A.H. Kim's Blog, page 2

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 29 - I WANT TO BE SEEN

Today’s prompt:

[From Maggie Rogers] As a songwriter, I’ve found vulnerability to be a source of real power. It’s at the core of how I’ve defined the greatest songwriting—songs that have the ability to take one person’s experience and make it universal, songs that can clearly and simply express one’s feelings, needs, and desires. 

I want to hold your hand. I want to dance with somebody. I want to be your dog. I want it that way. I want to break free.

In your deepest core, in your most vulnerable moments—what do you want?

I Want to be Seen

Sung to the tune of I Contain Multitudes (2020)

With apologies to Walt Whitman and Bob Dylan

Today, tomorrow, and yesterday, too

I shy from the limelight, as I so often do

Don’t like the attention, don’t want to be judged

I stand in the background, my image all smudged

I don’t bother with makeup, don’t polish or preen

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

I’ve got a beat-skipping heart, like a poet in love

I pray to whomever may watch from above

For the handsome young man I kissed once in June

For the much-adored brother I lost far too soon

Lost in the mem’ries of life lush and green

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

A slideshow of moments both happy and grim

A ring on my finger that binds me to him

Tell me, what’s next? What should I do?

Why do I sometimes feel empty and blue?

I live a straight life that is proper and clean

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

I'm just like Anne Frank, stuck behind a false wall

I’ve often been known to stumble and fall

I steer clear of the edge, stay inside the lines

I follow the rules and obey the signs.

I’m known to be prudent, soft-spoken and calm

My purpose in life: to act as a balm

To take care of others, attend to their needs

Good thoughts, good words, and good deeds

A life spent in service, all substance, no sheen

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

That day when we meet, you look past my face

As if I exist in a far distant place

Is it because I don’t demand space

Or maybe because I gave up the race?

I rarely complain, but now hear my scream:

Yes, I’ll admit it, I want to be seen.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 29

Today’s prompt:

[From Maggie Rogers] As a songwriter, I’ve found vulnerability to be a source of real power. It’s at the core of how I’ve defined the greatest songwriting—songs that have the ability to take one person’s experience and make it universal, songs that can clearly and simply express one’s feelings, needs, and desires. 

I want to hold your hand. I want to dance with somebody. I want to be your dog. I want it that way. I want to break free.

In your deepest core, in your most vulnerable moments—what do you want?

I Want to be Seen

Sung to the tune of I Contain Multitudes (2020)

With apologies to Walt Whitman and Bob Dylan

Today, tomorrow, and yesterday, too

I shy from the limelight, as I so often do

Don’t like the attention, don’t want to be judged

I stand in the background, my image all smudged

I don’t bother with makeup, don’t polish or preen

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

I’ve got a beat-skipping heart, like a poet in love

I pray to whomever may watch from above

For the handsome young man I kissed once in June

For the much-adored brother I lost far too soon

Lost in the mem’ries of life lush and green

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

A slideshow of moments both happy and grim

A ring on my finger that binds me to him

Tell me, what’s next? What should I do?

Why do I sometimes feel empty and blue?

I live a straight life that is proper and clean

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

I'm just like Anne Frank, stuck behind a false wall

I’ve often been known to stumble and fall

I steer clear of the edge, stay inside the lines

I follow the rules and obey the signs.

I’m known to be prudent, soft-spoken and calm

My purpose in life: to act as a balm

To take care of others, attend to their needs

Good thoughts, good words, and good deeds

A life spent in service, all substance, no sheen

But sometimes, I want to be seen.

That day when we meet, you look past my face

As if I exist in a far distant place

Is it because I don’t demand space

Or maybe because I gave up the race?

I rarely complain, but now hear my scream:

Yes, I’ll admit it, I want to be seen.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 28 - FEAR OF FLYING

Today’s prompt:

Write about a time when your bravery or curiosity was stronger than your fear. If it moves you, dance it out.

Fear of Flying

I’m a lawyer, accustomed to sitting behind a desk in a San Francisco high rise. My mentor was in charge of the hydroelectric dams that dotted the Northern California landscape. We were a modern-day odd couple. Felix and Oscar. City mouse and country mouse. Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert.

