Life is uncertain, eat wontons first

Had gone to my designer to do a fitting – yes I take my birthday bash seriously and have 3 custom made dresses. Then my girlfriend and I decided to grab something to go as we both had meetings. Instead I found this noodle house on Montgomery, across from the park in Chinatown near Commercial street. It was a hole in a wall kind of place, with an older man with a severe hunchback walking in slow steps serving small bowls of steamy noodles and wonton soup. There was something strangely familiar that drew me in, so I suggested for us to dine in. A bowl of wonton soup cost $4.79. It took five minutes for two bowls to arrive at our table. Staring into this chipped china bowl, it somehow transported me right back to Hong Kong or Guangzhou.

The restaurant was manned by three people: a man behind the counter to cook up noodles and wontons, a woman who was the cashier and the server, who also scooped up soups with a ladle and added beef briskets from a crock pot behind the counter, and then the hunchback elderly whom I saw earlier, who occasionally brought noodle soup bowls out to customers but often disappeared into the back kitchen, presumably to take a nap. There were some counter space for people to sit by, but the restaurant was not busy, so we took a table instead. The portions they served were more in line with what you’d expect in Hong Kong or Guangzhou, as in, it was appropriate and not super-sized like most American Chinese restaurants tend to serve these days. The wontons were crispy skinned and tender inside, with minced shrimp and pork as fillings, the clear broth had been scooped out of a big aluminum pot, which appeared to have been simmering on a stove for hours if not days. The chunks of brisket and tendon were at once tender and chewy, like the ones you’d find at Long Kee Noodle Shop, a place that Anthony Bourdain dined at in Hong Kong, and of course I ate at when I was in Hong Kong in 2010.

I was reminded of those early summer evenings when my mother took me to a nearby wonton shop outside of the school in Changsha, Hu Nan. Along the dirt road were sheds and stalls that served up different kinds of Hunan specialty – rice noodles, wontons, steamed sticky rice buns, often topped with pickled red chilies. My mother taught Chinese literature, and we lived on campus. My father travelled constantly for work, often leaving us a month at a time. He had women throwing themselves at him when he returned, and I supposed often on the road. My last year's therapy work uncovered suppressed memories of father taking me to visit his various women. It would not take a shrink to figure out why then as an adult, I could only be attracted to men who were rarely around and traveled a lot for work, and to this day, I do not have a jealous bone in me. I also felt that men should be free to mate as they please, and I had never based on my decision to stay with a man by how faithful he was in a relationship. 

My mother was not a happy woman. She had a thriving career, adored by men, and her students, but she was jealous, suspicious, for good reason, mind you, and she was often very upset, fought with my father and then later on, with those women who hovered. She shed tears, and finally attempted suicide. I observed and watched her suffer silently, I felt at first sorry for her but then I was annoyed. I found her ways of living difficult, incomprehensible, exhausting. I believe people are often disillusioned into believing one's love for another is dependent on promised physical loyalty. If you love someone, you ought to let the person be free and you ought to not have any expectations.

In those years of eating bowls after bowls of wonton soups and staring into a world in a way that only a helpless sad child could, I witnessed girls not much older than I being raped and molested by neighbors, teachers and strangers. I was a subject of an attempted rape once. I fought him off - he was the husband of a woman who was and still is my mother's friend - for that, I couldn't forgive my mother. I didn't recall how the subject of being forced down and having an grown man on top of me came up, I was barely 8, but I suspected no one believed me. I was then subsequently molested by another person repeatedly, by then I was 10 and no one seemed to care. I was horribly beaten by drunk or angry father, yelled at constantly by my unhappy mother, and I anticipated when that hand might come striking down on my face, for no apparent reason. Around autumn, on the heel of me turning 12, I found myself abandoned in a military hospital by my parents, suffering from an actual heartbreak. There, injured soldiers befriended me and we'd run into the woods and pick fallen chestnuts. When I was merely 13, my mother entrusted me to a male summer camp counselor, you know how that story would lead and end. Yet, throughout, miraculously, my grades never suffered. I was always at the top of my class and won academic competitions at a city of ten plus million people. My therapist said that I suffered from multitude of PDSD, and had I been born into U.S., 9 out of 10 I'd have become a crack addict. Yet, somehow, my soul never got crushed. I was still whole.

If you ask me today whether I’d wish for my life to change, I’d tell you no. I am who I am today because of my experiences. However hideous my past was, it made me whom I am today.

