I write this almost five years after the world ended. It’s weird to look back on Covid because it was such a good time for me personally. It was nice to stay home and spend time with my family. Anecdotes float about the room, and the walls stand firm in agreement. I fake it and nod.
Each morning, on her way
to make a living, my mother passes
that business, now closed, where—
I’ve tried not to think of it—
a man killed three Korean mothers
just like mine[1].
Memory trips over a narrowly hidden wire, falling face-first into a bottomless pit. Where in your body do you feel the emotion? is something therapists usually ask—it’s a way to pinpoint where the body is hurting.
Everywhere.
[1] Franny Choi’s poem It is what it is