“Have you ever flown in a helicopter before?” the pilot asked me.

I looked over at my mentor. He smiled, already knowing the answer. In our few months together, I’d revealed my complete ignorance of our company’s real-world operations. I was a paper-pusher, strictly back-office. He was an ops guy, spending as much time in the field as in headquarters. I quickly came to realize that’s why he was assigned to be my mentor.

The pilot handed me a pair of heavy-duty earphones. We went through the safety checklist, and then we took off.

I was raised to be cautious. No, it was worse than that. I was raised to be afraid. Growing up, I was afraid of many things: wearing the wrong clothes, smelling of kimchee, being bitten by wild dogs, getting anything less than an A.

So, as the rotors started up and the helicopter lifted us above the ground, my natural inclination was to be afraid. To close my eyes. To prepare for the worst.

“Hail, Mary, full of grace,” I silently prayed.

“Do you see that canyon down there?” the pilot shouted over the headphones.

I took a moment to open my eyes. Not far below, I saw a scenic canyon of rock and forest with a silvery ribbon of river. It was breathtaking.

“Let’s have some fun,” the pilot said, grinning. He tilted the helicopter this way and that, skimming over the treetops.

I felt my lunch hurtling up from my stomach. Suddenly, I was afraid of throwing up all over my mentor and embarrassing myself.

“Blessed art thou amongst women,” I resumed praying, squeezing my eyes tight again.

“Look, down there,” my mentor said. I opened my eyes to see the azure-blue lake below us. It was almost otherworldly. Not only was the scenery unbelievably beautiful, it was also very remote. How many people would ever be lucky enough to see this lake from this unique vantage point?

I had a choice: to keep my eyes open and enjoy the ride, or to shut my eyes tight and fear for the worst.

I’d faced this choice before. After finishing cancer treatment, I was grateful for a second chance at life, but I was also worried about recurrence. I read countless articles about diets, exercises, drugs, and other ways to stay healthy. At the same time, I saw many of my friends die — despite their best efforts at diet, exercise, drugs, and positive attitude.

I came to realize I have limited control over the length of my life. The best I can do is live my days – however many they may be – with hope and optimism.

“I never get tired of this view,” my mentor shouted over the drone of the rotors.

I kept my eyes open. I took in the scenery.

And, somehow, I managed not to throw up.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 28

Today’s prompt:

Write about a time when your bravery or curiosity was stronger than your fear. If it moves you, dance it out.

Fear of Flying

I’m a lawyer, accustomed to sitting behind a desk in a San Francisco high rise. My mentor was in charge of the hydroelectric dams that dotted the Northern California landscape. We were a modern-day odd couple. Felix and Oscar. City mouse and country mouse. Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert.

“Have you ever flown in a helicopter before?” the pilot asked me.

I looked over at my mentor. He smiled, already knowing the answer. In our few months together, I’d revealed my complete ignorance of our company’s real-world operations. I was a paper-pusher, strictly back-office. He was an ops guy, spending as much time in the field as in headquarters. I quickly came to realize that’s why he was assigned to be my mentor.

The pilot handed me a pair of heavy-duty earphones. We went through the safety checklist, and then we took off.

I was raised to be cautious. No, it was worse than that. I was raised to be afraid. Growing up, I was afraid of many things: wearing the wrong clothes, smelling of kimchee, being bitten by wild dogs, getting anything less than an A.

So, as the rotors started up and the helicopter lifted us above the ground, my natural inclination was to be afraid. To close my eyes. To prepare for the worst.

“Hail, Mary, full of grace,” I silently prayed.

“Do you see that canyon down there?” the pilot shouted over the headphones.

I took a moment to open my eyes. Not far below, I saw a scenic canyon of rock and forest with a silvery ribbon of river. It was breathtaking.

“Let’s have some fun,” the pilot said, grinning. He tilted the helicopter this way and that, skimming over the treetops.

I felt my lunch hurtling up from my stomach. Suddenly, I was afraid of throwing up all over my mentor and embarrassing myself.

