I’ve learned to walk slower in my haste — realizing the quiet beauty of footsteps as they lead into the soft pavement beneath my youth.
O! the frailty!
You lay with thoughts of me, thoughts of she — whirls of sound and images of film;
What is it like there in the space between my ears and behind my eyes?
What do you see from your short perch — a guided tour of my psych — with a docent remnant of suffering and surprise?
Doesn’t the docent tell you of my emancipation?
I lay under the dark canopy of Andrew Bird’s “Armchair”, awake and aware — ‘I sang the song that silence sings.’
I imagine being a cartographer — explorative in a world that has already been explored.
How does one draw a map of a place already seen? See inspiration in an occupation whose work is already done?
When they lay the line between borders, do they press their pen down harder?
When you create the legend to your nations map, do you leave a spot for land uninhabitable?
Does a cartographer tire when drawing the line from one hemisphere to the other?
Does he feel alone when writing the name to an ocean between two continents — alone in a body of water?
‘Let’s play a game — We’ll spin the globe, stop it with the tip of our finger — the spot beneath it the home in which your future rests.’
Have you ever spun the globe, your finger bringing it to an abrupt halt in the same place you started?
the early sun shone through the thin cotton of my window’s navy curtains, flaring with the slow roll of my waking eye’s restlessness. today’s morning felt unusually slow, as if time itself was slowly waking alongside my enervated body.
i left my unperturbed bedroom and entered my nonplussed hallway — remembering the childhood instances of innocence and joviality that took place years prior.
[ i remember being afraid of this hallway — remember walking, foot in front of the other, slowly — surely in the midnight gloom — frightened by the calm, unwavering structure and malice. ]
at the end of this hallway — my childhood hallway — stood my mother’s unabashed and justified belongings — impatient with the length of their stay. the sun shining through the living room’s front window was dull — different from the rays hidden in my impregnable bedroom. the weight of the house sunk into the reprobate nature of my mother’s belongings.
[ “mom is leaving. she’s moving out. all she did was leave a note for dad on the bed,” my brother would tell me from his honest seat at the opposite end of the hallway. ]
i stood at the opposite end of my hallway for what felt like hours. in between this end and the other was a conglomerate of innocence and deceit — like a slow fade from white to black.
[ maybe, if i stayed on this end i could retain my childhood innocence that once ran through the quaint corridor between pre-school winters and elementary summers — or was this hallway better defined by the slow fluctuation of darkness that plagued my midnight walks from one end of the house to the other? ]
my mother’s shadow moved quickly across the front of the house, making its way to the front door, up the porch steps that would later serve as a reflective stoop to my father’s lonelier nights. i could see her shadow clearly now.
this shadow, cast at a different angle than any other, was a darker grey than that of my father’s.
|
you still love your dad????? My dad is the only exemplification of love in my life. I love him whole-heartedly. |
been thinking about my grandfather a lot lately
Reverend William Eishi Hirose
when i was growing up i spent a lot of time with him. he would take me to parks, lunch, watch tv with me
he was a WWII veteran and later a pastor. he was devoted to his faith and loved jesus
he was always a quiet guy. he spoke little, smiled often, and loved whole heartedly
a few years before passing, he had multiple strokes. he became a different man
quiet, confused, tired. he couldn’t remember my name
two years ago, things got really bad
i was able to visit him a few days before he passed away. it was the hardest thing i’ve ever done
i flew down from San Francisco to see him in Los Angeles. i was scared
I was really scared.
our entire family was making their rounds. we all sat on the edge of our seats, trying to be as ready as is humanly possible
my grandma was there. showed me into the room where he was sleeping. “he hasn’t been eating,” she said. everyone was concerned
my grandma was happy. she told me he was happy. she said he wasn’t in pain
she made me feel like he was just sick. she made me feel like everything was ok
he looked calm. he was asleep in the home where he had raised his children; my mother, aunt, and uncle
the sun crept through his bedroom window and blanketed him with the slow turnover of dusk to evening
i wanted to tell him i loved him but couldn’t form the words. i wanted to tell him i missed him
my body wouldn’t let me open up and love him. my heart was transparent and unabashed, but my body was stricken and conflicted
i left my grandparents house. i told my grandma i loved her. i sat in my car for 20 minutes before going home
later, at his funeral, i met over 200 people that attended every sermon he had given
his peers said he was patient, contemplative, and most of all a family man. he loved his family
the families that grew up mentored by him spoke of love, patience, and a laugh like no other
my uncle gave a eulogy that made the entire room wretch, cry, and love
it was during that eulogy that i remembered my grandfather. i remembered his smile, laugh, and jokes
why couldn’t i remember this through the struggle of his multiple strokes? why did i lose sight of the grandpa i knew
just as he had forgotten my name, i had forgotten his love. i had pushed him away after his stroke
i regret not holding his hand and patiently telling him my name. i regret not bringing him his lunch while he sat on the couch
i regret so much and i wish so many things were different
i loved my grandfather. i know that, and i know now that i loved
him through his entire life
my ignorance pushed him away when times were hard, but i still loved him. i know that now
if there’s one thing i’ve learned from him, it’s that love is patient and love is big
love is big. love is huge. love is ours.
just as he was patient when he was with us, i know he’s patient with me now. i can only hope that i remember his lesson to me.
