Yumiko Kashiwagi
Yumiko is an avid explorer of thoughts, feelings, love, and hopes: still wandering
through the woods of adulthood. She grew up drawing and expanding her imagination
through inks, paints, and pencils of color. Now, she is diving into a new medium of art;
the art of words. She likes movies and romanticizes over things (or overthink things),
making her look deeply at the world. The conflict of ideal and reality is mesmerizing for
the author, as they wake her pondering in her bed late at night. What makes this world
so simple yet so hard to live? She thinks on the first floor of a small apartment room,
looking out the window, where cars, people, and leaves pass by.
In the middle of summer and fall, leaves start to change, fall, and hit the ground to decay, yet on the other side of the lane, there are cicadas screaming “SUMMER IS NOT OVER YET”.
The yellow spots on greened cherry blossom trees remind me of highlighted spots on a printed document, begging to be noted.
A fallen leaf by my doorstep
don't know which tree, which wind
which flock of air between human steps brought you here
but welcome
The sun finally comes out of the shadows, after letting the clouds do their seasonal jobs. She kisses each paintings goodbye as she settle in the night.
Filling her lungs, A friend once said,
“Everyone should go outside! They’re missing out!”
It's time.
Restaurants and stores end their day
Faint sounds of sorted plates and scrubbed floors come from dim stores
Piano Christmas play in the background (jazz of course)
"I'm at the driveway can u pick me up?" one texts
"I had a long day, I'm coming home soon"texts another
As she waits for her bus in the big city
Walking down the stairs, so much hope for the night. One step after the other, feeling autumn from the ground. The smell of the dead, the smell of decay. So much hope for a tree that Mari Kondo-ed their belongings,
Bugs and crickets cheer on as she takes off her earphones.
She can finally hear.
I was looking out the window when I had just finished the final class.
My mouth craved for food. My tongue tasted like acid, and my stomach was curled up in a ball. I made something with tofu, with vinegar sauces. The smell of sesame and tofu slid through my body as the tofu sat on my tongue.
Nothing I make tastes like home
No stroke of chopsticks of mom
no drop of sauces of brother
no fluffy steam of gramma.
I watched the setting sun tint the clouds; all the soft light turned a creamy orange. Then I smell moisture, these heavy particles of water that slipped through my shut windows.
It starts pouring.
Heavy droplets hit the asphalt and darkened the dried surface. The droplets made crowns when they hit the ground, making a white layer of tulle. I know the rain is cold, yet the custard-tinted skies say otherwise. I sat with a warm bowl of rice, warming the palms of my hands, watching the rainfall, until the sky darkens to a brown.
Then to a muted grey.
The heat from my hands dies down. So did the bowl.
I hold on to what you see so tight
With light inside your eyes
You look at me looking for eyelashes
your nose
your mouth
I know what you cannot see, eyes closed
I try to check the back of your head as you braid
You stare at me,
Hoping braids are not lopsided
I look at you a little longer
I imitate your leaning eyebrows
I touch the crevasses of your skin
You take out the gooey
That’s gross, but I get it
I stare; you never smile
I copy your fingers gliding the edge of your nose
I watch you color your skin.
Shading and coloring as you desire
I look to check, no glitter falls
You finally smile, and I do too