“Blessed art thou amongst women,” I resumed praying, squeezing my eyes tight again.

“Look, down there,” my mentor said. I opened my eyes to see the azure-blue lake below us. It was almost otherworldly. Not only was the scenery unbelievably beautiful, it was also very remote. How many people would ever be lucky enough to see this lake from this unique vantage point?

I had a choice: to keep my eyes open and enjoy the ride, or to shut my eyes tight and fear for the worst.

I’d faced this choice before. After finishing cancer treatment, I was grateful for a second chance at life, but I was also worried about recurrence. I read countless articles about diets, exercises, drugs, and other ways to stay healthy. At the same time, I saw many of my friends die — despite their best efforts at diet, exercise, drugs, and positive attitude.

I came to realize I have limited control over the length of my life. The best I can do is live my days – however many they may be – with hope and optimism.

“I never get tired of this view,” my mentor shouted over the drone of the rotors.

I kept my eyes open. I took in the scenery.

And, somehow, I managed not to throw up.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 27 - PROMISES TO KEEP

Today’s prompt:

[From Jordan Kisner] The title of my book, Thin Places, comes from a notion in Celtic mythology that the distance between our world and the next is never more than three feet (i.e. just a little more than an arm's reach away). There are "thin places" where that distance shrinks and then vanishes, where you can glimpse some other world or way of being for a brief moment. Often, "thin places" are literal places, geographical locations that feel holy or otherworldly, but you could also imagine these kinds of thresholds popping up anywhere: in a hospital room, in a bar, in your apartment, in your relationship, in you. A thin place may also be a moment, a time when you were briefly suspended between a world/life that you knew and something totally new, different, awesome, frightening.

Describe a “thin place” or threshold you’ve encountered. It could be a location, an experience, a relationship, a period of time. Describe it in as much concrete detail as you can: what did you see, smell, feel with your hands? How did it make you feel? Who else was there? What led you there? What did you do? What happened afterward? Did anything change? It may feel hard to describe—that's ok! Ineffable experiences are the hardest to describe. Get weird!

Promises to Keep

I met her in a support group for young women with breast cancer. I was newly diagnosed, Stage 2, a babe in the cancer woods. I was also shy – some might say closed off – someone most comfortable blending into the background.

She was metastatic, which meant her cancer was incurable. She was a lesbian and artist and natural leader. She spoke truth to power and never apologized. She scared the shit out of me.

One day, she confided to the support group that she probably wouldn’t be able to come to any more meetings. Her cancer was progressing, and her doctors wanted her to stay close to home. She was afraid of being lonely, and she welcomed visitors.

Something about her plea touched my heart. I decided to push the boundaries of my comfort zone and visit her. I expected her to be pale and sickly, sitting alone in a ghostly parlor like Miss Havisham from Great Expectations but with a much cooler haircut.

Instead, I found her sitting on the sunny back porch of her Bernal Heights house, puffing on a pipe and surrounded by friends. One woman owned a popular local café. Another woman appeared regularly at trendy jazz clubs and on late-night TV. A few women were so strikingly beautiful it was hard to keep from staring.

“I just wanted to stop by and drop off these cookies,” I said, hearing that old Sesame Street song in my head: One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong. “I’ll be going now.”

“Don’t leave,” she said. “Come and sit with me. Tell me what’s going on.”

She looked at me with her intense eyes – eyes made even more intense by her very cool architect eyeglasses. And I reluctantly stayed to talk. We talked for a long time.

I visited her regularly after that first time. Oftentimes, there were other friends and former lovers in the house. Sometimes, though, it was just the two of us.

On our last good day together, we were sitting on her sunny back porch, trading stories and soaking up the rays.

“You need to tell your story,” she said.

“I’m not an artist like you,” I replied.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she said. “You have a story. I have a story. All of us in the support group have stories. We just need to tell them.”

On our last day together, I sat in her darkened parlor next to her hospital bed, listening to her labored breathing. There was a neat row of Mexican prayer candles – veloradas religiosas – lined up on her mantle. I knew very well that she grew up Jewish.

