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[1] the art of forgetting

"Mom, I bring you your favorite Lady-finger bananas."
She looked at the banana and smiled. Her smiling eyes were still as bright as some twenty years ago when she was an elementary school teacher, when her hair was still black and shiny.
"And what are these?" she asked.
"Two bottles of vitamin B." I said.
"What for?"
"I've just read a research article on memory loss due to brain shrinkage because of age. Taking vitamin B regularly will prevent brain shrinkage and keep your memory sound." I explained. She smiled, a cuddling smile of a first grade teacher.
"I'm okay. I'm just getting older." she pushed her wheel chair closer to the door. She wanted to enjoy the sweet warm breeze from the rice field across the street.
"I know. But you began to forget things easily Mom."
"I know. I'm 76 now." she said, fixing her thin silver hair that moved gently blown by the afternoon breeze.
"You were my first grade student long time ago. I taught you how to write and read; how to memorize lessons better but I have taught you one thing." she said as if I were her first grade student.
"I haven't taught you the art of forgetting." she said. I saw her eyes were so lively, the pupils had turned gray but they were still strong.
"Why should I learn it?"
"There is a point in life where we need to start to learn to forget things."
"But how can you live without knowing the days, the dates, your sons, your daughters, or even your own name." I interrupted.
"Not being able to remember is painful but not being able to forget is even more painful."
"Grandma couldn't remember me on her last days."
"You're right. She was very clean." she gazed at grandma picture on the wall, her gray smiling eyes were so happy.
"What do you mean?"
"We used to quarrel over trivial things. She must have forgotten all our fights."
"But you were also very kind and caring when she was older."
"Both good and bad memories weigh up your soul." she looked at the vitamin bottle closely.
"You better take these pills yourself. You need them more than I do, then stop taking them when you are my age." She handed me over the bottles.
"We came to the world with pure clean mind; we should be in that state when our soul embarks." She said with a happy timber in her voice.
"The sweetest gifts from you were the birthday kisses. You were always the first to kiss me, very early in the morning before I even realized that it was my birthday. Wouldn't it be nice to bring some sweet memories?" I asked.
"No. They would impede your journey. You should be as light and warm as this breeze when you are about to take your journey to eternity." she let the warm gentle breeze caressed her all silver hair.

[2] The Blackened Toes

It was a long day. Everything was slow and unproductive. My computer was overloaded; much of my work was left undone. The bus home was crowded, crept along the city streets like a dying lizard. I was so weary by the time I got home. I kicked my new suede shoes off my feet and plunged myself into the sofa, lying on my back. I closed my eyes toward the computer screen and all my works off.
“Oh, shit …” I opened my eyes, my toes were blackened. I should have listened to my father. I shouldn’t have worked too hard. I should have dressed up nicely when I went to work.
My father used to work in a small electronic repair shop across from the pawnshop. He used to dress up neatly as if he had worked in the local bank nearby. His worn out shoes were somewhat shiny. The color of his socks was always matched with his trousers. I hated dressing up for work. I hated socks. I hated their smell. That was why I wore the casual suede shoes with no socks.
There was only one thing in common between my father and me. We both loved books. Though we love books in a different way. He always brought home at least one new book every time he got his paycheck. He often had heated argument with mom on how he spent his money on books. My mom also loved books, different kinds of books.
He really loved reading. He went to college to study Eastern literature. He sank himself in philosophy, archeology, anthropology, history, and those kinds of books.
I loved sniffing new books. The smell of newly printed ink on paper intoxicated me. I hated reading. I read a few lines and inhale the rest of the story through my nose. I closed my eyes and let the letters, words, sentences, and the whole story flowed into my lungs. My lungs crushed them into smaller grains. They were circulated by my blood, filled my body and my head. I was shivered by intoxication.
I met everyone from the books. I often talked to the French archeologists who excavated the first men on the island of Java. I met those Java people before the island was conquered and occupied by the people from mainland Asia.
The native Java people had darker complexions and curly hair. Their cheek bones were sharper and higher. Gradually they intermixed with the new comers producing what we knew as today’s Java people.
My father always thought that I was asleep when I held his books in my arms with my eyes closed. I carefully took the book from my arm, didn’t want to wake me up, but he chased the people from the book away. He did not understand my conversation with them. He always scared them off.
He was always affectionate about books. Even when he was lying on a hospital bed because of Hodgkin's lymphoma, he asked for books. One evening I sat by his bed, he was reading an archeology book about death and burying tradition. Suddenly he stopped reading and tried to kick his blanked off his feet. He was too weak.
“Can you lift the blanket from my feet?” he said.
I removed the tips of the striped hospital blanket from his feet. He narrowed his eyes, looking hard into his toes. It seemed that his old weak eyes couldn’t see them.
“Do my toes blacken?” he asked.
“Why?” I asked back and looked at them.
“When they blacken, my time soon will come.”
“No. They are not getting black.” I shook my head and lied. Five days later he died.
Five days after my blackened toes I didn’t die. I lived a more productive life. I dressed up to work, had my hair cut, and wore socks.

