By Gary Kamiya
love him, that boy in my past, but he is too busy playing to understand. He is telling a story, catching a kickoff, waiting for the tide to come in. Then he looks over, and his look forgives me for what I've done to him. You see, I'm not writing about myself to set down the things that happened, I'm writing about myself to catch that look. Besides, it's useless, this business of history. An old log lying in the lake cannot tell its years. There are only water-stains, small torn leaves, ripples, reflected clouds. I have always tried to remember when I should have been looking; I never got over anything that happened to me. Was it supposed to be like this? Tell me, I want to know. What has it all been leading up to? To my long search for words that would go with me into the dark? To that face moving in too close when it was supposed to be far away? To notes from a guitar? To wood-dust rising up in a sudden shaft of sunlight? Yes, and to other things I'll tell later. At six, walking home from school, I was fascinated by the purple and green irridescence in a dead pigeon's neck. At thirty-six I am driving down Larkin Street, looking at the row of parallel traffic lights. They told me I have cancer; I live on a dice toss. Gracias. For a moment I feel the weight of my own life like a friendly hand on my shoulder. Looking ahead I am thinking that the lights extend not just ahead but in all directions including those unseen, I am thinking about the way it all goes on. So let's start, somewhere, let's make a beginning, and an end. -- May 1990 |
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