I’d never been with a dying person before. I wasn’t sure whether she could hear me, whether there was anything I could do to provide comfort in these final moments.

I held her hand. I spoke to her. And finally, I whispered in her ear, “I’ll tell my story. I’ll make sure we all tell our stories. I promise you that.”

She died the following week.

Since then, my breast cancer support group has published three anthologies of personal essays and poems and has read at Lit Crawl (San Francisco’s premier literary pub crawl) and at fundraisers for Breast Cancer Action (the national’s premier kick-ass breast cancer advocacy group). The support group also holds frequent writing workshops to help members process their cancer experiences through writing.

My debut novel is coming out in July. And I just finished a draft of my next book.

Would these things have happened without my friend Lynnly? I’m really not sure.

Promises made.

Promises yet to keep.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 27

Today’s prompt:

[From Jordan Kisner] The title of my book, Thin Places, comes from a notion in Celtic mythology that the distance between our world and the next is never more than three feet (i.e. just a little more than an arm's reach away). There are "thin places" where that distance shrinks and then vanishes, where you can glimpse some other world or way of being for a brief moment. Often, "thin places" are literal places, geographical locations that feel holy or otherworldly, but you could also imagine these kinds of thresholds popping up anywhere: in a hospital room, in a bar, in your apartment, in your relationship, in you. A thin place may also be a moment, a time when you were briefly suspended between a world/life that you knew and something totally new, different, awesome, frightening.

Describe a “thin place” or threshold you’ve encountered. It could be a location, an experience, a relationship, a period of time. Describe it in as much concrete detail as you can: what did you see, smell, feel with your hands? How did it make you feel? Who else was there? What led you there? What did you do? What happened afterward? Did anything change? It may feel hard to describe—that's ok! Ineffable experiences are the hardest to describe. Get weird!

Promises to Keep

I met her in a support group for young women with breast cancer. I was newly diagnosed, Stage 2, a babe in the cancer woods. I was also shy – some might say closed off – someone most comfortable blending into the background.

She was metastatic, which meant her cancer was incurable. She was a lesbian and artist and natural leader. She spoke truth to power and never apologized. She scared the shit out of me.

One day, she confided to the support group that she probably wouldn’t be able to come to any more meetings. Her cancer was progressing, and her doctors wanted her to stay close to home. She was afraid of being lonely, and she welcomed visitors.

Something about her plea touched my heart. I decided to push the boundaries of my comfort zone and visit her. I expected her to be pale and sickly, sitting alone in a ghostly parlor like Miss Havisham from Great Expectations but with a much cooler haircut.

Instead, I found her sitting on the sunny back porch of her Bernal Heights house, puffing on a pipe and surrounded by friends. One woman owned a popular local café. Another woman appeared regularly at trendy jazz clubs and on late-night TV. A few women were so strikingly beautiful it was hard to keep from staring.

“I just wanted to stop by and drop off these cookies,” I said, hearing that old Sesame Street song in my head: One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong. “I’ll be going now.”

“Don’t leave,” she said. “Come and sit with me. Tell me what’s going on.”

She looked at me with her intense eyes – eyes made even more intense by her very cool architect eyeglasses. And I reluctantly stayed to talk. We talked for a long time.

I visited her regularly after that first time. Oftentimes, there were other friends and former lovers in the house. Sometimes, though, it was just the two of us.

On our last good day together, we were sitting on her sunny back porch, trading stories and soaking up the rays.

“You need to tell your story,” she said.

“I’m not an artist like you,” I replied.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she said. “You have a story. I have a story. All of us in the support group have stories. We just need to tell them.”

On our last day together, I sat in her darkened parlor next to her hospital bed, listening to her labored breathing. There was a neat row of Mexican prayer candles – veloradas religiosas – lined up on her mantle. I knew very well that she grew up Jewish.

I’d never been with a dying person before. I wasn’t sure whether she could hear me, whether there was anything I could do to provide comfort in these final moments.

I held her hand. I spoke to her. And finally, I whispered in her ear, “I’ll tell my story. I’ll make sure we all tell our stories. I promise you that.”

She died the following week.

Since then, my breast cancer support group has published three anthologies of personal essays and poems and has read at Lit Crawl (San Francisco’s premier literary pub crawl) and at fundraisers for Breast Cancer Action (the national’s premier kick-ass breast cancer advocacy group). The support group also holds frequent writing workshops to help members process their cancer experiences through writing.

My debut novel is coming out in July. And I just finished a draft of my next book.

Would these things have happened without my friend Lynnly? I’m really not sure.

Promises made.

Promises yet to keep.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 26 - A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

Today’s prompt:

What’s a memory of a collective ritual, inherited or invented, that was meaningful or formative to some part of your identity? Write about it. Who was there? What was the activity? What were the words that were used? What time of year was it? How did it make you feel? And years later, how might it have shaped you?

A River Runs Through It

There’s a quiet town way north of San Francisco, not far from the Oregon border, that is popular among a certain circle. The first year we went, I couldn’t understand the appeal. The town has one main street, but many of the shabby shopfronts were closed.

There is a river famous for fly fishing, but I was constantly afraid my young sons would fall in and drown.

There is an astonishingly beautiful waterfall, but you have to walk a mile on treacherous train tracks to get there and another mile on those same tracks to get back.

That first year, we visited in July, and it was nearly 100 degrees all week. My husband spent hours fly fishing, so I was mostly on my own to keep the boys occupied, safe from drowning, and nourished with three meals and multiple snacks every day.

“This is not a vacation,” I said that first year. “Certainly not a vacation I want to repeat.”

We went back to that town for a week’s vacation every July for the next ten years.

I’m not a glutton for punishment. Far from it. I love nothing better than the comforts of civilization. My ideal vacation is going to Paris or London or Amsterdam, visiting world-class museums, eating at great restaurants, drinking lots of wine. But there was something about the quiet town that my boys loved – and that they love to this day.

Maybe it was the heat. Living in San Francisco, summers are cold, foggy, and gray. But for that one week, my boys could run around wearing swim trunks and nothing else.

Maybe it was the lack of schedule. Growing up in the city, my boys were constantly being shuttled between summer camps and playdates and errands. But for that one week, we’d sleep in late, amble over to the motel pool, maybe dunk ourselves in. We played horseshoes, ate soft-serve, made “ant houses” out of river rocks while Dad fished.

Maybe it was the simplicity. Within blocks of our home, we have a dizzying array of cuisines: Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Burmese, Thai, Vietnamese, Singaporean, Indian, Pakistani, Turkish, Greek, Italian, French, German, Central and Eastern European, Russian, American – I’m sure I’m forgetting a bunch. But for that one week, we had three choices: pizza, burgers, or eat in. We ate a lot of Lucky Charms with milk.

Whatever the reason, my boys looked forward to that one week each summer. And over the years, I looked forward to it as well.

I looked forward to the ritual of walking up and down the main street on our first day in town, seeing which shops were still in business (the fly shop, the thrift store) and which were not (the candy store, the antique shop, and saddest for us, the Subway sandwich shop).

I looked forward to the physical pleasure of walking into the air-conditioned burger shack when it’s 102 degrees outside and then sucking down a fresh strawberry milkshake.

I looked forward to the mile-long walk along the train tracks, listening to the roaring river below, feeling the blazing sun on our face and arms, picking the fat blackberries growing alongside the trail and tasting their gloriously sweet juice.

I looked forward to sitting on the big flat rock in front of the misty waterfall, especially when the late afternoon sun would light up the water droplets like golden fairy dust.

Mostly, I looked forward to slowing down. Forgetting about “doing” and focusing on “being.” Savoring each moment, especially as those moments seemed to fly by so fast.

The past several years, it’s been harder for us to make our annual trip to the quiet town. We’ve grown older and busier, and something – deadlines, summer jobs, life in general – seems to get in the way. When we can’t make the trip in July, we aim for Thanksgiving instead.

The town is just as quiet — perhaps even more so.

The waterfall is just as breathtaking.

But most important of all:

We are all still together.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 26

Today’s prompt:

What’s a memory of a collective ritual, inherited or invented, that was meaningful or formative to some part of your identity? Write about it. Who was there? What was the activity? What were the words that were used? What time of year was it? How did it make you feel? And years later, how might it have shaped you?

A River Runs Through It

There’s a quiet town way north of San Francisco, not far from the Oregon border, that is popular among a certain circle. The first year we went, I couldn’t understand the appeal. The town has one main street, but many of the shabby shopfronts were closed.

There is a river famous for fly fishing, but I was constantly afraid my young sons would fall in and drown.

There is an astonishingly beautiful waterfall, but you have to walk a mile on treacherous train tracks to get there and another mile on those same tracks to get back.

That first year, we visited in July, and it was nearly 100 degrees all week. My husband spent hours fly fishing, so I was mostly on my own to keep the boys occupied, safe from drowning, and nourished with three meals and multiple snacks every day.

“This is not a vacation,” I said that first year. “Certainly not a vacation I want to repeat.”

We went back to that town for a week’s vacation every July for the next ten years.

I’m not a glutton for punishment. Far from it. I love nothing better than the comforts of civilization. My ideal vacation is going to Paris or London or Amsterdam, visiting world-class museums, eating at great restaurants, drinking lots of wine. But there was something about the quiet town that my boys loved – and that they love to this day.

Maybe it was the heat. Living in San Francisco, summers are cold, foggy, and gray. But for that one week, my boys could run around wearing swim trunks and nothing else.

Maybe it was the lack of schedule. Growing up in the city, my boys were constantly being shuttled between summer camps and playdates and errands. But for that one week, we’d sleep in late, amble over to the motel pool, maybe dunk ourselves in. We played horseshoes, ate soft-serve, made “ant houses” out of river rocks while Dad fished.

Maybe it was the simplicity. Within blocks of our home, we have a dizzying array of cuisines: Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Burmese, Thai, Vietnamese, Singaporean, Indian, Pakistani, Turkish, Greek, Italian, French, German, Central and Eastern European, Russian, American – I’m sure I’m forgetting a bunch. But for that one week, we had three choices: pizza, burgers, or eat in. We ate a lot of Lucky Charms with milk.

Whatever the reason, my boys looked forward to that one week each summer. And over the years, I looked forward to it as well.

I looked forward to the ritual of walking up and down the main street on our first day in town, seeing which shops were still in business (the fly shop, the thrift store) and which were not (the candy store, the antique shop, and saddest for us, the Subway sandwich shop).

I looked forward to the physical pleasure of walking into the air-conditioned burger shack when it’s 102 degrees outside and then sucking down a fresh strawberry milkshake.

I looked forward to the mile-long walk along the train tracks, listening to the roaring river below, feeling the blazing sun on our face and arms, picking the fat blackberries growing alongside the trail and tasting their gloriously sweet juice.

I looked forward to sitting on the big flat rock in front of the misty waterfall, especially when the late afternoon sun would light up the water droplets like golden fairy dust.

Mostly, I looked forward to slowing down. Forgetting about “doing” and focusing on “being.” Savoring each moment, especially as those moments seemed to fly by so fast.

The past several years, it’s been harder for us to make our annual trip to the quiet town. We’ve grown older and busier, and something – deadlines, summer jobs, life in general – seems to get in the way. When we can’t make the trip in July, we aim for Thanksgiving instead.

The town is just as quiet — perhaps even more so.

The waterfall is just as breathtaking.

But most important of all:

We are all still together.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 25 - BEAUTIFUL DAY

Today’s prompt:

Choose a photograph—maybe you took it, maybe you’re in it, maybe you cut it out of magazine just because it delighted your eye: the point is, the image doesn’t have to be beautiful or good, but you saved it for a reason, right? It means something to you. 

Your job is not to describe the picture. You can—but the point is to let it take you somewhere. How does the photograph make you feel? What does it make you remember? What’s your relationship to the people or place in the picture? And, whether or not you know them, does a story come to mind? If you don’t remember when the photo was taken, that’s fine: let yourself conjecture. What do you imagine happened the moment before or after the click? What might you know about the past or future that the photographer or subject does not? Who isn’t in the picture? What’s just outside the frame, in space or time? If you could, what would you ask the photographer (or subject) now, a day, a month, a decade since the moment held in the frame? Tell us what you believe or fantasize, beginning or ending with the moment that the photo was captured.

