people are souls. we need deeper compassion, vaster forgiveness, and kinder love.

and we move on

and we move forward

because that’s what we do.

“all the decisions that go into making a life– the choices people make, together and on their own, they combine to produce any single event. Grains of sand, incalculable, pressing into sediment, then rock.”

— Tara Westover, Educated

is still the wrong person.

gems from my conversation with t.l.:

• Do you know what’s attractive? Emotional and mental stability.
• Sometimes, the stars gotta align
• Sad walks at target: a concept.

 

 

“What the world needs are people who come alive.. so don’t look for what the world needs, but come alive, and then see what you can do”

you’re helping them prove the goodness in their heart so that it will protect them one day in the future when they need it

-s.c

my waves

your rock

we used to be in harmony and

break each other

all at once

and it would hurt

and i knew

we were not of the same element

but look at this beach we are making.

kids playing

friends getting together

dogs running

tongue out, tails wagging

and we continued.

consistent

consistently breaking

pieces of you

molecules of me.

Now the moon is moving

gravity is pulling me

pulling me away from you.

you’re still a rock

i’m still a wave

but we are not crashing against each other anymore.

i admire from afar

this beach we have made

and how you stand out because

you do not move.

perhaps the moon will do as such

and another wave will come

and instead of breaking

you will be uprooted from that deep imprint in the sand

and you will dance together with her.

i will look from afar

and smile

because i will see that you have learned

the ebb and flow of the ocean

and that is how sea glass is made

that is how pebbles smooth over

into treasure.

make treasure with her

while i continue to move

as the moon moves.

you know when imperfections become perfections?

like ojiichan’s tamagoyaki.

Drenched in sake the alcohol not even fully

burned off before he served the big plate.

yotto! tabenasai

he’d say

and I would pick up my chopsticks in the way obaachan taught me how

tabenaide – don’t eat it

papa would warn me

scolding ojiichan for feeding my little brother and I alcohol.

but I want to, ojiichan made it!

and before anyone could say another word

it was resting in my stomach.

I remember it burned my throat and my eyes watered

it smelled like the cut I got on my knee when I fell off the bicycle

The one mama disinfected

and I had cried because it hurt more than the cut itself.

don’t finish it

papa sighed, but ojiichan would take his glasses off

and suddenly his handkerchief was on his forehead

and he would be talking about the war

sensou no toki ne

we had to ration our food

this portion could have served me multiple days

and suddenly my throat stopped burning

or maybe its cause my conscience burned more

and I reached over for another bite

the egg quaking atop my chopsticks

like how ojiichan’s hands quaked as he reached over and

patted my head.

I blink

and suddenly it is not just his hands that are shaking

but his voice

and now

I am on the phone with him and he is telling me

that when he gets better

he will make me tamagoyaki again

and now

I am making my own tamagoyaki

I burn off all the alcohol because that is an imperfection

that only ojiichan has perfected.

 

 

 

 

i will never use your faith against you because even though i don’t believe, you do.

– d.w.

Where are you going?

To join them

You don’t have to you know

But I must go

No you don’t, you can stay and keep me company

I must go

Why?

So I may give back to where I came from so that you may live

Okay, we didn’t work, and all

memories to tell you the truth aren’t good…

But… love was good.

There should be stars for great wars like ours

– Sandra Cisneros

k.m.: does it rain because the sun melts the clouds

k.m. : sometimes I wish I could shrink really small so that i can go into those cracks in the wall and just chill you know

k.m. : are you half black because you get me

k.m. : you’re like a chill hippie that doesn’t smoke

k.m. : funniest thing happened i went up to a big black scary dude and I was like hey what’s your name and he said…. HENRY

t.b. : they call my mama a hoe and I said well she a good hoe cause she raised me well

t.b. : I’m pregnant see look at my pregnancy test it says positive *waves pregnancy stick*

t.b. : I heard a little voice that told me that the trash can in the bathroom is on fire *hides lighter behind his back*

t.b. : *steps into assembly hall* MY MILKSHAKE BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD DAMN RIGHT ITS BETTER THAN YOURS

*sees all the school admin walk down the hallway towards us*

j.s. : *pulls something out of his back pocket*

me: what are you —

j.s. : *applies deodorant as we are still walking*

me:

j.s. : what

trying to keep record of stories from school cause I swear if I don’t keep record of them, when I tell the stories in the future, no one will believe me.

These days I listen to music a little louder

i feel like i have already lived one hell of a life and each day i still get to live is a gift from God

to emerge

with even more love than before

instead of hatred

and bitterness

what grace.

i’ve been broken

been shattered actually

but i’ve never disappeared

i am still here

always will be

bitch

how i got here i

do not know

the rolling waves mock me

some roaring with laughter, some

whispering

as they spit salt water into my face

stinging my skin

clinging onto my tongue.

i can see them glancing back at me

as they unite with their other

all part of one body

all bodies part of one.

they mock me as i sit here

alone

atop of the sandy mound

that i made

for me

for you

for me

for us.

the sky is a cloud

the cloud and the sky are one

somehow

it is solid yet transparent at the same time

still all part of one

and then there is me,

i am not alone.

the tree with the sparse leaves reassures me

with a shade

that reveals more light than it covers

and the sand bags

that i carried

the two hundred sand bags

i carried

to this island

my island

your island

my island because i made it

your island because i made it

for you.

and i can imagine you

within your four gray walls

wishing that you were

with me

or maybe not

you are not wishing that

and it is just me wishing that.

there is just too much to think about

on this island

that is yours

so i will not think

i will just live

and you can join me if you’d like

when i was little

little enough to fall asleep in papa’s lap

big enough to wake up a little embarrassed

i got scolded for the first time

for talking back.