Plus, I always had fond memories of being very young, and in a stall, sitting on a little wooden chair, slurping up warm wonton soup. Steam rose covering my face, and there, one could cry and everyone would think you simply had taken one too many bites of chili peppers.

My shrink thinks that I should be more assertive when it comes to emotions. I shrugged when I heard her saying that. I’m not a demanding person. I will be the first to admit that I have intimacy issues. Which is why I had only one real boyfriend in the past, we dated on and off until I was married. I considered him my only boyfriend because he was the only person I loved unconditionally and he was the only person who adored and loved me affectionately. Of course he was never really around, he went to grad school in Boston and took a job in Wall Street. It was a long distance relationship at best; more like an illusion of a make-believe relationship. We barely talked on the phone, we wrote emails to each other sporadically. I went to visit him in Cambridge, he came to visit me in San Francisco. We never said "I love you" to each other. But in the end, when I decided to leave for good, to be married, he felt frantic and upset. He thought that I deserted him.

He told me that I broke his heart and it would never recover, he claimed. I couldn't tell if he broke mine or not.

I knew going in, I loved him the only way I knew how. Non-demanding, generous, unconditional, and never ever broke a promise. I knew he saw other women - it did not bother me. I knew he had trouble keeping promises - trips he failed to show, calls he failed to make, and emails he failed to write. I never gave up. I knew he had trouble committing; it did not bother me either. I believed in him. He was the light at the end of the tunnel.

Then, just like that, the light went out.

But that was before I was an adult. Before I grew up. You don’t become an adult until you pass 35.

I have children of my own now. They hug me and tell me that they love me. My children would have different lives than mine, thankfully.

What if the world is uncertain, and the only thing that one finds comfort in, is that bowl of wonton soup, served steamy hot, with beef briskets and a ladle of clear broth?

But suppose, let’s just suppose, for once, what if the old wonton shop had long been torn down in a city full of ghosts that you vowed to never return, and what if you found another restaurant, on the opposite end of the world, and just like that, you were given another chance to life, to feel alive, what then?

Winter is coming, darling. I would like to spend the last season, sharing the last bowl of wonton soup with you.

An except of "Declaration"

Since this is NOT the double secret site, I try not to write too explicitly. 

So this is just a short excerpt. The "cleaner" version for a story called "the declaration"

------

Boyfriend brought me to the bathtub. I was stripped naked. hair a bird's nest. Bathtub was basic in size, but the corner room was nice. It had a 180 degree view of the city. granted, it was the freeway heading to a dead end into the city street. It had a view. It was lit, the city was getting dark and we'd eaten. I missed his place. Our place. I called it "our" place, but it was not "ours,' it was not even his, sometimes. Like as in now. It was occupied by others.

I knew what he wanted to do. He had a hand held video camera. He was holding it because he had been recording us, recording me.

I told him only if it was good. Boyfriend laughed and said, "Of course it is good. It is great."
...

As I laid down on the hard bathtub, and as he entered me, his body against my now soaked, wet body covered by ...

"I love you." I said.

"I love you too." He answered.

...
He said that he told his sisters about us. About seeing me.

He told his friend about me. About seeing me. 
....

I love how we could go through a full circle. And now we were connected in more than one ways  Through his friends, family and images he painted of me, I was alive in other people's lives. Others who cared about him. Therefore, I had become an extension of their lives too. They would ask him each time they saw him, "How's that girl you are seeing? Are you still seeing her? How are you guys doing? Would we ever meet her?"

I suspected the answer was always, "She's well. Yes. Great. No."

I feel like sending boyfriend a survey every 45 days. Every 45 days a survey goes out to boyfriend that says the following:

"What do you like the most about her?"
"What do you like the least of her?"
"What would you like for her to continue?"
"What would you like for her to do more?"
"What would like you for her to stop?"

That's how each relationship should be like. It's a job performance. You survey to get feedback. You improve. You make an conscious effort to maintaining a healthy, strong, productive, open, transparent relationship while seeking constant improvements. You take criticism in strike.  You just keep on working on it until it's better.

No fuddy-duddy "I love yous." No butterfly-everything-is-great-until-it's-not mirage. Just plain facts.

Relationship maintenance was just a continuous improvement plans. Until you had fixed all the issues and then you survey again. And then after you had fixed those issues, you'd move onto others.
....

