black suit
i’m back in LA on an overnight trip for a reading in little tokyo. walking through LAX is always so confusing because i can’t tell whether im coming or leaving home.
there are times when i’m at the airport, any airport, when my brain gets scrambled, memories become translucent, when i can’t remember time passing or the geography of my body in motion. it makes me stand in front of a Hudson News, a backpack to full on my shoulders, wondering if i’ve ever left this space, if the life i have lived in between have been imagined.
in these moments, it feels like i have been in the airport for the past 50 years dreaming of a life that might be possible if i could just leave this building.
i blink and the faces around me change and i get scared of looking in the mirror in the restroom, terrified of not being able to recognize my face.
i’m back in LA and this time i go directly to my parents’ apartment in little tokyo to sit with them for awhile, to talk to them about how much time the doctor gave dad.
“he just said to live my life until god says it’s time,” he says on the couch next to me, then continues his complaint about the redesign of the YouTube site.
i move to the dining table and sit with mother. she brings me a plate of orange slices and watches me eat.
“it’s not cold,” she says, “but it’s pretty sweet.”
i nod.
“what about you?” i ask.
“i feel fine.”
“no, i mean, what about you after he’s —“
she shrugs. “it’s not like i can live with you or with your brother. i’ll just stay here on my own.”
i eat the rest of the orange, one slice after the other without pause.
“i’ve never been alone,” she says.
she pulls the plate away when i finish the final slice. she leans in closer and takes a peek at dad to check if he’s listening.
she whispers, “do you own a black suit?”
i’m back in LA and by tomorrow morning i’ll be back at the airport, heading (or leaving) home. my headphones on, i’ll listen to the same songs i always listen to, a playlist i’ve named “you’re on your own, kid,” and think of dad showing me a book of unexplained things, pointing at the page about Stonehenge while i hold on to his knees as he sits on the steps of grandma’s house.
“there are so many things we can’t explain,” he was telling me.
on my way to my gate, i’ll stop in front of a dunkin’ donuts, frozen, the changing faces around me blurring into a present that doesn’t end, and i will keep myself from falling apart, telling myself over and over, “your family was real. they were real. your mother, your father, your brother, they were real. they were real. they were real…”
they were real, i swear. it has to be true.
