The Emperor of Gladness

by Ocean Vuong

“In old country, they had to bury the horses with big stones from the river. No time to dig holes with Russians coming. When horses were killed by air raids, we kids would go out and find stones. I never thought humans can make stones from the river inside them. But they said Jonas had too many rocks in his organs. This whole time he was burying himself. I thought he was getting promoted. He was conductor for Amtrak, and he was making more salary, watching our children grow, going on trips, picnics at the Lithuanian camp in the summers in Massachusetts, but he was slowly covering himself with stones. Just like he covered the basement with garbage.” She held the owl at arm’s length, frowning, then brought it to her chest. “You never know how big a horse is until you have to bury it.”

“Most people are soft and scared. They’re fucking mushy. We are a mushy species. You talk to anybody for more than half an hour and you realize everything they do is a sham to keep themselves from falling apart. From prison guards to teachers, to managers, psychiatrists, even fathers, anybody—even your stupid generals. People put on this facade of strength. They act like they have a purpose and a mission and their whole life is supposed to lead to this grand fucking thesis of who they are.

“All my fucking life,” the HomeMarket monster said, its voice muffled in flesh and clothes, “I tried to convince everybody that I was stupid. I convinced myself too. But I’m a smart person. I’m a daughter,” the monster said, “sister, a wrestler. And so are you. You’re fucking great, Sony. You’re an amazing person, okay? You’re the best soldier I ever had. Don’t let this shit turn you into anything else. Don’t let whatever your father is or was knock you down on the mat.”

“This…” she gestured to the forest, “is not new. It is same story. Okay? Don’t be too sad, boy. You still have your hands. And with these what you make is yours.”

In all of Hai’s enormously tiny life here in this valley, he’d never witnessed the budding of April blooms. It always seemed the trees were barren for months of ash and pewter greys, and then, as if overnight, the new, card-sized leaves would unfold, fluttering in the morning breeze, open and fat and already done with arrival. But this morning, for the first time, he saw the becoming of the season—and it looked to him false, the tips too hearty and dense against all that dead wood, as if placed by an artist with tweezers and superglue in a futile attempt to cheer up the world.

He thought of all the people who once drank and ate from the cups, the wrappers and boxes now stuffed in black bags that buoyed him toward what he was always becoming: lifted by what this town refused. The trash was no longer just trash—but evidence. Because to discard is to move on. Inside the dumpster, he was pressed on all sides by human forwardness. Everything’s a room, he realized, too late. The cars on the interstate nothing but rooms with wheels. The endless prescription bottles. And the body, too, a room, and so is the heart.

“I’m scared, Ma,” he whispered. “Of what? What are you talking about?” “Of what’s coming. Of the future—it just seems so big.” “That’s only because you’re young. Eventually, it gets smaller. But don’t be afraid of life, son. Life is good when we do good things for each other.”