What if

This is not a poem, this is just a stream of consciousness...

What if I loved you
What if I loved you as I never did
with another

What if you put junior to sleep
opened your book to read
and thought of me

What if you woke up in the middle of the night
couldn't fall back to sleep
and thought of me

And at that precise moment
I felt you
I could feel you, you know

When you opened your book
When you woke up in the middle of the night
I stopped reading
I woke up too
I was wired that way, you know

I had always loved you
this way, always
I knew
I just knew

But it would be ludicrous
irrational
unconventional
illogical

You denied me
often
frequently
knowingly

But you knew I loved you
So there
we had settled it

I thought you liked to think of me
this person with tears streaming down
because you wouldn't reply
because I was denied
of your affection

Or you didn't think of me at all
what if you never did

What if
I just made this all up
in my head
you loved me too

On Friendship

Was having a rough day at work. Yes, I work in the corporate world and things happen. Friend was accommodating. Waited for me to finish my work, until near 7 PM and then met me for a drink (hey Sonja is right, Yelp app works, found the wine bar that has a 4.5 star rating nearby Cafe Prague, a place I wanted to go the last time I passed by with another but didn't get a chance to check out until now.) Sat by the (fake) fireplace, just talked and talked. Surprised myself with the ability to forge new friendship. Because, let's face it, the older you get the harder it is to make (real, close) friends. For one, you gravitate towards those who are similar to you, financially, politically, hobbies, interests, way of life, and way of living.  And the older we are, the more we are set in our own ways. So we tend to become more eccentric/peculiar/unique, or just plain odd.

Things as small as - "Do you like to travel?" or "Are you conservative?" or "Do you like Indian food?" or "How do you feel about public transportation?" or "What books are you reading?" can really make or break a friendship.

I was, for instance, turned off by someone who did not like Vietnamese food. So I wrote that person off - how could one not love Vietnamese food? Granted he was also very demanding of my time, which let's just say, was unsightly. Don't be texting me every day and get pissy with me because I have not responded. Let's face it, you are not that important. I prioritize according to my level of affection. Com'on, we all do!

So back to my questions above, in my case, yes, no, yes, pro, non-fiction. The last question is the most difficult one because what you read is often a representation of (the current state) you. So friend says "Thinking, Fast and Slow." I was like - "Hmmm. did you read my FB's posting of what I like to read? I read that book like eight months ago." Friend said "No."

OK, I suppose of all the books he picked, he did not say "Mocking Jay, Book 3 of The Hunger Games," which I also happened to read and "liked" at the time, when I went through a phase of teen novels (not proud, but hey, we all regress sometimes.)

I told friend about my impression of book clubs - "bunch of women reading sappy book and one or two lonely men show up trying to get a date." He said, "Oh just women drinking wine." Hmmm... If no men are in those book clubs, perhaps I should join one, if anything, drinking wine sounds good. As long as I don't have to be with bunch of bitter feminists bitching about men. How no one really know how to love them, how they are not appreciated by men, how men are flaky, unreliable, not to be trusted. I had been on that bandwagon once, it's called "Salad Bitch Night," back in late 1990s, in Cow Hollow, in Marina, a bunch of single women in their twenties trash talked about men while eating salad (well, not salad in reality, more like pasta.) But those were Ironmen chicks, they could eat whatever they wanted and still looked willowy. I was the hypocrite, bitch bitch then booty call. Always followed by a booty call.  Heck, men were easy to hunt when you were in your twenties.

Now I can be honest (see above about the many attributes about being old.) I like men. Heck, I love men. As long as they don't annoy me.

We promised to exchange the top ten books from each other’s Kindle collection.

I was reminded of another conversation about a month ago when I was going to get a book for someone, I picked up this book called "How to be a man" and then sat it down on the counter, somehow I knew he'd like it but I didn't know if he's already read it. When friend was saying he had learned to cut his hair because he ran out of time and he was reading this book, I blurred it out, "How to be a man" question mark. He said, "Yes."  I concluded I know him more than he thought I knew him, or for that matter, more than I thought I knew him.

It's good to know what friends like to read. Either that, or I'm a psychic. I'm not a psychic, by the way, otherwise, I'd predict that I'd have a horrible day at work.