[3] The Stupid Man

Roosevelt and State Street bus stop was in south loop of Chicago. It was in the corner of the street. People going south were mainly Asian, Latino, and African American. The bus went to Harlem via Chinatown.
It was getting dark. Yesterday’s snow was brown and began to melt. The sleet began to fall from the sky. It looked like small glass beats under the street lights.
Two lovers were holding hands, looking at each other’s eyes for a very long time. No words were uttered. They both were releasing the pain of not seeing each other for years, thousands of years perhaps. Or even they hadn’t met since their previous life.
Sleets were falling on their heads, trapped on their hair. They were like a prince and a princess wearing diamond tiaras. They both were Asians. They were in their 40s perhaps, guessing the age of Asian people was not easy. They must be from different country because they spoke in English.
“Do you miss me?” the woman asked.
“Why should I miss you? I always keep you in my heart.” The man said, still looking at the woman’s eyes.
“So, you never missed me all these years?” the woman asked him for the second time; her eyes were getting red and wet, gusted by the icy dry wind of the winter.
“Sweetie, I’ve told you that I never missed you because you are always in my heart.”
“When I am out of your sight, you don’t remember me, do you?” Her voice was soft and low. She began sobbing. Her warm tears caressed her frozen cheeks. She turned away avoiding her lover’s eyes. Her wet eyes reflected the blazing lights from the cars passing by.
“Do you ever get jealous?” The woman asked without taking her eyes from the street. The traffic light was green. The cars left them slowly. It seemed that the woman drifted away, moving with the cars leaving him. There was no jealousy in his heart.
“Why should I?” the man asked. The traffic lights turned yellow and then red. The cars stopped. Time and everything seemed to stop. Only the falling sleets showed that the world was moving.
“So you never got jealous to me? So, you don’t love me.” Her eyes were damp, staring at the street lights.
“I always trust you. There is no reason for me to get jealous of you.” The man tried to look into the woman’s eyes. She turned away.
“You are not jealous to the dirty men starring at me?”
“I have told you. I trust you. If you enjoyed the starring of those dirty minds that was your choice.”

“I wish you were jealous.”
The man stood still.
“I will tell you how my lovers seduced me.” The woman said.
“I will still be loving you without jealousy. They only wanted your body. They caressed your skin but never made it to your soul.”
“You are not jealous. You don’t love me… “The woman ran and disappeared into the subway tunnel. The man stood still just like a street lamp post let his lover disappear in the arm of the night.
“Stupido…” the Latino woman at bus stop said.
“Fool. You gotta lie man, lie won’t hurt.” The African American muttered.
Route 62 bus arrived. We board on the bus leaving the man stand tranquil alone next to the bus stop. Snow flake began to cover him. His face turned green, yellow, and red under the traffic lights.

Impressum

Widmung:
For my Mother who taught me how to read and write And my late Father who taught me how to love books.

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