I blinked. I blinked again. Each time I blinked, searing pain ripped across my right eye.
Something’s not right.
It’d been going on for months. Every morning I’d wake with red, painful eyes—my right eye worse than my left. I’d quit wearing contacts weeks ago, but these days the redness wasn’t clearing up like it used to . . . and drops weren’t helping.
The heat pummeled me as I stepped into the garage.
What is this? The Sahara? . . .
. . . I might actually have to get a gym membership if this keeps up.
I was headed out on my bike. It was 10:30 p.m. The current temperature was 90° F (32° C). I was miserable.
. Continue reading
Sometimes you don’t know how much something means to you until . . .
I looked. I looked again. What on earth?
My jewelry box was missing.
Where could it have gone?
It was late. I was tired. But I couldn’t sleep–not now. I began searching. Under the bathroom sink, behind the toilet, in my backpack, in the trashcan . . .
In the trashcan? you’re probably thinking. Are you crazy?
Perhaps I should explain. Continue reading
used to feel guilty for being who I am.
I am a U.S. citizen. I was born to two loving parents who worked hard to provide for their children. I have never had to worry about food or shelter. I have never been abused, raped, or neglected. I have a college education and have been privileged to travel to many different parts of the world.
Why me? Why did I laugh as a child while other children cried? Continue reading
I remembered, after my last post, a conversation I once had with a friend.
“My teachers told me I was stupid.”
I looked at him. “They did what?”
“They told me I was stupid.”
“That’s terrible! Why would your teachers say that?”
“I don’t know. My grades were bad.” He looked out the window. The sun was sparkling on the water. It was a surprisingly clear Hong Kong day.
“Your grades were bad because you didn’t study, not because you’re stupid.”
“The education system is messed up.” He glanced back at me and then down at the table. There was a checker board there, in case we’d brought pieces to play. Continue reading
He was short. When he walked, he lilted—up and down and up and down—bobbing as a buoy on the sea. Maybe because one leg was slightly longer than the other. Or perhaps he had flat feet.
No matter the weather, he wore a t-shirt (fitted tightly over rounded belly) with shorts and flats. Sometimes he wore a sweatshirt. His sandy beard he kept unkempt. His bus, however, was immaculate.
I saw him often—on my way to and from home. He drove the 103M, the minibus between Tseung Kwun O, the closest MTR station, and Clear Water Bay. Around and around he’d circle, letting passengers on and off, waiting in the dimly-lit parking garage for people shivering or sweating to fill the bus so he could take them home. While he waited, he’d wash the bus windows. Sometimes, he’d whistle. Continue reading
My running route in Hong Kong.
There are roads—
paths I know by heart.
Up and down and up and down,
End to start.
There are paths—
friends I pound apart.
Fast and slow and fast and slow,
with no restart.
There are friends—
routes of little art.
Loud and soft and loud and soft,
They know my heart.
- what orion said (jesscy.com)