“you are a child and i am your parent,”

mama said

“and you need to act more like

a girl”

a girl

is what they called me

as they tugged at my once prided pigtails

is what they sneered at me as they told me to be

quiet, is what they laughed at me and

chanted

whispered

yelled

pushed and

i don’t like pushing; so i

stood back far enough to where they could

not reach me.

stood

like a tree in a forest

blending in with the other browns and greens and

stood

a little shorter than the rest because trees

cannot push down they only grow upwards.

but i craved the sun i

wanted the sunlight too

so i went

to the side

on the diagonal

did a little twist

and a turn

and suddenly i had companions

and i became a shelter for some

and i bore fruit

I am a sunset chaser. Ever since Papa taught me how to be one, I’ve learned of the best spots to watch as the day turns into night, the tired parents returning from their work and the hungry children racing back in for dinner. Sunsets always remind me of when I break the yolk of my fried egg, spilling it all over the plate. I only eat the white fluffy parts; before he left, Papa always ate the thick, yellow liquid, mopping it up in one swift move with a piece of toast. Now that he’s gone, I just let it soak into the bread and this makes Mama upset because she says that I ruin my meals, wasting food. Papa had said that he would work his hardest and come back for Mama and I, that he will come back before the sun goes down. I’ve watched over 3 years of sunsets now, straining my eyes so much that I can barely make out his nonexistent silhouette against the sinking star. How many more will I have to ruin my eyes for? All we ever get from him is the latest paycheck and a note saying that he loves us, that he wishes to be with us, had the world not grabbed him by the throat and by his empty pockets. He works hard, he does. So I wait.

We live in a neighborhood built on rich soil. I got into the prep school—for free Mama had said gleefully. Papa and Mama couldn’t pay for my other school anymore, so I turned in papers hoping, praying, that I can still study at school. And I guess it worked because by 7^th grade, I was in a clean uniform with shiny new textbooks and a heart brimming with hope. As the year went on though, Papa couldn’t pay for the house he had ambitiously bought; I begged him to let me be homeschooled, thinking that I can learn to repair broken things like Papa does, but Papa refused, saying that he will not in his life let his daughter be anything less. So we moved back to the same house that same year, back to my old neighborhood of small, dilapidated houses, dead soil, and dropouts; I bike to school. Papa repairs. Mama prays.

I remember when Papa had to fix the front door. I was still in elementary school, and everything Papa did was heroic in my eyes. The door had just collapsed one day, not like the way Mama crumbled to the floor when she cried after Papa left, but it more so just gave up standing. Papa had swiftly disappeared into and emerged from his room with nails of all different sizes and a hammer that lost its handle cover. Sweat ran down his temples like the way rain droplets do on a windowpane, except his mind wasn’t see-through, and I certainly didn’t know what was going on in there. It had been the fourth time that week that he had to fix something in the house, and it was only Tuesday; I would imagine that he was upset at the condition it was in. He grumbled, while hammering in the nails, that he would one day buy a better house fit for someone as grand as Mama. Papa has always had this dream of living comfortably, rich enough so that Mama didn’t have to worry about wasting food and that I don’t have to study as hard. I told him that I study because I want to, and that I like the house anyway. Papa shook his head firmly, and then smiled as he gently squeezed my shoulders. You’re just saying that. But there was an impenetrable determination settled in his eyes, one that I knew I would not be able to convince him out of.

I really do like the house though. Even though Papa treated it like skin he cannot shed, it is comfortable for me. I could hear Mama and Papa softly talk through the walls of my room, about how I am growing to be a real, intelligent scholar, something they neglected to strive for when they got married so early. Before they slipped into silence, Papa would always say Someday, Ari, we’re going to get there. I promise. I imagined him saying this as they lay next to each other, his fists clenched, eyes unblinking, staring at our chipped ceiling. Mama was probably awake next to him, gently squeezing his hand in support with a frown on her face. Every night he said this to her, and every night I heard, until one night, exactly a year after we moved back, Mama suddenly tore apart the quiet atmosphere with a NO. Papa tried to shush her but she shrieked You and your STUPID GREEDY dreams you are NOT taking the job, Paul, NO. Afraid, I ran barefooted into their room and swung open the door. Papa was sitting up on the bed and Mama was standing up, face crumpled in frustration with her hands clasped onto the edge of the blanket, uncovering Papa. A gasp escaped my lips and they turned towards me. Mama quickly gathered her breath back into her broken chest, gathered herself back into the bed, patting the gap between her and Papa. I slowly crawled in, filling the space. All three of us were breathing at different rhythms. A moment of silence passed, until Mama started stroking my hair saying that she was sorry to have awakened me. Papa started tickling me, until I yelped with laughter. Then, on the morning after, Papa took me out to get ice cream before breakfast, tongues ready to meet cold cream. It was his way of apologizing; whether for that night or for the future, I still do not know.

The first year Papa was gone was the hardest. I was starting freshman year in high school by then, packing into my backpack my new student ID and my feelings of betrayal. I was furious at how the Papa I knew to be so good to us left in pursuit of a better life for the family, when it was already best back home. We have a Mama, a Papa, and I am still in that damn rich school, but no, that is not enough for Papa. He wants the strength of the worldly; he doesn’t see the bravery of rejecting it. It’s not that I didn’t believe in him coming back, I just wished he hadn’t taken the job if it meant sacrificing his time with us. My heart was still vulnerable to the temporary absence of Papa, which was only nurtured by Mama. I knew that Papa stole time; he stole time from me, stole time from her, slowly, thoroughly. The feeling dissolved like salt in cold water and it just made me more certain of my element …but I knew that I still loved him and that I forgave him.

