'There's this guy I don't like.'1
I think as I tape browning paper over my mother's mirrors. I stare at my face in the sliver of glass that pokes through Deng Xiao Ping's receding hairline. I notice that I am a little bit haggard, that my skin is a little bit ashen, and that I am a little bit older than a few days ago. It seems like another person gazing back at me, a nameless voyeur that commits his crime through the stealth of mirrors. A completely recognizable misinterpretation of myself looks soullessly through the split face of China's most beloved dictator. I shrug and cover my reflection with a square of Tienanmen Square massacre disinformation. The last thing I see of the other me is the dimming light of his blue eyes.2
'He was this kid that used to be in my daycare class.'3
My dad used to keep everything that he thought had meaning. Unfortunately he was one of those utterly shootable optimists who thought that everything in life had meaning. I dust off an old recording that I find nestled in a box of ancient magazines. It's the type of recording that wrinkled men and women sell on street corners nowadays, straining to earn an extra penny to feed their grandchildren. I consider digging up my father's old turntable and recollections of fiery-red music blazing through the concrete walls of the apartment. I imagine the brilliant voice of the singer bursting like a firework through the speaker and the flawless direction of the marching band parading through the rooms. In the end I chuck the recording over my shoulder, too spent over visualizing to even begin to actualize.4
'And he was so stuck up that I just wanted to punch him.'5
Dad always made it a habit to talk to mom about everything, so much so that his friends thought that he was crazy. He would talk to her about the rising rent, discuss with her the prospects of buying stocks, explain to her the seriousness of my schoolyard brawls. He would comfort her when he thought that something would upset her, and chide her for taking my side when he knew that he was wrong. And mom would always stare back blankly at him, wearing the same Mona Lisa smile that she always did, the edges of her face yellowing with age. Never judging, never harsh. Just a photograph in a cherrywood frame sitting solidly over her ashes. I straighten my clothes as I approach her serene face, my eyes downcast, a white sash tied around my waist.6
'Not just one time either, at least a dozen times at best.'7
"Hey mom," I say, "Dad died." Dad would have wanted her to know.8
'But he'd get this look in his eye once in a while that said that something was missing in his life.'9
My family has always had issues with living in general. I note this dully when I realize that dad has no living relatives to attend his funeral. I pitch a tent outside for him anyway, because he was always a sucker for doing things 'the right way.' The August sun beats down on my relentlessly as I set up the metal foundations outside of our dwarfish apartment complex. Men and women pass by suppressing any flicker of recognition or pity that might rise into their eyes. They stare at me stone-faced and hollow-eyed, and I mirror them apathetic look for apathetic look. I dig up a photo of dad from the shelves and frame it in mom's cherrywood frame. I place it gingerly on the altar. When that is done, dad and I both stare emotionlessly at the people who pass like blind ants over the rubble of his existence.10
'Just like me, I guess.'11
The worst thing about dad was not that he kept everything he ever owned, but that he never really needed anything that could be bought. That and that the only thing he ever really needed could never be bought. Dad grew up listening to Beatles recordings smuggled in from Japan. His favorite song was "All You Need is Love," though, he never understood the lyrics. I always thought that maybe he just liked the trombones. But these days I'm not so sure he listened to that crackling record in a state of obsidian-colored confusion. Sometimes I think that he knew exactly what meant when the Beatles sang, "Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be." I trace the contours of my mother's face with a forefinger as I sit before dad's altar, the apples of her cheeks, her full lips, her rosy eye. I lower my lips to her forehead, and, with one last gaze upon her loving face, I hurl her into the raging flames.12
'Which is why he pissed me off so much. I mean, how would you feel if someone who was just like you deserved a beating that bad?'13
I'm smoking my fourth cigarette of the day when I see you walking up the dirt pathway. You've got this funny walk, you know, sort of like you've got something stuck up your ass. I suppose some people might say it's a strut, or maybe that it's charming, but whatever it is, it's how I recognized you. You're lugging a paper flower wreath behind you, dragging it completely in the dust, dirtying all of the white flowers. You prop the wreath on the right side of the tent and start to make your way over to the altar. My mouth suddenly goes dry from the smoke curling in my lungs so I snuff the cigarette out under my shoe. I want to tell you to go away because you're not family. And because you're an asshole.14
But I don't.15
Instead I ask you if you like the Beatles.16
Adding your comment: