Washington weather,
Old news, fickle, my temper,
And when periodic rain clouds emerge,
The drenching, the cold mountain winds seem to agree with me,
Sympathizing, I am one with the rain,
Dancing around, a witch in a black raincoat.
And an unbearable heat washes over my body, a tingling, goosebumps,
So fucking unbelievable a smile, cackle, and the little voice reining me down is carried away,
I’m a shriveled date by the time I arrive home, it feels cold.
My fingers and toes become fat sausages,
It feels almost like nothing, and that is worth crying for.
The next day. The sun, the textbooks, I had to park a ways from school,
Trucking through the sludge,
I arrived, and it looked like I walked through a hurricane,
My schoolmates, otherly, walked through a cool, summer day.
Sweaty, jittery, my eyes were wide open,
my cheek muscles no longer strong enough to hold em up
I was terrifyingly sizzling, my mind a’buzzing, a hive of motivated bees.
“You look sad.” The teacher comments.
Sad? An odd ray of lightning parted the clouds, I look sad.
My muscles twitched alive to protest, and I slipped my made from Taiwan mask back on.
Sad. “What-What are you talking about?” I defensively quipped,
And his eyes looked like a surprised Picacho’s, wordlessly, defensivelessly, starts class.
My teacher is round.
Chubby is an overstatement, but he never lets us forget it,
That inner thought: round.
His mustache seemed to circle his face,
Like a lion’s mane, it wasn’t unkempt,
It was just him, and nobody really cared,
They were here for the ride,
And the ride was him, his circus, his live talent show, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, five hours a day,
The principal every year showcased his classroom to any outsiders,
My teacher was a success.
I often wondered what made you a success,
I don’t think money is the success,
My teacher definitely did not have the money, the fame (actually maybe), the anything,
My father on the other hand was the money, the king on the hill,
Only, it was a small hill, one little kids slide down when snow season starts,
His hill was something, but a something in his mind,
And the mind does interesting things,
Forgetting where the hill is located,
The hill could be Everest, Rainer, or unnamed,
But in his mind the hill was lavish, and there were cities built on his hill,
People climbed his hill, and took pictures,
His hill was something people made new world records on, mentioned in the Guinness world record,
His hill was published.
When I last saw his hill, it was the last party of the year,
he invited ten to twelve people to our tiny summit,
The people who told me they’ve seen me in diapers the last time we talked,
They were tall people who smiled often, but not with their eyes,
Their stares were analytical, and I was always to do a party trick like a circus monkey,
Whether it was speaking in Mandarin, playing the piano, or answering questions,
There was applause and laughter,
All for me, on that little summit, the size of a table tennis court,
When I stood, they cheered, they stared,
And this time, when the clock struck five, silence was atop the hill,
The television channels were switched around periodically as he checked his phone,
Messages were empty,
Our house was empty,
Clean and pristine, he had display lights on a shelf of antiques,
Just for this night,
But no one rang the doorbell, even at five-thirty.
They’re late, but he hasn’t even started cooking,
I rolled my eyes, rolled around my bed, prepping for their tall and booze emitting breaths,
Their questions, stares, smiles, and expressions.
I hated them.
But six rolled around, seven, eight, and finally, my mother called our neighbors to supplement the missing adults,
Confused, I asked my mom “why is Uncle Carl here, we had a potluck with them yesterday.”
My mom shook her head and pulled me aside,
It seems some hills fall flat.
His crashed in front of all of our eyes,
And it wasn’t just us, it was our neighbors, friends,
His hill deflated in a night,
And suddenly those faces I never really wanted to say hello to again,
I’d pay a few hundred for them to listen to my father again.
Not because I didn’t think he was a self-deluded child,
But because despite one’s flaws, I still love them for who they are,
Not because of their quality, but simply because they existed,
And they tried their very best,
Some people find it off-putting, their love is reserved,
But mine, hatefully or not, extends and solidifies into concrete.
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