You feel the wind on your shoulders the salt on your cheeks, water’s edge at the tip of your fingers—deep breath, one, two and you take the plunge. Water graces the sinewy length of your forearms, to your shoulders, to your back, past the base of your neck and to the back of your head; you feel its weight grasping your ponytail and dragging it in upward crescendo to the surface as you move through the water languidly, slowly, towards the deep end, blanket of liquid rippling through and across the gills at the back of your neck as you inhale, exhale, at the cold rush of water washing over your limbs.
Swimming has always been your forte, even if you could never grasp for the feel of water and move it with the same grace and precision as your warm, calm mother (you only ever managed tiny splashes that earned you the curiosity of the other kids growing up). It calms you to: hear the rhythm of your breathing underwater as you close your eyes at the rippling sunlight at the surface; to feel your heavy body (muscles built over the years through discipline and the desire to get stronger for the sake of your community, your family) feel weightless, suspended in a blue equilibrium; to feel the tiny scales on your lower back react to the water sifting around your quiet form underwater; to remind you of who you are and where you came from and the element that your culture absorbs, graces, and worships.
You promised to meet up with your sister, to buy groceries for your mother, to wash your uniform and clean your room (per request of your mother) (whose requests you could never deny, even as a child)—but that will all happen in due time in the second half of the day, and for now, with this small opening in the early morning, you let yourself breathe blue and listen to the sound of your steady heartbeat as it dreams like the water’s even tide.
You’ve got your foot in the door, your hand on the handle, steel in your eyes and fire in your bones; fingers clawing at the wood, palms sweating against the rusted gold of the knob, foot aching from the pressure of the door closing but like hell you’re gonna relent, no matter how much this son of a bitch tells you no, no matter how much those fat rolls those aged creeping wrinkles drawing slimy patterns on his face no matter how much his beady little eyes and the sweat dewing off his beard is telling you no, get lost, you’ll never make it, you’ll never reach this point, reach the top, it’s fate he spits, and you keep your foot in the entrance, he tries to slam, slam, slam, but you steel your leg, steel against the blood, the bruises, and you lash out, grab him by the tie and look at him with iron and steel and a fucking furnace in your eyes like mark my words, as you point at him, because you’re gonna rise to the top and make his slimy ass watch you from the bottom of your foot, cause kid, you ain’t giving up that fire in your heart, you ain’t giving up for the world, you ain’t letting your dream get crushed by this nobody, because damn, you’ll be going places, and damn, you’re gonna light that torch, and damn, you’re gonna fling open that door because you’re gonna light that world on fire.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, the strong scent of Kalua deep in your bones as you clink your glass and laugh again at some bad joke that your friend makes. The mahoghany of the table is cold; the lights in the room are warm, blue and yellow dart table glimmering in the background as crowds of people make their way in and out of the different rooms.
You push your way out the door and feel yourself push your mind forward, past the haze, past the stench of alcohol snaking its way around your mind in an attempt to convince you to sleep. Your friend stumbles, and you stumble together as you catch him, arms that once could take down girls twice your size soft as they hold your friend’s back and the other gently on his chest. He mumbles something incoherently, and you squint hard as you try to listen to him once more—pushing out the smell of Kalua, the smell of Gin, the smell of all that awful, awful alcohol out of your mind and into the clearing—and you whisper softly, if everything’s alright. You can feel some part of you channel something maternal, so unfamiliar yet natural all the same, as your fingertips lighten at the touch and stop him from stumbling, summoning strength, optimism, hushed tones like the sounds of the night but light and clear like the daytime sky. I’m sorry, your friend says, and you tilt your head as you hold his face gently. What for? You ask.
The gay community hates me, he says. I hate myself, he says. I feel like dying, he says. I just have a crush on a guy but I don’t’ think he likes me, he says. His eyes are closed and he’s clearly on the verge of collapsing, but you don’t let him, as you hold him up and stroke his shoulder. I’m sorry, he says. I’m so sorry.
You can feel the corner of your eyes crinkling, your pupils—softening, somehow, and you know that the way your eyelids droop down ever so slightly as you soften the expression on your face—the expression, the mask where you put on an optimistic, or hardened, sarcastic look all the time—the face that you make for the people you love when they need it the most. No one else can see it. Your friend can’t see it. Only you can. You reach up and rest your hand on his face, and tell him, that he has nothing to be sorry for. He shakes his head vigorously and says that yes he does, yes he has to apologize, and he stumbles—nearly falling into the street, but you grunt as you hold him up, bracing your legs as you hug him once more and stop him from stumbling into a dangerous situation.
We’re friends, you say, a soft smile to your voice. That’s why I’m here.
As you carry him forward into the cool breeze and buzzing laughter of the night, smell of alcohol in your breath and clearing out of your mind, you see with glaring clarity, as you look at your friend, that he, deep beneath his love, compassion, his openness, is the one who needs it the most.
