February Third
By Kayla Yang
My mom won’t let me pierce my ears a second time, so you can imagine how pale her face got when she saw the little orange square on my license. “Organ Donor” is synonymous with “You’re going to rip up and destroy my daughter’s vessel to the next life?” in Buddhism. Sorry, mom.
Mom, tell me, why do you always take the long route to Grandma’s house? Why do you turn left when Siri tells us to turn right, and why do we always arrive 22 minutes past the arrival time Google Maps projects?
One time, she forgets. We turn right where we’re meant to and arrive at Grandma’s early, but the damage has been done. We’d seen the sad, grimy fences, the gravestones and the flowers, the people and the tears. The damage has been done.
When I die, two people are allowed to read a eulogy at my funeral: my dad and Savannah. Every other important person in my life is either too dramatic, will try to use my death for personal gain (even if it’s subconscious), or both. My dad would die for me, but would never forgive himself if I lived longer than him.
Savannah will write something sad and harrowing. Her writing’s always been better than mine, yet I’m the one who ended up becoming an English major. Regardless, she will never use me for anything other than myself. I know this for a fact.
I hope Uncle Tommy doesn’t get too drunk.
“You know, I’ve never seen a gay Asian before.” my uncle remarks over dinner.
He’s right. Here, you can be gay, or, you can be Asian (if you speak fluent English and have diminished all visible aspects of your culture). But a gay Asian? My best friend, who’s bi, dances at a traditional Chinese studio three nights a week, but she also works at Barnes & Noble.
That night at home, I ask my mom what would happen if I liked girls.
“It would just be better if you didn’t, you know?” She says. “It would be easier—for you. It’s not bad, but, don’t you want kids someday?”
I’m not gay, not really at least. Just curious.
My mom deflects and starts talking about dinner instead.
After dinner, it sinks in. We’ve driven away from home, because I asked him to. My uncle tells me that life is so, so sad, and I believe him, because that’s what I’ve wired myself to do.
Surreal, he says, it looks so surreal. I can only nod. Nothing about the sunset is surreal to me.
Things that the skyline separates are as follows: the sea and sand. The sun and the moon. Me and him.
At daybreak, we leave, driving off in his mom’s old car that squeaks and groans and moans every time he turns on the ignition. In an abandoned parking lot, we eat eggs. Hard-boiled, with salt and hot sauce packets I stole from Panda Express earlier that night.
“Give me your shoes.” he says. He knots the fat white laces together, hoists himself onto the rusty roof of his car, and tosses them onto the telephone wire above us. The birds scatter.
It takes years, of waves lapping against the surface, of closed fists and stepping on muddy puddles with sock-covered feet, of picking up shells and chucking them back into the water, for me to pick up my courage and shove it in their face. They aren’t happy with these developments. It takes me three years alone to get over the fact that my shoes will never be water-logged again. Stinky feet. Foot fungus. I’ve healed
Kayla Yang
9/12/2020
Kayla Yang is a second year at UC Davis studying psychology and english. She enjoys making earrings in her free time.
And here’s a bit about the piece!
This poem isn’t about anyone in particular, it’s sort of just amalgamation of experiences that I’ve taken from my own life and from the lives of people around me.
