Where Reasons End

by Yiyun Li

Still you don’t get the chocolate, he said. Oh, poor, poor you. You are not a mere piece of chocolate, I protested. Why can’t I be as daft as you and toss around metaphors and analogies? By all means, please do, I said. Then what? he asked. I gave up. I was slow when we argued. Then we become catchers in the rain. Cold, wet, soles of our shoes slippery, our fingers numb, what could we catch? Any seasoned parent was an expert at catching: toppling babies, somersaulting spoons, half-eaten bananas and apples, half-ripe blood berries. Everything breakable and unbreakable belonged to a parent’s field, but what could I catch on this gray, wet morning? Not the smile on your face, not the light in your eyes, not a blue cat, not a purple penguin, not dust in the wind, not a thought whispering in your ears, so loud that it had drowned out all the music of the world. What, my child, can I catch now, when all has become invisible? Words, mother dear, Nikolai said. We will be catching each other’s words, don’t you see?