My Mama… I can never make out exactly what she feels. She constantly creates work for herself, wiping the floor for the third time or dusting the already spotless counter top. I almost never see her sit down, from breakfast time to after supper when she finally lays her head onto the pillow and gently shuts her eyelids with a sigh so deep and so long, I worry that it is her last. I suggested once that she read a book or learn to play the piano, but she firmly shook her head saying that it isn’t fair if she took leisure time while Papa worked so hard. She said that when two people get married, they must always give all the effort they have, even though they might not support each other the same way. I asked, but weren’t you upset when he took the job? And she said that, when you love someone, you love them for the good they have, and even more so the unforgivable. I don’t understand marriage. It sounds painful, awful, and tiresome. When I told her this, she just gave a light ha and softly murmured but with your Papa, it’s beautiful. The independent air around her started rumors of her divorcing Papa, but I know, and I’ve seen, what Mama really wants by the way she desperately clings onto the handwritten notes from Papa, her wedding ring making a deep imprint on her finger. She tries to hide it, but I see the wisps of white invading the youth in her hair. She also often skips meals, claiming that she ate before I came back from school, but I know that she is just trying to save money. When Papa was still here with us, he would get upset at Mama every time she skipped a meal. When she refused to eat, he would whip up her favorite dish, with me as a taster on the side. Then he would set it up on the table, gently setting his hands on her delicate shoulders as she sat down, a grateful smile on her once rosy cheeks. Happy, that is what she used to be.

Neighbors often wonder how we survive. The other women ask Mama how she manages without her husband; she merely shrugs her shoulders saying that we’re fine, and continues to water her dying flowers. They stop by our door with their left over dinners, some untouched, others half eaten. Mama receives everything with two hands. But once the door squeals to a close, she tosses it all into the trash, and then takes the trash bag out to the cart even though the bag isn’t full yet. I asked her once why she threw the food away when it was such a waste. She conserves everything else that we have, recycling every single plastic bottle, and even keeping half eaten pieces of toast for breakfast the next day. It is almost embarrassing how she stuffs a whole stack of napkins into her tattered black bag when we go to fast food restaurants. Yet, she does not take what left overs others offer to us. We are not beggars, she said firmly. I do not let my worth be defined by their trash. Her dignity is in the palm of her slender hands, held tightly, delicately, with purpose and protection. This is how my Mama lives: preserving her self worth without having a care in the world about how poorly it appears. And this how she teaches me to live: to protect what I have, no matter how little it may be.

I’ve only seen Mama cry three times. The first time was after Papa embraced her before he left, before he left his life with us behind. I’ll be back soon he said, with a smile on his lips but conflict in his eyes, then gathered his bags and walked to the car. She waited until the door made a soft click and the engine of the car tapered off into the night. Then her legs slowly gave out like a rag doll, and she turned to pulp. I sunk to the ground with her, though I knew that he would be coming back soon anyways. Even in my feelings of betrayal, I believed in him because I think that it’s better to believe than to doubt. Better to hold onto hope because we should live having faith in something. Mama knew this too, but that did not stop her tears. Her faith was driving away in a car, far away, and all she could do was watch it go.

The second time I saw her cry was when I crept into Papa’s closet and retrieved one of his shirts to sleep in. By this time, I had forgiven his decision to take the job and wanted just to be closer to him again. Then I went downstairs to drink a cup of milk before I went to bed, and Mama looked towards me, her empty stare changing to horror in a flicker as her hand flew to her mouth. I instantly regretted my decision. I think she tried really hard because her nails left an impression on her left cheek that looked like those nicks on our table. Her eyes squeezed shut and the tears leaked out as she gasped for steady air. I stood there thinking stupid stupid stupid, waiting for the storm to pass, but it silently rained for hours. When she was finally dry of tears, she wiped her cheeks and smiled at me. Do you want some warm milk to help you sleep? I nodded, relieved that I was forgiven, and we sat next to each other on the cold floor with our cups of milk, bodies wrapped by the warm memories of Papa.

My classmates pretend to not take notice of me, but I hear them whisper behind my back. Their words pierce my ears like needles. Dirt poor, they say, father works separately. We are not dirt poor. The looks that we get from people make me feel as though we are rocks, not yet polished, kicked around on the ground amongst the dust particles. But Papa told me that Mama is his golden treasure, and that I am his jewel. I hear my classmates always complain about their parents, rolling their eyes at how they didn’t receive enough. One time, Jazz, who sat in front of me in math class, blindly turned around with pouted lips once, eyes towards me but not at me. Daddy doesn’t love me. Why? I asked, wondering how a daughter so dolled could not be loved by her father. Without shifting her focus, she replied he says that I’m spoiled. My eyebrows furrowed and my mouth slightly gaped open in confusion as group of girls clustered around her in sympathy. During lunch the same day, I asked the only other person sitting at the table across from me whether he thinks he’s spoiled or not. He looked at me blankly, pupils a zombie from lack of intentions. Never enough were two words he gave to me before he picked his phone back up, and I shook my head in disgust.

Papa’s absence made me work harder. The already present hunger to learn more, plus the reality of responsibility made a void that I felt like I had to fill, and soon the students started be aware of my existence by the praises of my teachers. They also started to take notice to my indifference to money, and lack there of. They gave me names. Ground-licker they called me. Money-stealer. There was one bad day where a couple of kids took me to the back of the art room, into a corner with the mops and the old paint rollers. They made a circular wall around me, eyes looking hateful, screening my body up and down.

