Snow Bones
By Iliana Demas
I am surrounded by the snow. The skinny trees
seem better equipped for the winter. Their branches
scratch at my throat. The water,
the lake I convince myself is an ocean, freezes too. My mom
was right. I’m not cut out for the Midwest.
There is no bus route to the Orthodox Church. I’m not
religious, but I let it matter anyway. Greek easter falls
on Cinco de Mayo. I drink a lime green Jarritos and pretend
that dipping bread in olive oil and vinegar makes me
authentic. I scan for last names on class rosters. There are
three of interest. Vowels next to consonants and consonants.
My last name means of the people. None of the people
here know this. The back of my hand is pale. I pinch it,
hard, watch the blood pool on top of tendon strings
and evil eye bracelets. I am nodding and smiling
and speaking and grasping for home, and home,
and–Do I complain too much? About the food
and lack of warmth in my dorm and the people with glazed
eyes. I have forgotten the word for bones in the language
I claim as my own. They are thin. My bones. They break
easily. They know the smell of garbage in the summer heat and twisted
lamb tongues. Leathery hands ripping oranges
off trees. Stray cats and chicken shit. Hunger. There are many things,
foreign and not, to them. A sunset at 4:30 pm. Squeaking
footprints and a runny nose. Hands cracking like ice. Resisting hats
and scarves. I try to keep my jacket wrapped tight.
Iliana Demas was born and raised in Sacramento, California. She is a freshman majoring in journalism and creative writing. She has received silver and gold medals from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, been recognized as a YoungArts winner, and was published in DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High School Writing 2025, among other accolades. In her free time, she likes to watch video essays and rock climb.