And—here’s a bonus: Now that you’ve written about a photo you possess, one you can look at any old time, write about the one you wish had been taken; if only that moment had been captured—but it wasn’t. In this case, with this photo that doesn’t exist—describe it in living color. (Unless, of course, it’s black and white.)

Beautiful Day

When I used to commute to work, before the current unpleasantness, I spent a lot of time listening to podcasts. Mostly NPR. This American Life. Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. Fresh Air with Terry Gross.

I remember one Fresh Air interview that touched me quite deeply. It was an interview with Marielle Heller, director of A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. The director talks about the profound experience of watching a particular episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood with her 3-year old son, Wylie. “It’s the fish one,” the director says, “the one about death.”

In the episode, Mr. Rogers goes to feed his fish, and one of them appears to be dead. He tries to revive it, but it’s no use. The fish is dead. After Mr. Rogers buries the fish, he goes on to talk about his dog Mitzi, who died when he was a kid.

In the interview, the director describes watching her young son absorb this information. Wylie turns to his mother and says, disbelieving, “dogs don’t die.” And his mother, the director Marielle Heller, has to tell him: “dogs do die.” Wylie asks about cats and then walruses and then, of course, people.

As I sat there on the bus listening to the interview, I felt embarrassed when the tears started trickling down my cheeks. I wiped them quickly away, hoping none of my fellow riders saw. I’d never really thought about the fact that there is a time in each child’s life when they first learn about death.

And then I remembered the photo.

There’s a photo of me when I was a little girl that I keep among my special things. I’m wearing a too-small white dress, white ankle socks, and white shoes. My hair is pulled into two short pigtails. Behind me is a Korean doll wearing a billowing yellow gown. I remember I used to think the doll was very special, something I could look at but not touch.

My friend Mary Zimmerman lived across the street. She was a few years older than me, but she didn’t care. She was still my friend. Mary invited me to go to something called “the fair” with her, but I had a stomach-ache. I was sad to miss the fair, whatever that was. Later that day, Mary stopped by my house with a pretty orange goldfish in a clear plastic bag. She’d won it at the fair for me. It was my first-ever pet.

My parents purchased a round glass fishbowl and plastic container of fish food for my new pet. Every day, I was careful to sprinkle a few flakes of food into the bowl. I watched the pretty orange goldfish swim to the water’s surface and gobble the food up.

One day, when I went to feed my fish, I saw it flopping around on the billowing yellow fabric of the special Korean doll. I shouted out to my mother for help. We somehow managed to scoop the fish back into the bowl. But like Mr. Rogers, our attempts to revive proved useless. The fish was dead. We flushed it down the toilet.

In retrospect, I recognize that was the moment when I first learned about death. Some might say that was also the pivotal “loss of innocence” moment that I bit into the proverbial apple of knowledge.

But in reality, that moment meant nothing. I was still that little girl in the too-small white dress, white ankle socks, and white shoes. And I would remain that little girl, more or less, for many more years. After all, it was just a fish.

I don’t think death becomes real until it takes away someone you care about. And then once it does, the world becomes a terrifying place.

In her Fresh Air interview, Marielle Heller talks about the moment her son realizes what death really means:

“it felt like he was weeping for all humanity or, like, the entire universe and just asking me if we could bury all the walruses in our backyard so we could visit them.”

Today, thinking about all the losses I’ve experienced personally, and all the losses we’re experiencing collectively, I mourn for humanity, the entire universe, and all the walruses.

But if I’m being honest, what I mourn most of all is that little girl in the too-small white dress.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 25

Today’s prompt:

Choose a photograph—maybe you took it, maybe you’re in it, maybe you cut it out of magazine just because it delighted your eye: the point is, the image doesn’t have to be beautiful or good, but you saved it for a reason, right? It means something to you. 

