life is a garden ➿ and the roots are all touching
🌾 return to “life is a garden”
this house is mine but not at all, someone is dying but maybe not.
iphone images, kitakyushu-shi, fukuoka, japan, june 2025
june 10, 2025
my mothers footsteps are fast and she runs into the cardboard, leaps into bed. we both laugh.
june 7, 2025
i.
for 600 yen (approx $4.14) i can keep my niece entertained for one hour. we are making slime in a three part process, in three colors: pink, yellow, and blue. she runs around the tatami room to pass the three minute activation time. these three minutes are long for her. she respects the three minutes, does not dare to risk touching anything a moment too soon. she uses japanese words i don’t know. she mixes furiously with disposable chopsticks. i used to play at this table too.
ii.
when I’m in japan i cover my arms, my legs, and most other things, wearing shapeless clothing. my tattoos startle me each time i strip down to take a bath. i’m as tall as every door frame. the body i usually feel so at home in begins to splice.
iii.
i’m home and i look at who i used to be. i’m home and the past is tangible. i’m home and it isn’t me now, but it was me then. i’m home and it isn’t home anymore. its all the same, but then its all different. the sound of the water running down the concrete gutter tethers me to reality. i dissolve when i’m here. sugar cube plopped haphazardly into hot tea, a compressed square liquefying. sticky, sweet, gone.
iv.
i wear my grandmother’s clothes. i wear her perfume. i wear her pearl. i walk down the hall into her room. her ghost resides in me. i keep the ghost alive, i carry the talismans, i carry the mythology. i carry the burdens and i break the curses. i keep the ghost with me.
v.
in a drunken stupor i remove an airpod. in a drunken stupor i forget to put said airpod in case. it becomes this morning’s problem.
vi.
the regression is violent. then it stops.
vii.
my niece has never met my grandfather. she comes in contact with him through this house, no ouija board needed. there are objects that sit on these shelves, imbued with a particular friction. this house will be gone soon. it will be destroyed. a new family will live on the land. this will repeat itself. a gorgeous light illuminates a patch in the yard, a melange of weeds, bugs, proof of life. i will die. she will too. its okay. i tell myself it’s okay.
viii.
my niece finds a plastic rosary. multicolored, neon. it was once mine, though, not really. i won it at the arcade and left it somewhere in this house one summer. excavated over a decade later, it sits in a haphazard pile next to drawings and slime drying by the minute. it still belongs to no one. it is an empty phantom of the thing it resembles and yet i still can’t bring myself to throw it away.
ix.
im distracted. its my period. its the beer from last night. its the champagne, too. its the perpetual stimulation. its the mircoplastics from the slime. its the grief. its all fuckin’ whatever.
x.
my cousin says raising a kid is fun. i don’t believe most people when they say this. i believe her.
xi.
this time i feel american. i feel outside. i feel like a laminated name tag that says “visitor”. im passing through. im signing in, taking my temperature, im checking out.
xii.
i am an aunt but also more like an uncle.
xiii.
coming back shows how far i’ve come. the distance climbed should be reason for celebration. my body feels heavy instead.
june 8, 2025
i think i’ll live everyday like it’s my first
my niece says she looked so hard at the ground, so hard that she saw kitsune paw prints
parallel play with my niece
she cuts and tapes paper
i read my book
she’s so focused
my mom walks into the room. i am laying on the futon, blanketless. reading a book. she gives me three random thoughts, bursts into song. we both burst out laughing. i’m trying to read and she keeps making noise. this is always the case. i used to get mad.
time is shared
borrowed
not all mine but
not all yours either
last edited 8/6/25
i.
for 600 yen (approx $4.14) i can keep my niece entertained for one hour. we are making slime in a three part process, in three colors: pink, yellow, and blue. she runs around the tatami room to pass the three minute activation time. these three minutes are long for her. she respects the three minutes, does not dare to risk touching anything a moment too soon. she uses japanese words i don’t know. she mixes furiously with disposable chopsticks. i used to play at this table too.
ii.
when I’m in japan i cover my arms, my legs, and most other things, wearing shapeless clothing. my tattoos startle me each time i strip down to take a bath. i’m as tall as every door frame. the body i usually feel so at home in begins to splice.
iii.
i’m home and i look at who i used to be. i’m home and the past is tangible. i’m home and it isn’t me now, but it was me then. i’m home and it isn’t home anymore. its all the same, but then its all different. the sound of the water running down the concrete gutter tethers me to reality. i dissolve when i’m here. sugar cube plopped haphazardly into hot tea, a compressed square liquefying. sticky, sweet, gone.
iv.
i wear my grandmother’s clothes. i wear her perfume. i wear her pearl. i walk down the hall into her room. her ghost resides in me. i keep the ghost alive, i carry the talismans, i carry the mythology. i carry the burdens and i break the curses. i keep the ghost with me.
v.
in a drunken stupor i remove an airpod. in a drunken stupor i forget to put said airpod in case. it becomes this morning’s problem.
vi.
the regression is violent. then it stops.
vii.
my niece has never met my grandfather. she comes in contact with him through this house, no ouija board needed. there are objects that sit on these shelves, imbued with a particular friction. this house will be gone soon. it will be destroyed. a new family will live on the land. this will repeat itself. a gorgeous light illuminates a patch in the yard, a melange of weeds, bugs, proof of life. i will die. she will too. its okay. i tell myself it’s okay.
viii.
my niece finds a plastic rosary. multicolored, neon. it was once mine, though, not really. i won it at the arcade and left it somewhere in this house one summer. excavated over a decade later, it sits in a haphazard pile next to drawings and slime drying by the minute. it still belongs to no one. it is an empty phantom of the thing it resembles and yet i still can’t bring myself to throw it away.
ix.
im distracted. its my period. its the beer from last night. its the champagne, too. its the perpetual stimulation. its the mircoplastics from the slime. its the grief. its all fuckin’ whatever.
x.
my cousin says raising a kid is fun. i don’t believe most people when they say this. i believe her.
xi.
this time i feel american. i feel outside. i feel like a laminated name tag that says “visitor”. im passing through. im signing in, taking my temperature, im checking out.
xii.
i am an aunt but also more like an uncle.
xiii.
coming back shows how far i’ve come. the distance climbed should be reason for celebration. my body feels heavy instead.
june 8, 2025
i think i’ll live everyday like it’s my first
my niece says she looked so hard at the ground, so hard that she saw kitsune paw prints
parallel play with my niece
she cuts and tapes paper
i read my book
she’s so focused
my mom walks into the room. i am laying on the futon, blanketless. reading a book. she gives me three random thoughts, bursts into song. we both burst out laughing. i’m trying to read and she keeps making noise. this is always the case. i used to get mad.
time is shared
borrowed
not all mine but
not all yours either
last edited 8/6/25