Robert K. Omura Failing to Find the Words on an October Day I don’t remember birds singing, tori no uta or the hum of power lines overhead or if the leaves had fled the trees yet— but mornings left a thin veneer on glass and a mist underscored every word puffed from my lips, so I conserved them to keep them real in a world that borrowed and overtaxed them. I spent the day keeping them down like wrestling finches that longed for sky held them close to my chest, under my breath, so they had nowhere to go. I struggled to leave them to drive to our appointment, but I went straight over. The smell of car fumes, turn after turn, burned my eyes red, but I had no words low sun made it hard to read depth, washed out color, but I still had no words. I remember how you loved fresh flowers, laughed at my silly jokes, okaasan how you left a voicemail reminder for me to pick up on my birthday how your eyes brightened, you smiled, when I came to visit during covid. Masked up, I signed for you, walked in, head bowed, silent as a monk come to pray.
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