Your job is not to describe the picture. You can—but the point is to let it take you somewhere. How does the photograph make you feel? What does it make you remember? What’s your relationship to the people or place in the picture? And, whether or not you know them, does a story come to mind? If you don’t remember when the photo was taken, that’s fine: let yourself conjecture. What do you imagine happened the moment before or after the click? What might you know about the past or future that the photographer or subject does not? Who isn’t in the picture? What’s just outside the frame, in space or time? If you could, what would you ask the photographer (or subject) now, a day, a month, a decade since the moment held in the frame? Tell us what you believe or fantasize, beginning or ending with the moment that the photo was captured.

And—here’s a bonus: Now that you’ve written about a photo you possess, one you can look at any old time, write about the one you wish had been taken; if only that moment had been captured—but it wasn’t. In this case, with this photo that doesn’t exist—describe it in living color. (Unless, of course, it’s black and white.)

Beautiful Day

When I used to commute to work, before the current unpleasantness, I spent a lot of time listening to podcasts. Mostly NPR. This American Life. Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. Fresh Air with Terry Gross.

I remember one Fresh Air interview that touched me quite deeply. It was an interview with Marielle Heller, director of A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. The director talks about the profound experience of watching a particular episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood with her 3-year old son, Wylie. “It’s the fish one,” the director says, “the one about death.”

In the episode, Mr. Rogers goes to feed his fish, and one of them appears to be dead. He tries to revive it, but it’s no use. The fish is dead. After Mr. Rogers buries the fish, he goes on to talk about his dog Mitzi, who died when he was a kid.

In the interview, the director describes watching her young son absorb this information. Wylie turns to his mother and says, disbelieving, “dogs don’t die.” And his mother, the director Marielle Heller, has to tell him: “dogs do die.” Wylie asks about cats and then walruses and then, of course, people.

As I sat there on the bus listening to the interview, I felt embarrassed when the tears started trickling down my cheeks. I wiped them quickly away, hoping none of my fellow riders saw. I’d never really thought about the fact that there is a time in each child’s life when they first learn about death.

And then I remembered the photo.

There’s a photo of me when I was a little girl that I keep among my special things. I’m wearing a too-small white dress, white ankle socks, and white shoes. My hair is pulled into two short pigtails. Behind me is a Korean doll wearing a billowing yellow gown. I remember I used to think the doll was very special, something I could look at but not touch.

My friend Mary Zimmerman lived across the street. She was a few years older than me, but she didn’t care. She was still my friend. Mary invited me to go to something called “the fair” with her, but I had a stomach-ache. I was sad to miss the fair, whatever that was. Later that day, Mary stopped by my house with a pretty orange goldfish in a clear plastic bag. She’d won it at the fair for me. It was my first-ever pet.

My parents purchased a round glass fishbowl and plastic container of fish food for my new pet. Every day, I was careful to sprinkle a few flakes of food into the bowl. I watched the pretty orange goldfish swim to the water’s surface and gobble the food up.

One day, when I went to feed my fish, I saw it flopping around on the billowing yellow fabric of the special Korean doll. I shouted out to my mother for help. We somehow managed to scoop the fish back into the bowl. But like Mr. Rogers, our attempts to revive proved useless. The fish was dead. We flushed it down the toilet.

In retrospect, I recognize that was the moment when I first learned about death. Some might say that was also the pivotal “loss of innocence” moment that I bit into the proverbial apple of knowledge.

But in reality, that moment meant nothing. I was still that little girl in the too-small white dress, white ankle socks, and white shoes. And I would remain that little girl, more or less, for many more years. After all, it was just a fish.

I don’t think death becomes real until it takes away someone you care about. And then once it does, the world becomes a terrifying place.

In her Fresh Air interview, Marielle Heller talks about the moment her son realizes what death really means:

“it felt like he was weeping for all humanity or, like, the entire universe and just asking me if we could bury all the walruses in our backyard so we could visit them.”

Today, thinking about all the losses I’ve experienced personally, and all the losses we’re experiencing collectively, I mourn for humanity, the entire universe, and all the walruses.

But if I’m being honest, what I mourn most of all is that little girl in the too-small white dress.