You hold on to him a little tighter, and when he turns his head to hug you, you close your eyes and pretend that the world is quiet and that he will be alright, and never before has your heart felt so full.
He blinks awake, fingers resting lightly on her hip gripping just a fraction tighter. Most nights she is out like a log, blankets wrapped around her like a cocoon (she claims she doesn’t “hog” the blankets, but he reminds her otherwise), though not tonight, it seems. She stirs awake, and turns over to face him. Is something wrong?
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and she blinks at him in confusion. Nothing, he says. I just…
A soft look reaches her eyes, as she gently laces her fingers through his, and they lie there in silence, her thumb rotating gently to stroke the back of his hand. It is in moments like these where he can’t help but wonder sometimes, just how she does it. How, with his cryptic words in these uncharacteristically inefficient moments, she knows what he means. He supposes that it has to do with years of partnership, years of going on missions together, but he has a feeling that it’s much more than that.
It had been four—seven—nine months since he woke in that hospital with her and Lee exhaling (the latter much more dramatic) in relief, and it still feels surreal: in the past nine months he watched his cousin get married, watched his peers fall in love and also get married, watched himself (still watching) tiptoe around that thing they call love, and here he is, lying awake in the soft comforters of her bed, slightly anxious, but simply wondering. Wondering how he made it past the brink of death, the blood-stained dirt, the sheer physical exhaustion, to the endless hours of the night where he can simply enjoy her peaceful company.
He grips her hand just a little bit more, and she responds with a soft smile.
It’s okay, she says, teasing. You were never very good with words anyways.
The corner of his mouth turns upward into a small smirk. You always say that.
Because it’s true, she says, laughing softly. But that’s alright, I’ve learned how to read you like a book after years of dealing with you.
He has a comeback at the tip of his tongue, but he pauses, and takes in the way she looks: long hair curling and framing her face, white moonlight glancing off her shoulders, and eyes crinkling at the corners in small, quiet happiness. And he can’t help himself, as he leans forward and slants his mouth over hers, softly, gently, and his breath catches as he feels her smile and reach up to pull him a little closer.
I’ve always been more of an ‘actions’ person, anyways, he says, pulling away, as he wraps his arm around her waist.
She snorts, and he can tell that she wants to respond, but she shakes her head and laughs quietly, tucking herself against his chest. He exhales and closes his eyes, listening to the quiet evening air, and the rhythm of her breathing, the feel of her arms around his waist and their bodies warm beneath the blankets, and quietly, gradually, falls asleep with a content smile on his face.
She’s all sharp edges, slant-eyed and words that hurt like the streets she was born and raised from—“Get in line you little shit, no one’s waiting around for you,”— always looking forward, sword strapped to her bad because—guess what, soldier, the war ain’t over—she’ll be damned if she doesn’t do her mother proud.
The streets are on fire, buildings ablaze and crumbling to ash all the same, fleck of soot dotted on her goggles—the world’s gone to shit, governments been thrown—and she’s running, sprinting, stretching her long limbs through the winding streets, past the crumbled market stands, the ripped canopies, past the anarchy, praying with all her heart that her mother is okay, that her sister is okay, and fuck she doesn’t have time for this shit because of all days for a goddamn rebellion to happen it just had to be on the day she’s plopped for patrol in the lowest fucking Ring— and—
“Miss!”
A small boy cries out to her and she grits her teeth —shit, I don’t—goddamnit—skids to a stop. You’ve got ten seconds, she spits out, panting. He looks at her with wide, wide eyes, so scared, so lost, and some other emotion there that she knows she has felt before. “I can’t find my Mom,” so help me please? She bites the bottom of her lip. She doesn’t have time for this, she really fuckin’ doesn’t, and —yet—as he looks up at her with those wide black eyes, small embers of determination at the corners, she relents, and holds her hand out for him. His tiny webbed fingers curl around her worn gloved ones, and they run through the lit streets together.
She always thought her name was ironic. Sophia. A martyred saint, embodiment of wisdom. What a fucking joke. What a name to give to a kid who knew no better when she cussed out her dad in public court, and ran from home like a little shit when she was ten years old and wondering why the world hated the scales on her skin, wondering why oh why could she have not been born another way. A kid who had no pride for who she was, a kid who wanted to cover it all up for years and years and years.
And yet, as she runs through the streets with the boy’s small hand in hers which is 1) not efficient; she should probably pick him up and let him lead the way and 2) dangerous, considering the fires that they’re jumping through, she can’t help but think as he runs on his own two webbed feet, pointing in directions to where he thinks Mother and Brother might be there—that she feels just a tiny bit wiser.
