.... and I Will Be Flying On a Broomstick

“I wish this moment would last forever.” We tend to say that sometimes, don’t we? Especially when we are feeling happy or content. These days, I think it often. Usually in the most mundane moments, like when I’m walking to the supermarket or brushing my teeth in the morning. Not because my life is going great. It’s not particularly good or bad. It could be worse. It could be better. It’s just okay. In this day and age, I understand that “okay” is a privilege, something to be grateful for. So, with the year coming to an end soon, I am having these wishful thoughts of preserving “okay” moments. I may not be feeling too excited about the new year because new year means new changes – changes I will bring about by my own choice and action, changes that I have no control over but learn to accept. And even though we learn to embrace change as we grow up, there are just times in our lives when change can be a little bit scary, don't you think so? If you are feeling excited about the change

  Breathe in. When the trees and the stones start to look the same, remember that it is an illusion. And listen, the wind never carries the same message twice. Breathe out. Breathe in. Time moves slowly in the woods. I forget why I was in a hurry to get somewhere and to be someone. Breathe out. Breathe in. The woods are less scary than the world outside. Here, I can stop and think and feel. Here, I can accept that change and death are a natural part of life. Breathe out. Breathe in. Sometimes, the best way to climb a mountain is 50 steps at a time. Sometimes, the best way to see the forest is to stop often and look at the trees. Sometimes, the best way to feel alive is to notice the moment your breath becomes air. Breathe out. @ Mt. Nijyo, Nara

There was a restaurant near a busy train station. A boy and a girl sat at a corner table, facing each other. Out of the corner of her eye, the girl noticed the waiter standing by the counter. She was almost certain he was trying his best not to stare but her vision was getting blurry. She blinked quickly and took a sip of the smoothie in front of her. The lights were too bright and other people’s laughter sounded too loud inside the restaurant. The smoothie tasted too sweet and the boy felt too far away from her. She could have ordered a cup of coffee but she didn’t because she knew she would have trouble falling asleep. She would find out later that she didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake through that night and many other nights that followed. The boy looked at his watch and said, “It’s getting late. I need to go back soon.” The girl didn’t need Google Translate to know that he actually meant, “It’s time for me to leave you.” The words “Don’t go” bubbled up in her throat li

I heard about the soup made of clouds one fine afternoon over Zoom. I imagined myself drinking it And floating out of my room. Tell me how this soup is made; What kind and how many clouds will I need? Do I look for small wispy clouds or large fluffy ones that look like sheep? Let me just step out to my balcony And pluck the clouds from the sky. Oh dear, I hope I don’t need onions. When the weather is so nice, I don’t want to cry. You said it’s your favorite soup And I would love to make it for you If only we didn’t have to social distance But hopefully, things get better in June. *** AN: A while ago, a friend of mine shared that she was making a simple dish made of eggs for dinner and she called it “Cloud Soup”. I loved the name and it reminded me of a poem from my high school English text book called “Cloud Zoo” written by Norma Gillet. So, I wrote a poem similar in style to "Cloud Zoo" just for fun. 😅😁

I am not fluent in the language of flowers. When I write about them, I borrow from another language and even then, my vocabulary is extremely limited. The neighborhood explodes into colors overnight; there are yellows, pinks, blues and reds everywhere. Spring is finally here. Yes, I am a lazy writer when it comes to flowers. Just like my friends who do not know the Burmese language sees only circles, I see only colors and shapes when I look at flowers. Their meaning and symbolism are lost on me. But recently, there is a flower that has been on my mind a lot. It comes in two shades of pink and it outnumbers other flowers in the neighborhood. These pink flowers seem to be at every street corner I turn and I got curious. What secret messages do they carry? A page on the World Wide Web tells me that I am in the company of azaleas. Did you know that the azalea flower can symbolize remembering your home with fondness or wishing to return to it? To me, home is not a place but a fe

Strip away the crowded trains, the office chatter, the red and green of traffic lights at dusk and the day begins to lose its edges. Like an ice-cream that had been left too long under the sun, the day melts away into shapeless solitude, made of sunlight filtered through a curtain, a 6-tatami bedroom, an empty coffee cup, laughter and voices traveling through the ether, the sizzle of onions in a frying pan, a phone screen lighting up in the dark. A story needs a beginning, middle and end; I’m sorry but today, there is no story to tell.

The nights are colder these days. The air is crisp and the trees have more edges. I see yellow leaves everywhere – some crinkle under my feet and others cling to branches but every single one of them glow in the dark. Just a few more steps and I will reach the spot where the tree uprooted in the typhoon lies in silence. It has been in that state for two months now, unmoving like a dead insect turned on its back with legs in the air. A woman plays violin on one of the benches. Her music falls somewhere between lively and sad, making me wonder why she picked this particular one to play in a deserted corner of the park. The silver moon shines alongside the lights that adorn the castle. A few stars hang around awkwardly near groups of clouds like loners at a party. I read somewhere that some of the stars we see from earth are already dead. It makes me sad to think of them dying of loneliness. The park is mostly quiet but I can hear low murmurs of passers-by punctuated with

Photo by Syd Wachs on Unsplash *** “I am haunted by a recurring nightmare,” says the pumpkin. “Oh? What happens in your nightmare?” I ask. “Someone scoops out my insides and leaves me alone in the dark.” “That’s horrible.” “Yes, and what’s more horrible is this: In my dream, even though I am terrified, I can’t stop smiling.” *** “Why do bad things always happen to me? Everything sucks. I hate everything,” says the bitter melon. I hand over the salt and say, “Here. Let it soak in for some time. Then let’s wash it away and you’ll feel better. Trust me, we all need some time to get rid of some of the bitterness.” *** “I am too soft. And weak,” says the tofu with a sigh. “I want to be tough like the carrot or broccoli.” “You may be soft but you are not weak,” I reply. “You sustain life just as they do. Recognize your power and own it.” **** “I see things all the time. Things that other people don’t see.” whispers the potato. I want to lighten up the mood by asking, “

“What’s your favorite color?” the little girl asked her father. “I like all colors equally,” he replied, as he watched the yellow ball slip from her hands. She squealed and ran after the ball, oblivious to his answer. He followed in her footsteps as she tried to stop the ball from bouncing away. The leaves were  turning golden in the park. The sun cast a warm glow, offering reprieve from the cold. Late afternoons were the best for a walk in the park during winter. There was light and warmth and laughter. The little girl called out to her father to hurry up. He quickened his footsteps and scooped her up in his arms, making her giggle in delight. “Daddy, you still haven’t answered my question.” “Which one?” he asked, since she’s at that age of asking questions every few minutes and he couldn’t keep up with them. “Your favorite color.” He smiled and was on the verge of repeating his answer from before. But then he saw his daughter looking up at him with her wide eyes,