Disconnect

Location

I stare at my computer screen for a considerable amount of time,

My fingers idle against the keyboard as I contemplate on what to type

Write about yourself.

How?

As I search the back of my mind

And run countlessly through the memories that make up my life

I find myself void of direction

Who are you? The paper asks

Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?

Blank

Who am I?

Attempts to answer the question fail

As I hesitate in allowing myself to open up

Even after sixteen years of existence,

I still can’t even decide what my favorite movie is,

Let alone know how to write a memoir about my life

 

I don’t know much about anything.

But this is what I know:

There is noise; there is noise everywhere

The sound of the busy streets filled with passing motorcycles

They blur in with the clanking noise

Of tables being moved and chairs being folded

My mother stands with a broom in her hands

And scrapes from the broom sliding against the floor

Echoes loudly in the air as it is complemented by

The rhythmic sounds of a turning fan

A sound I’ve grown so fondly of

Another sound accompany this musical composition

It is the pitter-patter of my four year old feet

As I move across my grandma’s restaurant

 

Outside, the sky simmers down to a soft, orangey hue,

signifying the gradual end of the day

and I am home

I stand at the root of my heritage

In the soft comforts of my grandma’s home

I am home, in the then familiar country of Vietnam

 

But as I move past this sentimental reflection of my heritage

I find myself once again, in the midst of grandma’s restaurant

This time there is a knife in my hand

Little fingers barely able to comprehend

The sharp object within its grasp--

Is it a toy? Is it a stick? What is this?

A quick, sharp pain on my knee registers in my mind

And in that moment, I am able to understand what I was holding

 

I barely realize that the loud, piercing shrieks are coming from me

Before my mother rushes towards me

Her face stained with a worried expression

Unsure of the situation

As she takes in the scene,

Motherly instincts respond, and she leaves and returns quickly

Broom and napkin in hand

Broom and napkin?

Why is she holding a broom and napkin?

My questions are answered with the soft, cautious movement of my mother

She bends down and places the napkin on my bleeding skin

Hands guiding my own to hold it in place

She beckons me towards her as she holds out the broomstick

 

Unsure, my hands encircle the stick

As I follow obediently behind her

“Go sweep the floor.

It’ll help get your mind off the pain.”

She tells me

Before leaving to continue her work

I naively believed my mother,

willing myself to forget the pain as I swept idling against the dusty floor

The words of my mother repeatedly sauntered around my brain as I found myself silently crying to the light clatter of the straw broom brushing against the floor.

 

Such strange moments we remember

As memories, as lessons

Perhaps that is why self reflection is such a difficult thing

For me, personally

It has always been the manner of:

You’re going to be okay--just deal with it.”

Don’t make a big deal out of it

Keep to yourself, keep to yourself, keep to yourself.


 

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