THURSDAY, MARCH 11th
“Takashi, Tomoya, maybe Takuma…”
My sister repeats
boys’ names to my father. Her extended
arms wrap around her oversized
red sweater. Her hands stroke it
while she calls each name.
the child thrusts through the amniotic
fluid. He wants to breathe in this indecisive
world like a flying fish. Its silver fins
flutter to splash screaming;
I am here.
March 11th is still our father’s birthday
after he had a stroke. Two years ago
on that day, he was in a wheelchair
when countless victims
washed away from a tsunami.
My sister’s fingers tap on a glass of water.
“And what if I die?”
I hear opaque ripples
in her heart and a church bells
in the distance. It is twenty minutes
closer to Thursday.
At the dining table, our father
our favorite lullaby.
*Click* 30/30 Project by Tupelo Press