Ocean breezes, air wet from early morning rain, flowers growing on the side of the road; a complicated drive through a narrow, winding road with little sight round those corners, and small black and blue butterflies flitting around the small plants on the side of the road. It felt like a gracing, you think, as the number of butterflies increased as you sloped your way up that winding road, sunshine peeking through the clouds past the gray morning and onto the neat dark pavement.
The sight is breathtaking when you reach the top: clean white granite in an elegant curve against the mountain forests, and thousands of tiny gold Buddhas circling around the dome of the structure; you don’t know where to look—and—your eye darts to the left, spotting the wide, wide ocean as waves gently crash ashore; you turn back and see ledges, rows and rows of small little structures lined up neatly next to each other as the rows slant upwards upon the hill. They look like small little homes, those curved and shingled small roofs housing something important; circle openings lead to stairs into the rows of homes upon the hills, neat little paths winding through. It’s a clean staccato of gray and blue amongst the trimmed forest green, and you catch gold lettering of Chinese etched upon the outside.
Pull into the flower shop: wooden carvings line the ceiling, orchids growing primly out of the vases, bouquets lined up against the wall. Your grandmother talks to the shop owner in Taiwanese (not that you can understand a thing, anyways). The shop owner is a stout lady with straight cut bangs and glasses, a parrot of some sort perched on her shoulder chirping constantly and trying to peck at her mouth (is that a worm coming out of its mouth or is that its tongue? you try not to think about it).
You clutch the bouquet close to your chest as you ride the elevator upwards, in silence, and when you walk through past a hallway of silver containers lined up against the wall, glass etchings on the covers gleaming, your grandmother stops in front of one. It is where grandfather is. And you realize, as your grandmother, great-aunt, and great-uncle begin to bow and ask you to place the flowers in front, that this is it. This is the memorial site; this is the tombstone. This is where you in your mind imagined yourself kneeling down, murmuring words of thank you in silence, incense sticks in hand, breeze ruffling the small hairs at the nape of your neck. This is where you imagined grief etched into your face, into your bones, but right now, as you bow, hesitantly, you feel out of place.
You glance around—anywhere, anywhere but there—so thrown off by the clean glass, the gleaming silver, the well lit room, the salmon red carpet, air condition, and you, for a second, don’t know what to think. You don’t know what to do. You’ve been preparing for this the moment you learned that you could finally come here, all the way from America, and yet, here you are: heart hammering in your chest and sweat gathering at your palms because all those small mental plans are for naught because where your grandfather is buried is just too goddamn pretty.
But it doesn’t matter, because you take one moment of silence with your grandmother and glance to your left to see her: it has been more than a year, already, and you see that the grief has not left her, and as you look back down to the ground, your breath catches in your throat and you realize that it hasn’t really left you either. You feel something coming to the corner of your eyes but you furrow your brow because no, not here, not now. Not in this clean, sterile environment, not when Grandmother is already so emotionally on edge. Her voice shakes a little, as she speaks, Taiwanese rolling off her tongue in a soft murmur to her sister, and you simply stare at the clean, blank plate of silver. Another moment of silence passes and the four of you bow three more times, once again. They begin to leave, but you stay, for a second, clasping your hands together in a small prayer, and softly tapping your heart: thank you. And…I’m sorry.
It is later, you learn, that those small homes you thought you saw, are actually tombstones.
Mother’s been gone all week, and Father has been in and out, mostly to see Mother, he says, and you ask, when can you go see her too? You want to see her—you miss her cheerful voice, her wide-smile, and the way her fingers would run through your hair everytime she tied them into two pigtails. (You tried to tie them into twin buns, like Mother’s, but they just kept falling out; Mother laughed and said that it was because you had Father’s silky hair, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen Father sputter so much ever.)
He tells you soon, with a very neutral expression on his face (though apparently your two Uncles tell you brightly that Father has never looked more youthful!). Monday goes by, and then Tuesday. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoon, when you’re playing in the backyard with your two Uncles, you spot your Father and he asks you with a smile on your face, would you like to go see your Mother and little brother?
You gasp, because—a brother? Will he be as small as your cousins? Will he look like Mother, or Father, or perhaps the two of you will look everything alike? Will he be cheerful like Mother, or calm like Father? You run up to your Father excitedly, yes yes yes, and the two of you head to the hospital. You practically dash through the door, past your laughing pink-haired Aunty, and your Father calls out to you sternly, slow down—that’s the wrong door, come back—the two of you enter the room, and you see Mother.
She looks different, you think, as you tilt your head, curiously. Mother rarely has her hair down; it’s always in two neat buns. The few times you see her with her hair down is when Father reaches over and undoes one of her ribbons, earning him a light swat on the shoulder. She’s looking down at a small bundle in her arms, with an expression you’ve never seen before, and you pause, because you feel as if you’re interrupting a moment.
