Well, I Have Lost You by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that’s permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I outlive this anguish—and men do—
I shall have only good to say of you.

*
Show me a song sadder than this

Family

brings along stress, burdens, fights, headaches, vows of never going back, impatience, shame, anger, guilt, frustration, exhaustion, regret, clutter, complaints, pressure, pride, pain,

& leaves behind a fridge filled with groceries, a drawer crammed with vitamins, and an empty room filled with love’s lingering warmth.









i have found what you are like

i have found what you are like
the rain
             Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
                                        with thinned
newfragile yellows
                           lurch and.press
–in the woods
                        which
                                  stutter
                                           and
                                                 sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
                      your kiss

e.e. cummings

Far

Mama, like practically all Chinese adults I know, never, ever walked barefoot on uncarpeted floor. Our hardwood floors were too cold for her, “Jiao bingliang!” Without fail, every single day, Mama would say, “Aiyo, chuan shuang tuoxie!” imploring Ron and me to wear the plethora of indoor slippers (tuoxie) lying around the house. We all know what those slippers look like: the black pair of XXXL Reebok sandals, the plastic it’s-bumpy-so-it-massages-your-soles’-pressure-points-when-you-walk flip-flops, the bright red (good luck color!) bathroom slippers, basically any pair of sandals below $5 found at Ross.

The crescendoing schlack-schlack-schlack of Mama’s tuoxie coming toward my closed bedroom door was always anxiety-inducing. If I heard it, it usually meant that 1.) I’d be asleep and was being awakened more and more with each schlack until she would violently burst into the room to wake me up for work, 2.) I’d be asleep and was being awakened more and more with each schlack until she would violently burst into the room just to talk for no reason, or 3.) I’d be asleep and was being awakened more and more with each schlack until she would violently burst into the room to yell at me for not spending time with her.

My entire apartment is uncarpeted. Considering how old this building is as well as the fact that New York City isn’t exactly known for its “cleanliness,” my roommate and I never walk around without wearing a pair of our indoor-slippers.

Every once in a while, usually on a lazy weekend morning, the blissful darkness of my sleep would be slowly but surely disturbed with the crescendoing sound of schlack-schlack-schlack coming toward my room. With my eyes still closed, I’d undergo a Pavlovian response: my body would tense up, thoughts of, “Don’t come in, Mama! I’m sleeping! Why is she waking me up? What did I do now? Please just leave me alone!” would swarm my head, and I’d squeeze my eyes tightly shut, willing myself to fall back into deep sleep. I’d hear the loudest schlack right outside of my door–I’m practically holding my breath at this point, bracing myself for the door to be burst open, to hear Mama’s loud voice–but the schlack would continue past my door, decrescendo down the hall, and disappear into my roommate’s room.

I’d open my eyes, and I’m in my apartment in New York. Mama didn’t burst into my room to rudely wake me up, to force me to converse with her, to yell at me because I had upset her.

And in those moments, those few seconds, I always wish she did.

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Far by Doris Su is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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