too much death. a year without death please. i don’t appreciate its lingering colors

When I leave Hawai’i next year, I won’t have a home here to come back to. Dad tells me that he dreams about the Korea of his childhood, but he’s never been back.

We both miss mom. Dad lives like he doesn’t have anything to live for anymore. I want him to be happy.

scratchy throat. poor sleep. expectations settling in the circles under my eyes and the ache in my shoulders. I’m young enough, new cells will etch out the ones I’m punishing. like when freshly eroded sand washes over the expectations tourists forget at the beach.

Anxiety about jet lag and work deadlines and the distance between people and the shortness of good times shared. Comfort from knowing that all those feelings have been felt before and the beauty of mediocrity and the intimacy of hurting and being hurt.