So here is what I think about people. Agree with NYTimes, the older you are the harder it is to make friends - Kathy, I'm right there with you.  But on very rare occasions, we meet new people and we grow fond of them and we learn, to our surprise, that we are still capable of making new friends. Granted, the older you are, chances are, those whom you meet, are going to be younger than you, because they have yet to reach the conclusion of "the older you are, the harder it is to make new friends." As long as one person is open to the concept of new friendship,  it could still happen. The other, the beneficiary, aka the old dog, can still learn new tricks.

I don't believe in rushing things (I think I should be a wine maker,) I believe in still water runs deep (yes, my 1997 writing theme still stands,) I believe in time. Specifically, the passage of time, and if friends are to be friends, it must stand the test of time.

I look forward to sharing my life with my friends, old, and new.

You are my constant, # 2

One thing I hate more than uncertainty is certainty. Predictability is the kiss of death. In life, there should always be a revolving door of different characters. One in, one out, a few constant, a few distractions. (No, if you are reading this, it’s not you. You are not a distraction and this is not about you.) There should always be something new occurring in our lives. I am generally tremendously good at reading people, I’m rarely wrong (Yes if you are reading this, I said “rarely”.)  I know when to walk away. This is me walking away, but not from you.

Like a few people in my life, I have decided you should be my constant, as you have stood the test of time. You, the proverbial you, have been in my life long enough to also know just enough about me; to know where my weakness lies and where my strength is. You find me both irritating and remotely interesting. You think you know me but you won’t admit that to yourself. You are both secure and insecure in your assessment of me, for I have known to walk away. History has a strange way to paint pictures. I was told by a few that I tend to walk away. I don’t like closures so I simply walk away. I walk away when I was hurt, I walk away when I knew this won’t end well. But enough time has passed. Enough history has been written, told and retold. Each layer of history tints the truth just a little, and soon enough there won’t be any truth left. It’s just two people, trying to figure out how to begin, how to re-begin, how to repair, how to amend, and how to pick up the pieces and imagine a world anew.

So as I said before, I shall be your constant, always.

Heart and the Other

This is a story about Heart finding the Other.  A happy, love story, for once.

Heart returned. It wandered for quite sometime, traveled far and wide, contemplated staying in the deserts, hiding out in the glaciers, and even joining the tribes and becoming nomadic. But that’s what Heart did. Heart needed to explore the world as if it had never seen the colors of rainbow, as if it needed reassurance that home was where the Heart belonged.

So a journey began. It suffered aches, desperate longing, confusion and ultimately it broke into pieces. It fell off the cliff, taking the body and soul with it, it cried, silently. Engulfed with the nightfall, it wanted sun, faith, a healing hand, or simply the morning dew to feel alive again, but instead it was met with disappointment, destruction and demise.

An expiration date was stamped on Heart’s passport, it must depart or it would risk being deported. Heart left in a hurry, leaving unresolved feelings at the conveyor belt, unclaimed and discarded. Heart arrived at home where nothing was familiar. Heart wondered aloud, where had my home go?

Heart went back out on another journey, this time it carried several pieces of luggage. One named Past, one named Present and one named Future. In the Past luggage, it had memories, ghosts in the pockets and tears of sadness and regret. In the Present luggage, it contained decades of friendship, strange sensation called passion and intensity, and lots of misplaced emotions. In the Future luggage, it contained mountain fresh air, clarity and hope. But Heart could not open the Future luggage, and know the content of the Future luggage, for it was locked and the key was left in the cab inadvertently. Those damn New York cab drivers, they drove off before Heart had a chance to yell – “Stop.”

Heart went to remote places full of snow, glaciers and greenery, with few people around but lots of wandering, idle, content deer and moose. Heart did not bother to stop and smell the fresh meadows or the earthy woodland. Heart needed to find a Sharman, a fortune teller, for it was told that one lived in the deep dark forest where sun would not shine. This magical being would be able to provide directions and shed lights in the otherwise dark, endless tunnel. Heart was crying inside every night to sleep. Heart wanted what heart wanted, it wanted the Other, or as we humans called it, the “soul mate.” Heart knew that there must be another, the Other. Calm exterior, collected and reserved but volcano eruption inside, just like Heart. The Other was aggressive and commanding, it told Heart what to do and how to do it. Heart wanted to give up control and be with the Other. it was really that simple. Heart was and had been born a masochist. Heart knew the Other existed, the opposite, the balancing act to counteract Heart's secret desires. But where was the Other? Heart was lost and withering without the Other.

