Peruana

The sky is white with flecks of gray, 

Like the first snowfall in a city, but collected in the clouds. 

The cool breeze brings in snatches of the street over the walls. 

Engines whining blend to make a never ending wash of rushing water. 

The strum of the flamenco guitar and trumpets waft in from an open window, blaring from the radio fastened to the hip of an old crooked woman, smacking her cloth duster along in time. 

The neon green walls are at once welcoming and nauseating, like the strong perfume of an old grandmother, masking the scent of old age. 

I have never felt so immediately at home. 

A New Stranger

I am struck by how familiar this place is. I was here once, years ago, when it was a different restaurant. Fragments of memories rush back to me as I gingerly lay down my pint glass on the cast iron table. Amused that while the rest of this cafe had been meticulously crafted to look as old as the city, it was only a few years old. Tables and chairs and counters were made of ancient oak, the walls adorned in old and faded wallpaper, and covered with framed British posters in equally aged frames. In fact the newest looking thing, this table, was the only holdover from the restaurant it once was.

Surrounded by friends, new and old, talking about the tallest mountain in the world. Arguing really (should it be the farthest point from the equator, or measured from the base, where is the base anyways?). I remember this conversation. We've had it many times before. Times past when I had taken part too. In a van whose ceiling drooped. Ice cream melting onto our laps. We giggled as we spoke, not arguing at all. Almost playing off each other. I kept having to blow the hair out of my eyes every few minutes just to talk to them.
Boys walked past in shorts, riding skateboards, and girls strode uncertainly on high heels and billowy sun-dresses, trying to dress years beyond their age. I remember feeling a type of content I rarely ever feel, the kind where the windows of that van could have turned to white, and the world outside could have disappeared, and I would've been fine with it. Fond, but not in love.

A woman's voice slips through my thought's of the past, singing words I had not heard in awhile. Sounding tinny on the café's speakers in a corner away from us. I take another sip, and strain to make out the words, the voice. And suddenly I am plunged back to a memory of a dusty road years past, barrelling along as small shrubs whiz by. I can feel the sharp plastic against my right ear, the soft foam covering the headphone earbud lost two cities back. Her voice is here, electricity flowing from my lap and into my ears. My right arm, hanging out the window in the back seat, has browned considerably from a combination of pollution in the air, and too much sun. A herd of elephants stare as we pass by, long since desensitized to the plumes of diesel as they roll past. I remember feeling small, distant, both from those on the other side of the planet, and those in this very car sitting in front of me.

I am brought back to the present after feeling a dry itch inside my throat. I take another sip, staring through the side of the glass at the table across from us. Still my friends are arguing (we're talking about mountains on earth, I don't care how big they are on Mars). The table is familiar, and stands apart from the rest, not the same design or shape. Cast iron with a hole in the middle for an umbrella. Rusted over from years spent outdoors.

This place used to be a pizzeria, I remember. I remember a cool late summer night. We were searching for a place to eat. We were still new to a city we had lived in our whole lives. I remember I wiggled my left big toe in my shoe, probing the hole in the front I had discovered earlier in the day walking from the bus stop. We sat at one of the square cast iron tables, trying to make heads or tails of the menu
Things like pesto and gorgonzola and calabrese salami were so delightfully foreign and new. I remember how open the world still felt, that something so close could be so exotic and fresh.

I return again to the present as the server approaches our table. A break in the argument as dessert arrives (because nothing goes better with beer than cake voice oozing with sarcasm). As I bite into the red velvet cake, I cringe at the shock of sugar to my system that is still trying to make beer taste sweet.

I remember the first time I ever came to this place. In its current incarnation that is. It was early spring, and we had just arrived after failing to find food at a Shakespearean festival. I was surrounded by friends I had not seen in a long time (in hindsight, I haven't seen them since either). I was wearing dress pants, a notion I was still unfamiliar and uncomfortable with, as with the collared shirts. I remember sharing stories of nostalgia and childhood games with them all. How it used to be back when our worst worries were how long it was until recess. And all I could think was how they were all like people sent off to space for me. I had known them all well years ago. They had lived on only in my memories. They had lived there as children, Now, suddenly, they appeared before me again one day as adults, with fully formed opinions and tastes and culture that I couldn't even begin to understand. I remember feeling juvenile, that I had been left behind while everyone else had been off growing up.

A tap on the shoulder, and a slip of paper is placed before me (you ready to pay or are you hoping we'll cover you?). A friend asks if I am okay, I hadn't said anything all night.

I am fine, just tired, or so I say. I pay my share, say my goodbyes, and run across the street to my car, shielding my head from the rain. I sit heavily into the car. And I think. Of all the different people I once was, how if any one of these people had met me now with none of our past history, we would have nothing in common. People who had been so dear to me in a lifetime past were now strangers that felt obligated to keep in touch. I wondered what, in the future, we would talk about. If every year I will be a new stranger to even myself.

