Under the Violet

I used to think that oceans were all clear jewels,

sleepy and calm and steady

under the watchful gaze of golden days and purple nights.

I used to think about the world in nature metaphors.

I remember observing my father gardening

whimsical flowers and pulling up weeds,

watching him take out a mess of roots

so that it will never grow or survive again,

and I remember thinking:

“Yes. Yes. Weeds are pulled, flowers are kept.”

I used to think that all people were good,

and the few bad people that populated the world

would be punished.

I used to think that people didn’t die for no reason,

that good was rewarded,

that the light prevailed,

that there were no inequalities or injustices in the world,

and if there were, they would be corrected quickly.

I used to think that bad outcomes could be avoided,

or that it would never happen to me,

because I am a good person, and my life is good.

My mother makes me breakfast while I sip orange juice in the kitchen,

wishing me a good day;

I giggle as I run through the cold waters of a sprinkler in my backyard

with my sisters.

I go to school. I have friends.

But the ocean is polluted.

People kill.

Evil prevails.

We don’t always win.

The gardener of life does not just pull weeds.

Bad fortune can strike anybody,

and that is the fear that pulses

through our hearts and makes us lie

awake at night unable to sleep

because we’re afraid that we won’t wake up in the morning -

or worse, that we’ll wake up and not like what we wake up to.

What’s the point, then, right?

If the world is so cruel,

if you can be the best person you can be

and still not survive,

what’s the point?

But here is a secret I’ve discovered.

I know that in the course of my life,

I’ll both fly and fall,

and perhaps I’ll fly more than I fall,

or maybe I’ll fall more than I fly,

because the world can be cruel to flowers, but here is what I remember:

I remember mother’s hands through my hair as I sip orange juice at the kitchen table,

I remember the shrieks of my sister as she feels the cool water of the sprinkler on her back.

And I remember the interconnected bundle of roots

that ground us and allow us to grow,

that can be taken out but require a lot of pulling,

that we need to survive.

Somewhere in the city,

a little boy thinks that oceans are all clear jewels,

sleepy and calm and steady

under the watchful gaze of golden days and purple nights.

And under the violet he slumbers.