The Simple Life

When you read stories about mama I want you to think, my god, how did he survive his life this way? I want pity and affection as well. Send me flowers and candies and comfort me in your arms when you spot me on a sidewalk walking with a downward glance. Say Shh...it’s okay, I understand and I’ll retort you can’t understand because your life was so much easier and you’ll say at least it’s not war, it’s not cancer, it’s not death, you’re alive and I’m here. I’ll defy you—what do you know how tortured I’ve been, it’d be better if I died on a battlefield than being at war with my soul! and my voice shakes just then, a few tears. In your eyes, endless understanding—you’re right, you offer, and stroke my hair, holding back your own desperate weeping.

Come with me, you say, and open up a door behind you and it leads to a garden, no a field—a field of yellow daisies where we spend all day feeding one another ham and cheese sandwiches and skipping down endless hills. Each night, before sleep under the warm moon, you pray that my sufferings can humble you and you give thanks that your life has been so filled with tenderness and a bountiful trust fund. I am so grateful for you, you think to yourself, your hand on my cheek as you lean in to close the day with a kiss.