This was the third time Mama cried.

Say something one of the boys spat. He grabbed my long, wavy hazel hair and yanked it up like static on his hands.

It hurt. But for some reason, I lost my attention to the present. I was not afraid. There is a certain immunity, I think, that is developed when self worth is grasped tightly, callused by the tightness of my hold. I turned my thoughts instead to our neighbors, and how their leftovers were barely touched. I thought about Jazz, and the guy across me during lunch, and how, as I looked at each person surrounding me, all of them were missing something. They were missing what Mama and I still hold onto, but Papa was pressured to neglect.

Hey one of the girls said, tugging at the hem of my skirt, another poking at the collar of the stiff shirt. This doesn’t belong to you. You don’t belong. I came back to the present as my cheek stung from the sudden slap by the girl; it flared into a blush, but I kept my mouth shut. I saw in their eyes what gives them value, about how they see me as lacking what they are defined by. My cold hand came up to my fevered cheek, in thought more than in pain. What are they driven by?

You are dead to us.

But I felt so alive.

I didn’t lose the mind set even after the ground met the palms of my hands and the air was pushed out of my system. The only part I felt bad about that situation was of how Mama had to wait an hour for the bus to come so that she could pick me up from the nurse’s office. She didn’t even try to conceal it this time; there were already tears streaming down her face as I told her through my swollen lips that I was fine. In fact, I was proud of how I held onto what Mama so greatly treasures, and when I told her this she cried even harder and held me in her arms. My baby, my baby she rocked back and forth. My beautiful baby. She promised me that she would take me out of the school, but I shook my head. I wanted to stay, since Papa is working so hard and because I wanted to prove that no pressure could stop me. And then she stroked my hair, saying that I have my Papa’s eyes, but I knew that I really had hers.

Every morning now I tie my hair into a ponytail, higher than my ears, but lower than my confidence, and Mama clips a pin that she used when she was younger onto the side of my head. She smiles at me before I head out the door, and I smile back. I still hear people in the hall calling me broken girl or lonely, but I let my hair swish back and forth on the back of my shoulders, like how Mama’s brush cleans off the dust on the kitchen table. And when I come back home, Mama is throwing away the neighbor’s leftovers again.

See Papa, we are not broken. We know how to get kicked around without getting bruises, not on our self worth anyway. You’ve taught me to chase sunsets, and I continue to just like you taught me. So Papa, please, please come back to Mama and me. We might not be complete… but we are still whole.

 

 

“I’m a swan. Above the water I look graceful, but under water I am working really hard”

“It fills me with a kind of wonder at life– at the ways in which tiny coincidences and their consequences shape it, and how we adjust our own narratives to absorb this randomness.” 

– Kristopher Jansma

“I can’t believe you wake up everyday just to help people. I wake up just to help myself”

“You are allowed to do that”

for every person that has hurt me

my heart hides more and more

and the voices get louder and louder

and they get bigger and bigger

and they push me deeper and deeper

down.

 

but for every person that apologizes

my heart heals more and more

and the voices get quiet and quieter

and they get smaller and smaller

and i push and push them away

that I may rise.

 

and then there’s you

and you believe in me

so simple

so pure

yet so powerful

and you make me feel like i’m allowed to live

Free

 

and that i am allowed to believe in

what’s inside of me

allowed to believe in

what God has given to me.

 

and it clicks.

 

and with no doubts of

no guilt from

no shame for

I am happy.

“Ms. Mira I need to make you a nick name”

“Aight girl what’s it gonna be”

“Hmmm…. Day Maker! Cause you always make my day.”

 

They have absolutely beautiful souls.

Spread your fingers

Share your sunlight

Did you know, little girl

That you were born in this world to love and be loved.

To fight injustice and to protect the vulnerable.

To discover and wonder and

Breathe

For my post grad buddy v.c.l who I have spent afternoons with doing buzz feed questions and talking about becoming an adult– “write about a fitting room from the mirror’s point of view.”

I only know how I look when other people look at themselves.

And today, I must look gross because that woman in front of me who is trying to fit into an extra small dress is spilling her bust out from the top, shimmying and shammying into the tight tube dress. Seriously people. There are different sizes for a reason.

Anyway, she is grimacing now and that’s how I know that I don’t look so great. I have already seen multiple people before her frown in that way; that unsatisfied, frustrated look of being straitjacketed by society’s standard of beauty.

She snorts and rips the cloth off her body, picking up her hot pink tote bag and stomps out of the room, pointing her nose as high up as she could.

All kinds of people come into this room– big, small, tall, short, man, woman, or sometimes both. Wrinkles, acne, make up, no make up. All go through the same motion of taking off their old clothing to try on new prospectives. What’s the point of it all anyway?

They come in and take pictures of themselves in all sorts of angles, some that I don’t want to see. But I don’t have a choice anyway. Some come up to me and put their hand on my body, but don’t see me. They are so infatuated with themselves, its disgusting.

Then there are those shy ones. They try on clothing they wouldn’t wear outside of the fitting room. The clothing hangs awkwardly off their body, but they grin anyway. I cheer for them go for it! but they don’t see me so they sigh and slip it off, sulking out of the room.

Actually, It is not that I know how I look when people look at themselves. I only realize people’s perceptions of themselves when they look at their own reflection.

But wait.

Who is this?

A small creature is smiling, eyes glistening, not a care in the world. She giggles and twirls then stops to step in close and stares, and I see that she is not looking at herself, she is looking at me, and suddenly I get a little embarrassed.

“Mama! Look at the mirror– it’s blushing!”

