“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
March has been the month of memories.
And my hands clutching her ankles,
Although we are not touching.
I am not supposed to touch her.
So I say-
Wait, I’m not supposed to say please. Or even, stay.
So instead, I tell her a story. About storms, about waiting.
I know this story is true.
Before I sleep, before I eat, before I check my phone
I have to remind myself that I cannot win
A battle that is not mine to fight.
Someone woke me up with sentences
That tasted like wildflowers,
And in the afternoon
I spilled laughter over the faces of my friends
And laughed some more.
And at night,
My sister opened her palms
And I kept my secrets in them.
Today I am aware of fragility
Everything made sense.
Everything made sense.
Before I sleep,
I will say a prayer for those shipwrecked senseless,
Those seeking the respite of water in their tired lungs.
I will pray for things I cannot name-
I will pray for the coming of