Komorebi

January 18, 2022

fall.

This much is clear: the universe is playing some cruel joke on all of us.

I’m changing, growing. Then bam, the punchline hits me, and I’m here again, right back at the beginning. Not sure if I ever knew where I was going.

I’m listening. Trying to untangle this knot of thoughts and commit them to paper. But the words are all wrong. They disappear before they reach the page.

Whatever happens, I’m going to be alone. We all are.

He’s been at it the whole morning. Writing, destroying. Rewriting, redestroying. He tears out page after page and unceremoniously rips his work to shreds.

For a moment he lets his head fall back as he watches the canopy overhead. Whispering leaves are not unlike waves. The patterns of light, the ocean spray. The cycle. He thinks: sunlight filtering through trees. Komorebi.

On the next line he adds:

Together.

winter.

The park at dawn, before anyone else has arrived, is her favourite place to be. Like Saturday mornings with Babciu in the fields when she was a girl. The sunlight smells the same.

Something flutters in the corner of the old woman’s eye. At first it reminds her of a pigeon: Alfred hated the things, especially when they got to the flowerbeds. She always thought they were kind of charming. But of course she never told him that. At least, not when he was still alive.

When she looks closer she realizes it’s a piece of paper, crumpled and damp with snow. For reasons she can’t quite explain, she reaches for it, carefully spreads it open on the bench before her. The pen marks have faded, but what she can read says:

I’m changing, growing… and I’m here again, right back at the beginning.

And the old woman smiles, because it’s about her.

spring.

On the driveway in front of his house, a boy makes figure eights on his tricycle. Round and round on the chalk racetrack. His wheels squeak to a halt when a woman with a stroller walks past. Something waves at him, something small and white that flies from the stroller wheel and lands at his feet.

Now you’re not supposed to accept gifts from strangers, but the woman didn’t give it to him, right? So it doesn’t count. The words are smudgy and slanty and hard to read, but Mrs. Li says he is bright, he is a hard worker and hard workers don’t give up.

the universe is playing

He doesn’t know who this Universe person is, but he wonders what sort of game they’re playing. If he asks nicely, maybe he could join.

summer.

A woman stands on the balcony of her sister-in-law’s apartment smoking a cigarette. She hasn’t had one in years, but tonight it envelops her with clouds of relief. Almost enough to drown out the car alarms and honking.

Five years. Did five years mean nothing to him? Had she been blind, had she ignored the signs? It terrifies her, realizing that as much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, we never really know anyone, do we? We never really can.

When she looks over the railing, into the smear of the too-bright red-yellow-green lights below, she wants to scream. And she almost does, because something cold and trembling catches her ankle. But it’s a piece of paper, swept by the wind. She unfolds it in her palm.

I’m listening.

fall.

Dawn streams through the leaves as two sparrows build their nest. They gather twigs and soft fibres, white fluff to cushion their eggs. When the fledglings are born, they are blind and naked and helpless. For a while.

Through the warmth of one another, cradled by words written in a language they will never understand, they will live. They will grow.

Alone. We all are. Together.