“Hush child, there’s no such thing.”

She comes close, her curious, round, milk chocolate brown eyes gazing at me in wonder.

No one has ever seen me; they only see themselves. But she’s looking right at me like she looked past herself and saw me and I didn’t even know that’s possible…

And this time I looked at me in the reflection of her eyes; I perceive myself this time.

And damn.

I look good.

To you whom I worked with, the little turtle under the table

You were brought into this world to love

And to be loved

If you don’t feel it

Have faith,

Keep looking, little one

Keep persevering.

And for as long as I am with you

I am loving you.

 

 

can you help me give up on my pride

can you gently remove all of these beautiful lies

can i lose every part of all this toxic in me

maybe living means dying to me

— “Beautiful Lie”, Sam Ock

I hear that the sun rises.

 

^^^ I wrote this a long time ago and never finished it

I saw it today. The sunset, I mean. Ever since you taught me to be a sunset chaser, I’ve learned of the best spots to watch as the day turns into night; watching as the broken yolk spreads across the sky into a brilliant blend of warm hues, the definite end of yet another day that has passed. I’ve watched so many now, straining my eyes so much that I can barely make out your nonexistent silhouette against the sinking star. And every time, I wonder: how many more will I have to ruin my eyes for?

Haru Kiyono exists, but does not live. When she walks, her footsteps are like the falling feathers of a Tancho bird as it silently scurries away. Quite often, one would question whether or not she is breathing. Her presence is neither tense nor relaxed; it simply is.

She used to be a vivacious girl. Because she was known for her artistic talents, the children at her school followed her around, asking her to paint their favorite toys, flowers, or self-portraits. Her then still childish, plump hands awkwardly grasped onto the splintered paintbrush that became a part of her flesh, and dipped the bristles into swirls of cheap, lumpy paint. Any opportunity to paint was an invitation of freedom, her pupils dilating in absent minded creativity. No one knew what exactly went on in her mind except through the vivid colors she carefully lathered onto the canvas. When the children were seated after lunch recess, Haru was always the last one to come back in.

“Where is Haru?” the exasperated teacher would ask as her tired eyes raced around the classroom. Peeping her head out the window, she would see Haru crouched down next to the tulip garden, sketch-book in hand, whispering her secrets to the tulips.

But now, those secrets are locked up inside of her, put away along with the enjoyment of life she once had. Now, Haru Kiyono lives as the last centimeter of an eraser, or the end of a loaf of bread; she is what could make the difference but is thrown away, only to be, perhaps, a regretful afterthought.

32 years have passed, and she still hasn’t picked up a paintbrush. Haru’s child is as suppressed in expressiveness as her, and her husband is as controlling as her father used to be.

“Okaasan! Can I go play outside? Please mother, I’m done with all my homework.”

Haru was on her hands and knees in the wooden floored hallway that led to the genkan filled with black shiny business shoes, small sneakers, and a pair of beat up sandals. She raised her head and proceeded to sit in a seiza position, thin shins tucked underneath her hamstrings. Her eyes were fixated on empty space, and there was a wet rag in her hand.

“No, Katsuo. Go to your room and study right now,” Mr. Shimizu’s voice bellowed from the other room.

“But father…”

“I said no.”

As Katsuo dragged his 8-year-old feet across the wooden bamboo tatami mat of the small living room, Haru’s eyes trailed behind. Katsuo had just been released from his 5-day room arrest by Mr. Shimizu, rewarded only with a single pat on the head and a walk around the neighborhood.

Haru often had flashbacks. She could feel the ghostly grip of her father’s deteriorating hands onto her slender own, like a man desperately begging to have his life spared.

“Haru,” his raspy voice shook, “I’m not going to live on this earth for very much longer.” Haru could not make eye contact with him. He continued, “You haven’t been a very obedient girl growing up, you know that? I have been embarrassed by you so.”

She nodded her head in an automated response.

“You took up painting when I gave you a brain to study, and now it’s too late to pursue anything else. My father and mother were both very successful, and all you can do is useless catharsis in color.”

Her quivering lips parted slightly in protest, but she knew her inputs would be useless.

“So, Haru, you must promise me three things. This is my final wish upon my deathbed.” His grasp tightened and his fading pupils solidified into two black marbles. “First, you must marry into a family with a good name. It is important that our family lives on in a successful bloodline. Secondly, I want you to take care of my grave every day, watering it and tending it with flowers. I am not going to make your brother do that, and your mother will be much too distressed after I die, but it is imperative I am comfortable in my death. And thirdly, Haru, do not leave a trace on the earth, not a single drop of paint, not even an idea of one, because you are going to leave it someday soon. It’s embarrassing enough that you already have so many paintings. You understand?”

Black, white, and gray. Her heart hurt. No, it didn’t just hurt, it tightened up into a small knotted ball and wrung out the very soul that she thought she once had. But she knew that she had to keep her father’s orders. She would not leave her mark on this earth.

After a moment’s breath, Haru got back on her hands and knees and continued to wipe the floor. Wipe, drench, wring. Then wipe again, until the farthest point of the hallway was reached.

“Haru,” Mr. Shimizu said. Haru nodded. “Haru did you hear me?” Mr. Shimizu finally slid open his door and peeped his head out, glasses shifting slightly on his rigid, square face. Haru nodded once more, concentrating on the plank of wood ahead of her that was slightly discolored from the rest. She knew this was the way he saw his father treat his mother. “Why are you always so silent… to think that I married you. You got lucky to have a man like me, you know that?” Scoffing, the large boulder disappeared again behind the door.

