The saddest tears don't fall from the eyes —
they rise from the stomach.
All the organs surge toward the throat,
and with a low growl, the head begins to tremble.
That woman often cried to me.
For years, nothing frightened me more than her tears.
She must have passed me a kind of virus while carrying me,
because every time she wept,
my heart would pound,
my organs would tighten toward it,
a sharp pain — then fire.
The heat would spread,
through my belly, up to my head.
Yes, my head is a pressure cooker.
If you've used a Chinese instant pot,
you know that hissing sound under pressure —
that's my skull,
whistling, releasing steam.
So I fear her tears.
They can reach the deepest nerves inside me.
Once, I saw that man shove her to the ground,
his hand pressing her head against the wall.
I was terrified.
I ran for the door, wanting to call the neighbors —
but he shouted at me.
My feet froze to the floor.
My body refused to move.
Too young to understand,
they made me witness the ugliness of being human.
I buried that memory for many years.
Only late years has it risen again.
All I want, really,
is to carry a little wooden stool,
wander down an old alley,
peek at every doorway,
and when I'm tired, sit by the corner,
listening to grandparents tell stories.
All I want
is to take that same small stool,
sit by the lake,
and watch a dragonfly rest upon a lotus leaf.
When I was little,
there was a pair of wings inside my small head.
I wanted to fly higher, farther.
I wanted to grow up fast.
I wanted to protect that woman.
I wanted to leave that place.
And I did leave —
so far away,
across an entire Pacific Ocean.
I thought distance would bring quiet.
But fear has many disguises.
It hides in the sharp voice of the news,
in the endless hum of cars,
in the network that never sleeps.
Life is already so good, isn't it?
There's hot water, air conditioning,
a fridge forever full.
Our world is moving faster than ever before,
and our fear races alongside it —
as if the car has gone too fast.
So, hold the ones near you.