Why I write poetry

Come on, you sons of bitches! Do you want to live forever?
     ~Daniel Daly

I don't want my legacy to be an empire.
I don't want it to be a story of a man who rose above the odds to do great things or wondrous things or amazing things.
I don't want my blood and seed to wash across the earth.
I don't want my point of view and values and ideals and ideas to live on without me.
I don't even want the remains of the molecules of my dust to go anywhere in particular.

I just want to leave behind these emotions, this feeling.
The intensity of joy when I saw her smile.
The swell of pride when I knew it was just for me.
The unending grief when she finally left me.
The unbreakable peace I know I will feel when I finally, eventually, meet her again in the next life.

I don't know how to leave any of that behind.
So I write these words in hope that somewhere hidden among them, those feelings can hide.
And come back out when I'm long gone.
And leap off the page, and onto your face, into your heart.

And then, then I will live forever.

I am an Island

I woke up today like any other day. Hair matted with a combination of sweat and drool. I sleep with my mouth open because of my cystic fibrosis. Mild cystic fibrosis. The doctor had called it mild anyway. That most people are diagnosed when they are just a baby, that I was lucky I was only 20 when it set in. It means I am constantly getting sick with the flu, and have attacks of shortness of breath. He said it wasn't life threatening, but I would be dealing with it for the rest of my life. That was five years ago.

I used to get scared about it. A lot. Thinking that one day I would get another attack, and that would be it. My lungs would just give up, and I'd choke on my own lungs. Its scary to think that at a moment's notice my body would decide to give up on me. That's what I think kicked me in my ass. That thought that not only would I die, but I'd die because I had weak lungs. I'd never thought about excercising my lungs before, but now it seemed pretty damn important to do it. So I started running. And playing soccer. It's not like I was completely out of shape or anything, but I started doing it like my life depended on it. Because I thought my life DID depend on it. I imagined my cystic fibrosis was a tall and skinny monster with compound bug eyes and pincers, and was chasing me when I ran anywhere. Just waiting to catch up to me and clamp down on my lungs.

After three months I started to feel better. I had fewer attacks and my breathing felt even more normal. It still struck when I slept, but I started sleeping with a few pillows under my head, and with my mouth open. It all seemed to help. But then, I had the mother of all attacks. I was running on a fall afternoon, just around sunset, when my lungs stopped. Not slowed down, so it was hard to breath, but stopped altogether. I banged my chest, grabbed my throat, but nothing. They had given up. I thought that was the end for me.

I passed out.

I remember waking up in the hospital. My doctor was there with the other hospital doctors, and my mom and sisters. She was yelling at him, but in Chinese and of course he didn't understand. My sisters were trying to calm her down. I couldn't make out what they were saying. But one of the nurses noticed me waking up, and ushered them all out of the room, all except for my doctor. He told me I was lucky that someone had noticed me falling down on the sidewalk. They were able to resuscitate me, just barely. He said it was a very bad idea to have been excercising that hard. That my cystic fibrosis made my lungs weak, that I had to go easy on them. I couldn't go full out like I had been doing and expect it to be okay. Of course that scared the crap out of me. The doctor later told me that my recovery should have been in a day or two, but I ended up taking almost two weeks.

I was hooked up to something called a CPAP. It was like a breathing mask, but just for my nose. It also kind of scared me, but only at first. It always felt like someone was holding the end of it closed for a split second every time i breathed in or out, but would also blow a bunch of extra air into my lungs. Once I got over the fear of each breath being held for half a second, I started to really appreciate it. My lungs felt like they did when I was running. Completely full and puffed up. I would watch the clear tube snake down between by breasts, and I would try to breath in as much as I could, and push the tube out as far as I could. I imagined my lungs getting so full that the space between my breasts would fill up, until I just had one big boob, filled with air. I think the medication they had me on kept me a little crazy like that. A few hours after I woke up they tried to take the CPAP away from me, but I felt like I was going to have another attack again. I could feel my lungs grow weak with each breath not on the machine. Like my lungs were slowing down to a stop. I had to use all of my concentration to keep my lungs opening and closing.

I cried, scared that the next breath was going to be the one last one. I cried that these damn doctors didn't care if I couldn't breath, they just wanted me out of their hair. I cried because my mom was still screaming outside the room, and it was taking all of my family to keep her calm. I cried because nobody was there with me.

But after two weeks of sitting in that bed, breathing luxurious air, I started to remember running. I started to remember the feeling of the cold autumn air rushing into and out of my lungs. The feeling of fullness was the same as the machine, but somehow better. Maybe because that feeling was deserved. Because I had earned each lungful of air when I ran.

I looked at my legs and noticed how flaccid they looked. I hadn't walked on them at all for the past two weeks, except for trips to the bathroom, CPAP held in hand. They looked lumpy. Like the muscles underneath had turned to mush.

I took off the CPAP, and focused on my breathing. I didn't let the fear take over. In my mind, I shrieked my mantra "IN TWO THREE FOUR, OUT TWO THREE FOUR". Long, deep breaths. They didn't feel as full as on the machine, but still I didn't feel like I was about to die. I kept this up for god knows how long. Long enough that I felt like I could breath on my own again. Long enough to check myself out of the hospital.

