In my old bedroom on Orchard Street; I remember the gray wall and the white comforter. Those afternoons and nights spent kissing. His stubble. He was tall, feet dangling off the edge of my bed. His large Korean head. His eyebrows, his eyes. I can feel sad if I imagine his face, a thing that used to be so dear to me. And now—it’s so strange—I see it, in Kiomi’s Instagram for example, and I feel nothing. Maybe it’s a defense my mind has launched.
I still wonder: Where does the love go? Does it leak out and evaporate into the universe? Is it stored in memory? Is it still here, somewhere inside of me? Can it be activated? Or is it gone?
I don’t remember anything, hardly, besides those beginning weeks; the time we saw the Baird Trio at Carnegie Hall. I wore a ribbon in my hair.
Jean Ho has an MFA from UNLV. She has received fellowships to attend the VONA/Voices Workshop and the Napa Valley Writers Conference. She lives in Los Angeles and tweets at @jeanho.