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.