. “Come on,” I think desperately. With a final yank, I tug the girl fully into the carriage and the doors slide shut again.

I greedily gulp at the air, rubbing my aching chest. I glance down at the girl, whose eyes flutter open as unexpected tears trickle off my bronze cheeks and onto her freckled ones. Lips quivering, she opens her mouth.

“Thank you,” She croaks. I nod once and her eyes gently shut. She’s trembling, but I know she’ll be ok. Turning away from her, I stand on shaky legs to face the city once again.

I suck in my breath. The city is devastated. An infernal picture. A warzone. Not the place I call home. This monorail can’t be a refuge forever, but the girl’s determination has given me courage. I clasp my sweaty hands to give me strength and tell myself that everything will be ok. We will rebuild once again.