She slowly stood up, like a ghost rising from its grave, and drifted into her room, located closest to the kitchen. She slid open her wooden door, revealing another tatami room that had no hints of a live occupant. There was simply a wooden table with a candle, and a pull out drawer for Mr. Shimizu’s extra clothing.

Mr. Shimizu had managed to get the only antique, one story wooden house in the neighborhood of Mitaka-shi, Tokyo. Modernization had taken over this district, and all the other houses had been crushed, with cramped, concrete apartments taking their place. Wires increasingly crowded the blue sky like electronic waves on the static display of a dysfunctional television screen. The streets were newly paved, yellow and white solid lines attempting to divide the narrow roads that only fit one car at a time. The Shimizus had bought the house before these renovations, and fought against legal authorities to keep the design as it was. They did not want to fall into modernization; they believed in honoring their ancestors. In the end, they were granted their request, as long as the traditional backyard was cut to half its size in order to fit in other condominiums. Ever since then, the house had become the Shimizu’s pride and joy, known throughout the neighborhood as the house that is still standing. And now as Haru slipped on her dilapidated footwear and pushed against the heavy wooden door out onto the stone steps, she could hear the whispers of the people passing by who longingly looked at the house, as if it ran on its own time, separated from the circumstances of the rest of the world.

Closing the rusting metal gate behind her, she shifted the shopping bag strap on her angular shoulder and turned to the left towards the small market at the end of the street. It was an overcast day; winter was coming. The air was quiet and small, but bustling with the busy thoughts of the people; humility and prideful autonomy fought each other here. A stray cat cried near the trash bags, which were all set outside under nets, neatly separated into recyclables and non-recyclables. Two black crows were picking at another one of the bags, spilling banana peels and fish bones out onto the pavement.

Haru walked on the side of the road, even though she knew that no cars would pass by. None ever did on Saturdays anyway, when everyone took the train downtown where there was more life. When she got to the market, she saw that there was no salmon; there was only white fish. It would have to suffice. She could grill it the same with salt, lemon, and soy sauce, and hopefully Mr. Shimizu would still be satisfied. Since she knew that they still had left over dry rice grains back at the house, she pointed at the fish, bought three, then walked back. The gate squeaked as she pushed through it, and her sandals shuffled the sand bordered stone walkway. A thorn tugged at the flesh of her cheek as she reached the genkan, a thin, dark red line stretched across her skin. The plants at the entrance were going to need trimming. She would get to that later.

Soon, the fluffy rice was steaming in the stone pot, and grilled fish were each laid out on top of three kin-fired clay plates. Each one had a little pile of grated radish, with finely sliced green onion and an eigth of a lemon on the side. Haru created a perfect presentation for dinner, and she had made this without a single thought in her head.

At exactly 6:30 PM, Mr. Shimizu emerged out of his room and strode down the hall, impatiently sliding open kitchen door. The knee-high, roughly cut wooden table was set up with the freshly made rice in white bowls, three sitting mats surrounding the table, and Haru, who was sitting down in seiza, staring ahead.

“Haru.” She slowly and silently turned her body towards him, still in seiza, then set her palms on the tatami in a pyramid shape. Her forehead touched the back of her hands, resting there for a solid second, and then came back up. Mr. Shimizu nodded slightly in acknowledgement, sitting cross-legged on the mat, then called for Katsuo to come out. The 8 year old, who had been absentmindedly playing with his stationaries inside his room, somberly walked out of his room and into the kitchen, plopping himself onto the sitting mat.

A moment after Katsuo sat down, Haru got up and brought out the fish; first for Mr. Shimizu, then for Katsuo, and then for herself. There was a split second of silence.

“What the hell is this?”

Her finger twitched.

“Does this look like salmon to you?” Her eyes closed as Mr. Shimizu’s spit rained down onto her face and onto her battered clothes. She bit her lip in attempt to stop herself from wiping it off. “You are good for nothing! Do you have any idea what kind of sacrifices I made for you? I could have had that pretty whore down the street as my wife, I could have a couple of them actually, but I only chose you for your promise to sell your service to me. I gave you a family, I gave you a house, I gave you a name. As useless as a pile of ashes, that’s what you are!” He furiously shook his head, slamming his hand down onto the table. Katsuo’s rice bowl fell onto the floor, and he quickly picked up the grains into his hands and rushed back to his room. “I refuse to eat. Clean up,” he fumed, and then slammed the door shut.

Haru did not shed a tear. But her bony hands were balled up into tight fists, and her lip was bleeding consistently now, a meaty chunk imprinted by the marks of her front teeth.

Slowly, she threw away the contents from the table into a large garbage bag. She did not separate the recyclables from the non-recyclables, nor did she preserve the untouched food as she usually did. When she took the large garbage bag out to the front of the gate, she did not even cover the bag with a net. Then, something caught her eye.

It was not usual for Haru Kiyono to follow her curiosity. In fact, it had been a while since anything triggered emotion in her at all. But the familiar tube-like shape that peeked out of the garbage net from the apartment across from the house was enough to make her pause. She shuffled quickly across the road, where she picked up the object and rushed back into the safety of her room.

She waited till the evening, and then lit a candle by her bedside for some light. It had been a while since she painted. When she was younger, Haru had been considered a genius in painting; the way she blended hues and shades were the only means for her limitless mind to find a way into the tangible. Everyone but her father had praised her for her talent; this was until her father’s death, of course. He was jealous of her talent in art that he did not have, him having to work hard for the attention of even his older siblings. This had led him to his death wish.