 Sharman was known for finding other lost souls. Her reputation preceded her.  She made heavenly matches on earth.  She had been expecting Heart. Sharman was ageless, one couldn’t tell if she was 20 or 50. She had a permanent fog in front of her, embodying a sense of mystery. Sharman did not speak but she nodded when she saw Heart. She extended her arm to touch Heart, Heart felt a sense of warmth, a sense of reassurance and even a bit of hope as Sharman took hold of Heart. Then Sharman started to chant. Heart waited, and waited. Eventually Sharman finished her chant and Heart spotted a smile, amidst the fog that surrounded the Sharman.

Sharman spoke in soothing, comforting and a bit hesitant voice. “You will find your way. Patience, my dear.”

Heart was angry. “For this I traveled? I could have said it so to myself. I wanted to know where the Other lived, could the Other belong to me? Would the Other want me as much as I wanted the Other? Tell me.”

Sharman replied, “Patience. You must have patience. Let things evolve. Let the Other know that you are here, by being ready. You must be ready to receive the Other. When the time comes. You will know. You will find the way.”

With that Sharman disappeared into the fog.

Heart was broken. Heart bled. Tired of searching, tired of wandering and tired of the no-news news, Heart went back home. New York was full of lost souls like Heart. Heart found companions in every possible way. They were not the Other but Heart settled. It told itself no more tears, no more wandering and no more waiting. Though Heart found no solace in these adventures, it felt empty, and all those wasted energy in those searches became tiresome. Heart wanted the Other, but where was the Other?

One day, Heart woke up and realized that it was time. Enough aimless nights with random souls that meant so little to Heart. Heart left its loft in a hurry and went for a walk. It realized enough was enough and Heart started tending itself. Heart focused, for the first time, on what Heart wanted. Heart wanted inner peace and a sense of direction. Heart found that happiness had to come from within, and could not, and would not come from  others, not even from THE Other, should the Other have ever existed. Heart erased its phone directory – you see, Heart was modern like us, Heart had used phones, texts and messengers. Heart gradually cleaned up its closet, and removed those skeletons and ghosts. Heart stopped wandering the night clubs looking for other lost souls. Heart was healing from inside this time. Heart found solace in spending time with itself, and dancing in the rain.

One day, Heart was out in the park, admiring the sun and rain. Summer rain was always Heart’s favorite. The rainbow formed a perfect arch across the Central Park, and there it was, Heart knew, it was the Other. Heart was delighted by its discovery, it knew, instinctively,  the Other was near. It felt a magnetic pull, drawing Heart closer to the edge of the park, there was a sense of peace, a perfect contentment, a steady heartbeat, as Heart approached the Other.

The Other waved and smiled. “I know you’d find me. I have been here, waiting for you.”

Heart was ecstatic. “Really? How come I didn’t know?”

The Other continued. “Haven’t you recognized me? I’ve been in your life all these years. I’ve always been here, since the beginning.”

Heart looked at the Other. The Other looked quite different somehow, perhaps it was the sunlight, perhaps it was the sound of the heartbeat, perhaps it was, finally, the right time. The Other looked calmer, self-assured, and matured.

Heart answered. “Yes you’ve always been here. I just did not know YOU would be the Other. I remembered how it all began. How you had lit up my world. I ran away the last time. I didn’t want to feel then. I couldn’t afford a heartbreak. But when I left you, I broke down, I was aimless and I went into wildness seeking for you. I'd do anything to feel that way again so I spent the last decade finding your replacements, but in the end, I realized what I needed, all along, was being with you. You knew me at core. You always had me. I was always yours and yours alone."

Heart remembered a passage it wrote many moons ago as Heart first left the Other.

“About a month ago while on an excursion to the wilderness, I brought you back from a nameless river. You were merely a form of energy back then. But somehow you decided to form an image and appear in my dreams, and since then you became a game player. Pretty soon in my dreams you formulated a list of activities and  you demanded me to play with you."

Heart worried the Other was a player. Heart was one itself. So was the Other.

“I told you that I was a cat. I had nine lives to live. Each one of them constituted its own journey. I told you that our journey was approaching to an end.  I was really quite fragile under the tough surface. My Heart was a clear crystal, if you pressed any harder than you already did, it would break into millions of pieces and I would never be able to put them back again."

