Bless Us Oh Lord
The weathered carpet trembles beneath my bare feet as Naea runs through the dining room. He’s six years old already. Sitting at the table, I’m surrounded by the familiar walls of my “home.” I painted these pale yellow walls, covering up the dirty handprints and scuff marks that they had accumulated over the years. I ate at this table as a child, using the blue plastic plates to shovel rice, spam, and canned corn in my mouth. I used this table to do homework in middle school, slaving over my one page essay that I had been working on for two days. At this table, I had celebrated, birthdays, Christmases, countless other holidays, and occasional dinners in the middle of the week.
Voices call from the kitchen to the dining room, four different conversations bouncing around the room at once. “Where the hell is that stupid chili powder?” exclaims one voice. “Ho brah, no joke, the wind stay blowing so hahd that I almos fell off the roof,” explains another. These voices are all so familiar. These people are my family in every way except blood. They watched me grow, calling me daughter, cousin, and sister. Speaking of sister…
CRASH! Shouting ensues from another part of the house, closely followed by an earsplitting wail. Ten years ago, those wails were mine. I was the small child scared and ashamed for spilling Gatorade on the futon, or breaking the shelf in the bathroom. “Ugh Naea.” In comes my sister, my connection to this place. She will never know how grateful I am to have found her in preschool. She continues to walk into the kitchen mid-rant, using her signature hand motions and stances to describe accurately, the exact emotions she felt when Naea knocked all the stuff off her desk.
This is my home. Where everything is in the same place that it has been for years, the same familiar walls, same creak in the living room floorboards, and the same windows, looking out onto the yard where I ran, and played, and hid. I smile to myself, no matter how chaotic or crowded it gets in here, this is my favorite place.
“Kay guys, foods done. Let’s pray,” says Aunty Bernie, picking up her wine glass on her way to her place at the table. And as I have for as long as I can remember, “Bless us oh lord in these thy gifts which we are about to receive in thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.” It’s time for dinner.
I Was Once a Record
I was once a record able to produce fluent lyrics and rhythms, but now I’m stuck doing the same thing over and over again.
No matter how many times I spin around, I find myself in the same place, thinking the same things.
I repeat things because my insecurities make me feel like no one is listening.
Everyone hears but no one listens.
I continue to spin.
My Writing Philosophy
Writing is an adventure, a fantastic journey from the pen to the page.