And finally, the artist inside of her was suddenly awakened once more by the touch of the wooden body of the paintbrush against her fingertips as she picked it up. Trembling, she squeezed red and orange paint out of from the dirty tubes onto the tatami. The tip of the paintbrush was dipped into the colors like toes testing for dangerous waters. This is going too far, Haru knew this. This is going against her father, her ancestors, and her last few decades of her existence. But she felt it; she felt her soul scratch against the very door of her conscience. She unquestionably had to escape.

Slowly, she let her brush glide across the walls of her room. An unfamiliar expression played across her face –perhaps a smile—as the lines got thicker and bolder, definite and purposeful. Red and orange streaks of paint became more and more consistent on the surface of the wall. Her soul was erupting, much like how a star explodes before in its death, but she had never felt more alive. The small candlelight grew until it was bursting into a full-fledged fire, flames enclosing upon the furniture of the room. She slashed more red and orange on her walls, a laugh bubbling up inside of her, escaping her cracking lips. Finally. Finally she was enveloped in her own self, the prisoner breaking free and destroying the remnants of her past. She took a step back as the flames licked her calves, eating through her apron. She closed her eyes, smoke grasping her throat and crawling into her lungs. “You were right,” she whispered. “I really am here for a fleeting moment. Who will remember me, come many generations?” She held up the paintbrush up against the fire. Its shadow connected to that of her own, as if part of her limbs. “I am becoming ashes once more, just like you,” she whispered, “But I created my own fire. I am my own ashes. And I have secrets that only the tulips will ever know.

It is when you limit yourself by your inadequacy that you are not qualified.

Have courage, my friend, not because you are fully able, but because you are fully loved, and thus capable of virtually anything if you will just receive.

Mira, do you know? I did not cry when Ojiichan passed away. 

–Why is that, Obaachan?

I just did not have the tears for him. I do not have any more tears for him.

—Do you love him?

I stayed with him. He loved himself more than he loved me. 

She looked off into the distance as she talked to me. There was a bowl of peanuts, salty rice crackers, and dried anchovies between us. We had been at the dining table, she was reading the newspaper as I was reading my book. It was just her and I spending time together that day, because everyone else was out. It took a lot of courage to ask her, but I needed to know. I have been asking her more questions, before it is too late, before there are too many questions that are left unanswered.

–What kind of husband was Ojiichan?

She smiled, a soft, sad smile.

He was greatly loved by many women. He was the only son of the whole family, did you know that? Of 5 siblings, he was the only male. He was greatly charismatic, chivalrous, incredibly flirty. I remember him coming to my house one time in a horse! That silly man. I was a weak girl, with many stomach problems, and I was satisfied spending time at home alone. When he got to the time of marriage, though, he asked my parents if he could reserve me for courtship. I did not want to be with him, but there was no choice. Our parents were third cousins, and, to strengthen the family name, they wanted us to get married. Plus, he was well off, I was not, and my parents were very happy. I obeyed, and we got married. I gave up my education too– at that time, I wasn’t able to attend college anyway because women were not allowed to get an education.

—You had no choice? You HAD to marry him?

She chuckled. I do not know what it is like to fall in love. 

I frowned, and ate another rice cracker.

Anyway, Ojiichan… He was a very powerful man. He worked in mechanics during the war, and after the war, he took over a very large plastic business that boomed over the years. Jun-san and Papa then came in the next decade. They were so hard to raise! How different they were, your uncle is a spitting image of Ojiichan, while your Papa is on a completely different planet at all times. 

–This I know. He still is on a different planet, but I try to meet him there.

She laughed out loud this time. He is so lucky to have you as a daughter.

—I’m not so sure about that..

So… with powerful men comes power responsibilities, and lots of temptations. It wasn’t long until I found out that Ojiichan had been at the brink of leaving me with another woman whom he had been having an affair with. This woman was his co-worker, as wealthy as him, much prettier, attractive, and seductive than I was. I was obedient, stubborn at times, but I was not much of a affectionate type. He wanted affection, he wanted worship, but I wouldn’t give him that. So of course he would look for that in someone else!

–…Obaachan, that’s terrible! What did you do? How did you stay together?

Well… Once I found out about it, I called her immediately and said ‘If you are going to use money on my husband, please use that money to pay for my children’s school tuition, and you can quietly leave.

—What!

Yup! And that is how Jun-San and your Papa were able to go a private school.

I rolled a peanut around on the pads of my right thumb and pointer finger.

–That… is such a hard thing to do.

Yes… there were many instances like these. I guess I got hardened. When Ojiichan passed away in the hospital, I was there. I sat there, next to his hospital bed, watching as his chest went up and down, slowly, slower by the minute, until it was no more. Then I had gotten up, alerted the nurses, and had gone home. Sad, isn’t it? I did not cry.

I fought my tears.

But, with all this said, I never told you because I wanted you to love your Ojiichan. I still want you to love him– I have a different past from him than you have. He loved you, you know that? Oh how he absolutely adored you! Keep thinking well of him, okay?

I nodded, biting my lip.

And you go, you go live your life as best you can. Find a man you love, and marry him, and love him and laugh with him and cry for him. Don’t be like me.

I stayed silent, processing everything that she had just said. This was the first time she opened up this much to me. I felt like I have been given a precious gift and I held it gingerly in my arms.

What a wonderful, wonderful woman. So selfless, bold, patient. She wishes for me the freedom from the things she was bound by. She told me not to be like her, but Obaachan, you are truly an inspirational hero.

 

 

 

[for my friend j.p who gave me the prompt: living in the city but hating it]

It’s so cold.

It’s so cold and I am naked, for the whole world to see.