I remember leaving the hospital. I remember climbing out of the wheelchair and walking out into the cool air. I felt my lungs fill with real air. I imagined little trees on the inside of my lungs, brown like the leaves on the street, puffing up as the cool air blew past them. Puffing up and sucking in as much as they could. Turning more and more pink with each breath.

I couldn't believe the exhilarating feeling I was getting from this. I started to walk. My breathing getting a little harder, after not exerting myself for the past while. But my lungs were getting stretched out. I couldn't stop the feeling at all. The need. I picked up my pace a little, jogging to the end of the driveway of the hospital, and around the corner onto the country road. I could feel that feeling again. The feeling of fullness, but this time so much more gratifying.

It was then I decided, that there was absolutely no way my doctor could be right about this. Something that felt this good, this healthy, couldn't possibly be that bad for my lungs or for me. I ran as fast as I could, for as long as I could, stopping every once in awhile to relish the deep heaving breaths I needed before taking off again. I don't know how long it took, but I ran the whole 15 kilometers to my apartment. I collapsed on my bed.

A few weeks later I went to a new doctor. This one was younger than my usual one, and seemed more enthusiastic. The first thing he told me was that my last doctor was an idiot. Not just an idiot, but was probably completely outdated. It had been proved over a decade earlier that exercise was not only not harmful to my condition, but probably helped with the symptoms of cystic fibrosis, specifically because it excercised the lungs. I never went back to my old doctor. It was probably for the best, a year later he lost his license in a malpractice suit.

I am still here, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I can still hear him snoring softly beside me. I always felt conflicted about his snoring. As much as it kept me up sometimes, he also put up with my drooling. It got pretty disgusting, sometimes the entire pillow I was using would be drenched. But he never seemed to mind, or at least never let on that he did. I watched the sheets draped over him, rising and falling with his every breath.

I wonder if he really appreciates every breath for all it's worth. Probably not. I never told him about my condition. The most I've ever mentioned was that I have to sleep with my mouth open, just because.

I don't know how he can sleep. This is the first time he has slept fully clothed in months. He almost looks more peaceful than he normally does while sleeping.

For every night, for the past year, nearly, we had been making love, hoping for a child. We had been together for nearly three years now. We had decided we didn't really care if we ever got married or not, but we did love each other very much, and wanted to have a child together too. But after months of trying with no results, we both got worried. But we were also scared of what the doctors might have to say about it, so we put it off for a long time. But last week, he came home late at night, and told me he had seen a doctor about infertility. He had gotten tested, and everything had checked out for him.

I saw my doctor last night. That's when he had broken the news to me. That in normal cases of cystic fibrosis, infertility is a possibility for women, but because mine was so mild he had been hoping it wouldn't be an issue for me, and since I had never brought up having a child to him, he had never mentioned it. He then confirmed that although I wasn't actually sterile or anything, that it would be exceedingly difficult to have a child. Not only that, but since I already suffered from cystic fibrosis, that there was a very good chance that our child would have it too. In fact it could have it worse than me. He said my boyfriend would have to get tested for carrying the recessive gene for cystic fibrosis. If he did, it'd be a one in two chance that our child would also have cystic fibrosis.

The walk home from the bus stop to our apartment was long. Long enough that I thought of how I would break the news to him.

"I went to the doctor today"
"Hmm?" He looked away from the TV to me.
"Turn that off for a second, we need to talk"
"What's the matter?"

I looked into his eyes. So much concern. I felt myself begin to cry, but I stopped myself.

"I went to the doctor today. He said.... he said I was sterile. That I can't have kids, that I'll never have..."
It was the farthest I could go without crying. But just after the first sob, I felt it. The shortness of breath. I hadn't gotten an attack in over a year, but it was back. Kicking me when I was already down. I fell from the couch onto the floor, holding my neck. I think he shouted, and grabbed me, cradled my head. I don't remember. I just remember slipping back into my old mantra, trying to instill calm to my body again.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. 


After a few panicked breaths, I started to regulate them again. Slowly I came to. My head was in his lap, and he looked down into my own eyes, frightened, phone in hand, about to call the ambulance. I reassured him I was okay, that I must have just fainted. I had never been around a person who had fainted before, neither had he, so he bought it.

We talked for hours after that. About children. About alternative options, like adoption, or in vitro fertilization. We talked about what we wanted out of life, what we wanted for each other and ourselves. We didn't come to many conclusions. Neither of us had thought very hard about the future, all we had known was that we had wanted kids.

We didn't make love that night. We both went to bed without much talking. He didn't kiss me good night. Not that I really noticed either.

And now he's sleeping, without any other cares in the world. Without fear that his next breath might be his last.

Standards

We shoot for the stars in what we want.
Unwilling to settle.
Wanting that which we clearly do not deserve.
We can't even be happy with what we deserve.

And we feel bad.

Sometimes you need to break down your insecurities
Sometimes you need to let yourself live with abandon and verve

You need to not worry about tomorrow

About who might be hurt by the mistakes you know you're making

I scurry about quietly
Hoping your gaze doesn't graze my coat
That I don't become transfixed in the spotlight