29 January 2015

I've read that the composition of tears varies from situation to situation--these tears of sadness are not made of the same stuff as the tears cried when I dice an onion for my spaghetti lunch. Under the microscope, zoomed in a thousand times, grief is biologically made of ingredients to help relieve stress and numb the pain. So I cry, hoping to feel better and waiting for better to come.

By this time, I have cried so much that I thought I'd be completely depleted of water. I imagine myself, withered away like a once delicate bouquet of flowers that now hangs upside down from the ceiling. I've cried on my pillows, I've cried on my carpet, I've cried in my car, I've cried in cafes. But the body is such an amazing thing; regardless of how parched my mouth and throat may grow, I always manage to cry and cry and cry. From somewhere, the tears gather and flood my eyes. The sadness always manages to seep out.

27 January 2015

These days, I can't help but think about the future. I fast forward the number of times the earth orbits the sun and wonder what my tomorrow will look like.

I pray it does not look the same as my today.

22 January 2015

My head has been having a hard time synchronizing with my body. My head is blurry from the racing thoughts and memories while my body is begging me for sleep. My aching limbs, my throbbing back, my drooping eyelids all tell me that it's 2:00am, that I should sleep. But I don't listen.

13 January 2015

In 2009, my roommates and I sat on our creaky, green futon and were busy watching an episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Suspenseful music blared from our twenty-seven inch television while we waited for Regis Philbin's crackly voice and wrinkly face to formulate the words, "Is that your final answer?" But the contestant had picked the wrong answer--"No, I'm sorry. The answer was C, the Doppler Effect."--and he stood up, shook Mr. Philban's hand, and took home a little bit of money and some defeat.

The Doppler Effect. It is the alteration of sound as a moving object changes position relative to its listener. Standing on the sidewalk, I could hear the ambulance before I could see it. The sparse leaves on the trees that lined the street quietly swayed side to side, almost in sync with the sirens that were wailing rhythmically. I heard the sounds getting slightly higher and more alarming, and with this change of sound came the anticipated ambulance itself. The sounds were still shrill, but as it approached, closer and closer, the tone changed. No longer piercing, but deep and solemn, like a young boy whose voice begins to change that summer between junior high and high school indicating that he had become a man almost overnight. The sounds continued in this lower register, diminishing as the ambulance moved farther away, past the horizon, hurrying to save someone's life. I always imagine an old man for some reason.

07 January 2015

My grandmother is a woman of prayer. She lays one hand on the top of my head, and she places the other on my shoulder. This is how she always prays over me. But even when I am not with her, I know she prays day after day, night after night without fail. She prays for me, my mother, my father, my two sisters, my three aunts, my three uncles, and my six cousins. The gravity of this truth, however, did not sink in until this past trip to Korea.

My grandmother prayed that I would be a woman of many dreams, a woman who would see those dreams fulfilled. She clung onto me and she said these words with conviction, with aspiration, with confidence. She said them as if these words were already true in my life, as if these words would certainly be true.

And so I say yes and amen and will believe that this is real.

05 January 2015

I opened my refrigerator and there it was. Sad and saggy like an old lady wearing too many layers who had fallen asleep on the bus on a cold winter's day, the persimmon I told myself I'd eat but had forgotten to. It sat there on the clear, plastic shelf. Its leaves now showed indications of limpness that came from rotting but a crispiness from having dried out; they were like a little knitted hat on this grandma.

The persimmon that he... yes, he. My resolution lasted for so short a time. But it is the persimmon he had given to me. Because he knew how much I loved them.