For all the Men who come and lean against my body as they take their cigarette break, their smoke killing me slowly.

I am scared of their fire.

For all the Children who come and throw snowballs at my back, whom I become both a refuge and a target for.

They do not understand.

For the birds who did not make the migration that come and perch onto my arms and my shoulders.

Perhaps they understand the loneliness of which I feel

in this city.

There are no more of my kind for another 50 mile radius… which would not be a problem if I was able to move. But I am stationed here, in the middle of central park, standing tall as ever with branches that reach far and wide but, touch nothing. The winter storm has taken all my clothing, leaving cold snow to pile up upon me.

All around me are the smaller trees that have been planted in rock. Their roots are as shallow as their purpose– to be an organic aesthetic in a place where there it has been stripped of nature. I remember the times that these streets, these buildings, and the man-made space around me was teeming with life. Green grass, trees of my kind, all embracing one another in a bold yet gentle harmony. But ever since the Men killed us off, one by one, every tree was replaced by a building and every grass patch was uprooted then covered in concrete.

These small, foreign trees, they chatter. They show off the Christmas lights that are still on them in February that were hung on them in the middle of November after they have shed their clothing, red, yellow, brown. Like prostitutes they show off their lights, beckoning People to come and take a closer look– that is, if People per chance look up from their glowing screens. They barely do that, People. They are stuck in their minds all day about what they need to do in an hour, in a day, in a month. During the spring time when I would marvel at the sky taking a breath of new life, glowing as it stretched out its arms in the warm sunlight, People still walked quickly, only focused upon their next destination.

One time I laughed in delight because I saw a bird take flight for the first time. I had been watching a nest of birds as they grew to the age of flight, and when I saw the Mama push her baby bird off my branch, I saw a look of terror in Baby bird’s eyes that turned into courage that turned into joy. In my laughing, a few leaves fell upon a Man who was walking past me. It got into his cup of coffee and he looked up at me, swearing, unable to see how lovely it is to be able to fly.

What a shame.

The city — where everyone takes for granted the constant beauty of the world because they are so focused on the things that they continuously construct for themselves. Every winter, I am reminded of this, as I still stand here cold as ever, lonely, silent. I will patiently await for Spring time, for the Sun to embrace me in his Rays.

Hello?

I heard a voice.

Hello? Can you hear me? Please help…

A weak, little voice whispered into the cold, windy streets.

The People walked by, nonchalant, unable to hear the little voice.

I’m here– I called out. Where are you?

Down here…

The little voice replied. I looked down, and there was a small, small dandelion weed, right next to one of my surface roots.

How did you survive, little one?

I got carried by the wind, and planted myself into the soil next to you because it seemed safe.

But how did you sprout so early? It is still winter.

It is because I could read the thoughts of the People, and saw how they only looked down, but never around, and I wanted them to see the beauty of nature. But even after I bloomed, they never looked! Some even almost stomped on me! And now I am here, and I have bloomed to early, and oh Mr. Tree, I do not want to die before my friends bloom in the Spring!

How much more time do you have, little one?

I do not know… The dandelion replied, and let out a weak wail. It is so cold, Mr. Tree! I do not think I have much time left!

I thought… and I thought. And I thought some more with the might of all my years that I have lived. I thought about how I do not have family. I do not have children. I have seen the children in this park, how they run into their mother and fathers’ arms, protected in their embrace. I’ve seen elderly embrace their loved ones, and pet owners embrace their dogs. This thing of embrace that I have not yet discovered the magic of– yet one thing is for certain, is that there is a warmth that comes with.

I felt an affection for this dandelion, as though I have known it all the rings of my life. I love this dandelion! How this precious little plant could be so small but have such big dreams and big courage. With my large and old body, is it not time?

I looked at the People walking by, how they are so busy. So busy they are, oh how I hate this city, oh how I long to do something more.

Mr. Tree! The dandelion’s voice was getting weaker and weaker.

I stretched out my branches– who knew I could move them! I thought that I was stuck in one position forever– and gathered all my strength from within. The fake street trees started whispering urgently to each other, as they sensed a rumble from below, a shift in the soil.

What is he doing?

Something is about to happen.

Brace yourselves!

As leaves emerged from my branches and I felt myself bending down, down into the ground, the People stopped.

Mr. Tree! The People stopped!

They looked, mouths slightly open, with wonder in their eyes. 

The lower I bent down, the more I could feel a snapping sensation in my back.

Mr. Tree! You will break!

A fully blooming tree in the middle of winter, in the middle of the cold, snowy winter, there I was. But it did not even matter to me anymore that the People finally looked up. It did not matter to me, what I hated, as I realized more of what I loved.

Are you warm now?

Yes… thank you Mr. Tree.

“When I’m tired, tired, tired, I will be brave, brave, brave.”

 

 

–Just Mercy

I am terrible at first hellos and last goodbyes.

The current version of yourself is the right version of you for this moment.

The current version of yourself is the right version of you for this moment.

The current version of yourself is the right version of you for this moment.

I honestly could not let this one go.. so one more for the night

It’s remember and forgive.

See, you can take it as “this is your last week of finals ever in your undergraduate career. Finish strong by studying hard and perfecting your papers. Be the best student you can be; do it on time, do all your work before you socialize. Don’t procrastinate!”

OR

you can take it as “this is your last week of finals ever do all the finals-avoiding shit you usually do like go on that 2 am cookie run or watch the movie while you’re writing your essay but also watch Stranger Things 2 in one sitting and procrastinate your paper because you can and because when you’re in the real world you cannot procrastinate your job”

Don’t be so quick to find the solution. It’s okay to sit in it first.