Author: Olavia Kite

Everybody wants me to be a robust sequoia in the middle of a deserted land. Such a sight is a necessary symbol of hope, some strength in the midst of despair. Nobody can deny how miraculous it is for a beautiful centennial tree to withstand the hardships of existing in the middle of caked lumps of sand. It is useful, too, when nothing else is available. Some will take a piece of me to keep their hearth burning. Some will expect me to keep standing despite having carved a tunnel right out of my core, just for the fun of driving through. Others will even hope to dance on my stump when I fall, if that is ever to happen. After all, aren’t sequoias supposed to live forever?

To everyone’s great disappointment, though, I am more of a decaying birch in a forest. It looks just like the rest of them, tall and scar-stricken, watching deer run by. However, it is festering inside. In silent pain it feels itself vanish. When the hollow carcass finally gives out, it will swoon in the middle of the woods—swoosh!—a whisper which nobody will hear. A decomposed log, a cylindrical wooden puzzle facing the sun and the dew and the mud, it will be soon covered in moss and disappear forever, long before anybody can tell there ever was a birch where there now lies nothing.

I didn’t feel the earthquake, even though I woke up long before it occurred. I was busy getting my room ready for my guest, whom I had invited for breakfast. As I finished washing the last dishes and vacuuming the last corners, I imagined for the briefest moment that this person would forget about the appointment or oversleep and not arrive. After all, invitations to breakfast are quite uncommon—at least in this country, I think. He was amazingly punctual, though. We had French toast with fried bacon, coffee, and juice. I must say that in spite of some people’s disbelief, I do cook quite well, and my French toast is amazing. Conversation flowed in three languages, and breakfast turned into lunch which turned into dinner. He helped me draw the curtains at sunset, heard me play a couple of songs on the guitar before noon, and loved the cheese empanada with sugar (leftover from the ones we had made with my sempai and my neighbor last night).

I might cook again soon. We have plans to go get sushi when the weather gets better.

A sea of utter loneliness expands before me. All which lies ahead of me is covered with a cold, white blanket of uncertainty. Even these words fall into oblivion in no apparent order—crazy suicidal hooks of ink jumping from a cliff. My heart is a limp balloon hanging from a mess of cobweb strings in an empty chest. People around me mutter goodbye, as do objects and sunny mornings. That charred leaf falling from a maple tree is a reminder of the decaying beauty that hung on to its own charm for too long.

You said you don’t believe I’m alone. Of course I’m not completely alone, you silly—but you clearly aren’t among those who keep me company.