Heart was onto its 9^th life, at this point, the last and the final form before transformation would take hold. The Other smiled. Heart remembered the smile being somehow foreign. It used to be radiant and carefree, seductive and playful. Now it was full of grace and grateful, grateful of Heart’s return, perhaps, or just being grateful that life had taken a turn for the better.

As the Other did once before to Heart, the Other announced in the same authoritative way: "You are mine, mine alone. You are beautiful now and you are mine now."

Heart did a dance, it twirled like a giddy teenager trying on a new prom dress. And then it said, and yes you predicted right, it said, “I Heart you!”

Heart returned.

Home, as the story would go, was never where Heart lived; it was, and would remain to be, from this day onwards, wherever the Other would be.

This Season, You and I

Relationships are a lot like seasons. There will be highs and lows. Like trees, it may even go dormant. You think it is dead one moment and then the next a peek of a green shoot sprouting at the top of the dry branches. One must be patient, to let things mature, play out, and not draw conclusions too hastily. Like a good bottle of wine, appropriate aging is needed.

 
I know a woman once. She once loved a man but walked away after getting tired of waiting, waiting for this man to make up his mind. She’s a pacifist. She made no decisions in matters dealing with her heart, she was only good at one thing, bailing. So she left him before he could leave her.

 
On his tenth anniversary with his wife, he sent this woman 21 messages, and when emails failed to convey his feeling properly, he texted her.  He wanted something with her, a fling, a reliving of the past, perhaps. I did not know. This woman never told me what happened after receiving those messages. But if I knew her at all, nothing would have happened. If there was one thing she liked more than bailing, it was avoidance. When she moved on, she really moved on.

I like to imagine a different type of story, a story where two people, old lovers perhaps, would re-meet fifteen or so years later and finally have a go at things, properly. They learned relationship, not anyone else's but their particular brand of relationship, is like the changing seasons: there will be climax, and there will be mundane, but they know through these ups and downs, peaks and valleys, they were going to be by each other's side. They understood each other, intrinsically. 

That, is the ending I’d like to read.
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It started last year, exactly this time. Before you could feel autumn in the air, before the leaves were turning into crispy papyrus, twirling as they fell, lingering in midair, unrelentingly grabbing onto the last bit of air before breaking into millions of pieces. 

Market Street was getting dark just after 7. End of August, I remembered it because I started shopping at Bebe's like I once did in the nineties. I could see the store from where I jogged, on a treadmill, before I had a private trainer, before my very first long distance race, before I knew the seasons would change in this city – I thought it only happened in the rural parts of the world. Not here, not when one fashioned pink dresses and yellow sunglasses all year long.

For a while the air was intoxicatingly sweet, exhilarating and unpredictable; there were white and pink flowers covering the skyline, falling petals covering the tree-lined street. It was like a snowstorm, except that it was not going to melt; it remained at the bottom of your shoes, and from there, it took shape.

But then inexplicably, winter came and we went into hibernation. You and I. After the blossoming flowers were the falling leaves, dark, brown stains covering the pavement, mixed in with the raining hail. One might have thought that those trees were dead, the branches were bare but more importantly, they appeared to be giving up on living, tired of struggle with the brutalities and abuse of the weather, tired of losing its canopy, feeling exposed and vulnerable and no one would hear their silent cries. The tears in the form of rain drops dripped slowly from these lifeless branches, puddles accumulating just below the roots of the tree. Occasionally a dog or two being walked would stop and scratch their itches against the trunk of the trees, no one noticed the rotting piles of leaves, until one day the street sweepers came by and scooped them all away.

Hearts were hardened, and we became sarcastic, cagy and doubtful of the prospect. We stopped self-congratulating and trusting our gut instincts; we thought we would never see those petals again. The winter nights were long, and dreary; they smelled not death but despair.

One day, without warning, unexpectedly, came the spring. The ice was thawed out, and we were at a brink of turning over a new leaf. You and I. A new beginning. The clock was reset. This time, we seemed to find our rhythm, the steady drumbeat of our hearts, and the high and low tides of our moods.

So we wasted no time at all and declared a celebration of the spring. In honor of the past errors and misunderstanding, the imminent yet unknown future, and the fleeting, however precious, present.

We held our hands, ten fingers interlocked, tight grip full of reassurance for each other. But alas, we were not full of bravery; we were only full of melancholy.

But if the seasons taught us anything, it was not courage that we needed; it was patience, and the acceptance of inevitable.

And if the turning of the seasons was inevitable, so were you and I.