The man who cuts our grass every two weeks likes to stopand chat in the middle of mowing. This week, he pushedhis headphones down to his neck because he wanted to talkabout the book he's reading and can't seem to put down:histories of wartime in the Pac…  | Luisa A. Igloria April 26 | The man who cuts our grass every two weeks likes to stop
and chat in the middle of mowing. This week, he pushed
his headphones down to his neck because he wanted to talk
about the book he's reading and can't seem to put down:
histories of wartime in the Pacific, including the Japanese
occupation of my country. He's stupefied by the record
of atrocity after atrocity: young girls herded off to become
comfort women, babies shishkebobed by bayonets for being
in the way of advance. When we say back then, supposedly
we mean golden years we might look at with present-day
nostalgia. But histories of brokenness and violence keep
coming back, weeds wanting to overtake any good growth.
Yesterday, a man stood in a court of law and said a president,
just because he was president, could assasinate his political
rival and be immune from prosecution. And yesterday,
there was a moment when I could not seem to tell
anymore where the unassailable sadness
of this world and my personal sorrows began,
and where they ended. In my misery, you gave me
a kiss of such simple tenderness it made me weep.
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