1807

I swim through the pain of letting you go like an Olympic athlete,

I trust the struggle to be my biggest accomplishment. The year 1807

means nothing to anyone anymore. But sore eyes of the people here

are buried deep in the nostalgia of some blindly and wholeheartedly

happy childhood. Back when our mother tongue was said to be a gift

not a barrier of immigration. If I got to choose at life’s gate one more time

I think I would still have loved you in Vietnamese. These souls that long

to be elsewhere, they teach me how to let you go like they accept this loss

as a passing sunrise — like I must learn to leave behind your demons

harder than I have loved all the goodness left in you. Lost love is our favorite cake

at a hidden bakery that ran out of business years ago. On the sunny days

under the cherry blossoms sometimes I still wonder if you still chase after

those desserts and get sad for the potential of the person you could have

become. The birthday wishes you never got, the truths in your heart

you could have told, and the honest compassion you could have given

people. My roommate said humans are always capable of change and

that’s the beauty of salvation. This racing grief brings back the cracking sounds of

your bones, your breaths, your agendas — I can still hear your brokenness a bit too clearly

when I let my heart sink, just like how I remember your father’s passing on your birthday,

your hands sweating in mine when the lights turned red, your bright eyes on

the first Sunday you told me about Dante’s Inferno. I wonder if Bertrand Russell

could still help our hearts be in pursuit of the right things, because right now

our story is lost in all the unread poetry and unvisited mountains.

Today I once again am swimming through this ocean of grief, but 1807 no longer

means anything. On my way home, a whole different season has bloomed, as if

the age of innocence lives on forever.

Photo cover by Sarah Sheedy on Unsplash.