You begin to take one step back, but you feel Father’s hand on your back. Let’s go, he says quietly, and you look up to see a small crooked smile on his face. As you walk over, your Mother looks up and her expression lights up and softens with adoration all at once. Come here, she says, reaching out with one hand and holding the small bundle in her other arm. You grasp her hand, and it strikes you at how small your fingers are against her palm; you stand as close to the bed as possible and you peer at the little bundle in her arms, your Father’s hand still guiding you from the back. Meet your little brother, she says, softly.
He has small tufts of hair curling against his forehead, a peaceful, quiet look on his face, and he looks so, so small, bundled up in a baby pink blanket. You gasp as he slowly stirs awake, blinking once, twice, and opening his eyes to see you. He stares, curious, and you reach out with your hand, and pause—no, go on, your Mother says— before softly touching his round cheeks. He sneezes, making a tiny little noise, and blinks back at you. He’s my brother? You ask, whispering the words. Yes, Father says, in the gentlest voice you’ve ever heard him speak in. My little brother, you repeat. My little brother.
You pat him, softly, and say very brightly, I’ll take good care of you, little brother! Father squeezes your shoulder and Mother smiles oh, so wide, and you think to yourself, yes—today was a very good day.
along with inktober (which I am posting the dailies on instagram & twitter--I’ll post about 5 days worth on the main blog later) I’m going to attempt a freewrite or drabble a day challenge for myself! I used to write in the earlier years of college, and I attempted to get into it recently only to find myself frustrated at how out of practice I was.
so...here we go! all the events will be a mix of fiction & nonfiction. i’ll let you guess what the genre possibly is.
Drabble #1 (fine dining)
to the rhythm of my voice
One, two, grab the handle, three, four, friend screaming in your ear to chug a bottle of champagne? You stare bewilderedly at the huge mug in your hands, blinking once, twice, at the small bubbles formulating at the slant of drink, sloping towards your lips, and you pause. Take in the scene: your best friend of 12 years by your side, eyes crinkled at the corners and cheering at you on (although the scenario is, admittedly, stupid), another friend at your right who you haven’t seen in six, seven years, hair bobbed at the crook of her ear and smiling all the same. Your father is across you, wearing a ridiculous German-colored hat (you’re not even German, you think to yourself) and looking at you with a mix of horror and amusement etched across his cheery, aging face. Your neighbors are egging you on all the same; blink again, and you etch this moment into your memory, ABBA playing in the background, a beat and then transitioning to the Jackson Five (what a combination, you think), you still eye the champagne (what the hell) (still can’t believe that this is happening) (I don’t want to do this, really, but—) and your mother whispers into your ear, oh so quietly: drink it slowly. Take your time.
And you think, in this small moment to yourself, that it has always been like this. Amidst the uproar of basketball games, the high-pitched whistles, the sweat, the blood, the tears, the bruised knees the knocked front teeth and the flying elbows, amidst the rough physicality of a basketball game your mother was the one afterwards, after your father pulled you aside and told you sternly a strategy that you, to this day still can’t comprehend, that your mother was the one to quietly tell you try your best. For all her cheer, for all her bright-eyed sociability, she always knew when to quietly and gently reassure you things will be okay. You’ll be fine.
I’ll be proud, no matter what.
You blink again, take a deep breath and let that sour, bubbly drink flow past your lips and down your throat, atop a pile in your gut (full of food and booze from endeavors earlier in the day), and even though you feel like throwing up dinner chunks like you’re an idiot in college all over again, you exhale through your nose and take one last strong, meaningful sip.
People you don’t quite know cheer for you (some other neighbor, another family friend), like mother like daughter, they say, and you feel the corner of your mouth upturn into a small crooked smile. “You didn’t chug it!” your best friend says, and you screech at her, “It’s CHAMPAGNE for christ’s sake!” Laughing all the while, as you wipe your mouth with your sleeve. Your mother takes the glass from you, confident, cheerful smile on her face as she slowly and elegantly(frame small but strong, fingers light but firm on the handle) takes that obscene jug of champagne (honestly, still can’t believe that you participated in that), and finishes the last of it, and you just think to yourself: wow.
How will you ever live up to this? How will you work your way up from a green-card, from being not recognized for all your efforts simply because you were not an American citizen, to supporting your children, sending them to ranked colleges, and all the while crossing so, so many social barriers for forty plus years of your life, to enjoying a Saturday night by tag-teaming a jug (STILL can’t comprehend that) of champagne. You think to yourself, as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and let the warmth of the room seep into your bones, seep to your nervous fingertips (social situations always have you so on edge), that your mother is truly a force to reckon with.
She smiled cheerily to the room and put the glass down, expression all the same, light twinkling in her eyes, unfazed at what she just did. You exhale, and say flatly, “I felt sick doing that,” and she smiles, “Don’t worry. It’s definitely not meant to be had like that.”
