train malfunctioned. met a friend. got a grocery store americano. talked about dystopia and mastitis. stranger directed me to guava popsicle. it was okay. found out my grandfather died. class got over. choked on a cry when i said the word loss. went to a sushi place for lunch. it's temporarily closed. met a friend, on the phone with a friend. what's that? you have tea? yeah, i cut my hair. did you? yeah, four years ago. okay, bye. yeah, bye, see you. friend leaves to meet her shit boyfriend. walking, writing, listening to a podcast about ghislaine maxwell. she's crying at her father's feet while he conducts a business meeting with men. my grandfather wasn't good. his wife is a raging narcissist. she told me i'm her favorite and pressed five thousand into my palm. sitting. waiting. dad flies out tonight. cancelled plans with a friend. had to think about it, though. my grandfather and i were not close. but i still wanted to cry when i found out. i saw october boy with a lovely girl, his hand in her feathery hair, laced through her thin fingers. moon and stars, what their names mean.
my train just arrived.
watched a movie today about lost things.
said i was happy in front of an audience, then the universe spat on me
hope my dad is okay.
mom discusses colors schemes for the new home in delhi. mom, tomorrow i've to leave earlier. a third year psych girl wants to interview me on attachment to home country in first generation desis. i get home. i think they changed the building access code. i say assalamwalaikum to my dad. he says it back. i say it to my sister. she says hi. i say huh? i look at my dad and he smiles. holds an arm out. and breaks into weeping. i have never hugged him like this, had him hold me like this, not as far as memory goes. i know there is a picture where i am a day old and my eyes are wonky and he's looking at me with an affectionate smile. eyes gentler than i remember. now he cries and cries and cries and i cry because this is my father. he is a man, my man, the first man to ever love me, and we have always fought, and now he cries into my shirt and my own tears drip onto on his shoulder. on the metro home, i listened to a philosopher talk about how we suspend all our beliefs on images. how we criticize ourselves like we criticize movies. how we rationalize huge emotions.
in the car, i was shocked and thought it vicious to discuss colors of walls. i think —
who do i tell?
who do i choose?
i don't feel like lunch. i don't feel like speaking. i feel my body turning warm. there is a cry stuck in my throat. who do i tell? how do i rationalize?
passing by, stood at the foot of baby sister's bed. usually mean and hormonal thing she. holds her arms out. an angry pimple on her peach cheek. i smile, joke. she's still holding her arms out, my baby's gonna cry. she has been crying. pressed into her pillow, like she usually does in her egotistical way. i lean over her body and hug her and she cries so hard her entire body heaves. her breath is hot and loud in my ear and i find it hard to take a breath. i squeeze the soft of her arm, stroke it. try to move away from the force of the air she's breathing. i let my slippers slip off my feet and get into bed. unwashed thing me, just gotten home, haven't washed my face or nothing. i press into her freshly teenage and constantly angry body. she has never hugged me like this before. not as far as i remember. i complain about her shit to my mother "she's too much like dad". i pull away from my baby and our eyes meet in a truthful moment. she says,, just yesterday me and my friends were counting how many grandparents we have left.
i do something like laugh and i describe the day i've had (for reference, scroll up). i whisper for some reason. then i crawl under the blanket with her and pull it up to my chin. we whisper amongst ourselves. we've been in a fight for two weeks. she says today she told her friends she's changing schools and one of them who she isn't close with said ,, hey M do you remember when we were in third grade and you taught me how to write? because my handwriting was really bad and the teacher made you sit next to me and till now my handwriting looks like yours because you taught me ,,
and yesterday my mom told me something i did when i was a year and a half old, and i said,
i remember that, i remember what i did, what i felt, i remember how small and vulnerable i was.
an author a few days ago spoke at length about the colonization of the filipino people, all the wars they've lost, the revolutions they've seen crumble to nothing —
she said (from toni morrison)
"rememory"
