California Rain

I love California. Not only for the warm sunny days. I love how there’s always a week of rain in California. A week of gloomy skies. A week where California shows it isn’t doing okay. But even when it shows itself. It still helps everyone out. It gives nutrients for plants to grow. It creates fun puddles for us to play in. It gives people an excuse from work because they can’t drive in the rain. 

But even with the week of rain. California will never not be known for its perfect weather. And for once, the world outside actually matches the world I live in. The world in which I must act perfect for everyone. Until I have collected enough water to fill up the cloud living in my head. And just like California, I too will rain for a week. 

The Special Ones

It’s what people call magic. Magic is only for the special ones; the ones who get to feel the true love of another being. But why does it always have to be someone else to show you love? Why can’t it be love from your childhood blanket or even yourself? 

The idea of love gets put on a pedestal way too often and makes me think of how sad the world must be for that even to happen.

I have been extremely lucky to experience this unconditional love from my best friend who has only known me for a little over a year. A year. 365 days and some more. I have lived more days without them than with them but they are the only person who knows me the best. The only person with whom I shared the side of my childhood I would rather forget about. m

But does it make me special? I wouldn’t think so. I think I just came lucky. If I chose to take physical science freshman year instead of accelerated biology.  If my name didn’t start with an R — as my bio teacher had assigned seats based on the alphabetical order of our first names on the second day of school. If I had forgotten to transfer from Westminster High School to Fountain Valley High School in my eighth-grade year. 

I used to believe all of those fate ideas. From the Chinese belief of the red thread of fate that connected beings together to an external force in our universe that brings people to the most perfect yet imperfect time. But like all of us, life got the best of me. I started to not believe in things that couldn’t be proven. I disregard magic. Yet, the love of one person brought the best in me back. I now believe that I was meant to become friends with this fantastic person. As brought back the person I was before. The person who had hope in this world. The person who believed in everyone. The person who thought no one would intentionally harm people. They did what I thought was impossible. That is magic. 

A House But Never a Home

All of my life, I had lived in one house. I was told here and there that we would move to a nicer neighborhood in a nicer house. We came close to that once because my mom was qualified for housing. But of course, a stubborn immigrant who dealt with worse things didn’t want to seem like we needed some help. As a little kid, I thought that was the utmost stupidest decision to make. Moving out would mean that I could show my friends a house that is similar to theirs, a house without any roommates or holes in the wall where the mouse lived. I had both human and animal roommates in one house. It was a community in my house. But, I didn’t ever want to call that home. Although it may be a community. The one shared interest we all had was not talking to each other. And maybe my mom’s stubbornness got to me. But I didn’t want to be identified with the house if I called it home. That would’ve meant that I come from a low-class family. I always had to worry about money. My brother’s friends all come from families with a bunch of money. These people helped raised me in this house. Yet, I will never be one of them. Not yet at least. 

There Once Lived Nosie

Alone at last. No loud noise. There’s no need to drop a pin to see if you can hear it. You could see how alone you are. It is great. No sister to nagging me. No brothers fighting and yelling about food. About who gets to play on the computer. Just silence. Every room has space for me. Finally. I fit in. No need to fight for space. No one told me to shut up. No one to make me feel like a burden. I can just breathe. It’s so quiet. It’s amazing. 

The silence in my house is loud. It adds to the noise in my head. I just wish I was little again. When my older siblings were at home. Annoying each other. Annoying me. Constantly fighting. I wish I can go back to when the house was loud. Because it meant there were people there. There’s no one. There’s never anyone anymore. 

Sundays

People always say to cherish those people around you because one day they aren’t going to be here. But no one ever tells you to cherish a memory a person gives you. I thought I wouldn’t have to miss going to the farmers market every Sunday and then going down to the beach and grabbing some coffee in a local shop. I thought it was such a boring memory to have. It wasn’t like I was going to the happiest place on earth, Disneyland. 

But every Sunday. We did it every Sunday. If we were busy we would go earlier or later in the morning, but no matter what, we would be there every, I mean every, Sunday. 

Now I go with my mom. Just because there’s a Trader Joe’s and a Ralph’s near and I need to buy myself groceries for the week or two. Just because it’s easier for her. For her to see my little brother up in temple. Not for me. Not to feed me. But for her. She loves being at temple. She loves driving back and forth to Long Beach twice a day, seven times a week. I see her probably once a week. She doesn’t mind it. I’m the burden for needing food. I’m at fault for her to have to drive five minutes away every Sunday to buy me food. I barely go to the farmers market because of her. I would love to spend time with her. She’s my mother after all.  But would she want to spend time with me, her daughter? 

My mom only cares about temple and work. Temple and work. And on occasion four out of the five kids she has. 

My sister actually cares that we got the same coffee every week. She actually cared that we talk to the apple stand owner who sells all types of fruits. It was easy with her. Never have to fight for her to look in my direction. 

Life changes. Of course life changes. But I thought we were able to adapt to those changes. Going down to the Farmers market will never be the same with my mom. Because to her, it was a chore that had to be accomplished. Going to the beach, getting coffee, that is all in the past. We would sometimes sit in the sand and just breathe the previous week away. We would just sit there for as long as we wanted. So maybe if I never go back to these places with my sister. My mind will always come back to these memories.

Mom?

I never got to know about my dad. I will never get to know this man whom I share blood with. My mom can’t seem to wrap her head around that thought. When she found out my dad has passed away. She was more interested in the money I could possibly get once I’m eighteen. I get where she comes from. Growing up with struggle and moving her entire life into a strange new country. Having to start her life again. Go back to school. Learn a new language. Learn a new culture. Get a stable roof over her head – even if it’s the roof of a car. Raise five kids all on her own. But will she ever get where I come from? I’m forever grateful for everything she does. Just sometimes I just wish she would open her heart just a little to see the pain that she caused. If only she would just allow me to get sad. If only I could let her see my tears. If only.