Four Corners of My Lime Green Wall

It's great to wake up to a fruity color like lime green. The color of the walls I wake up to remind me I am in my room in San Jose. Where I can sleep as long as I want. Where during a break like Spring Break I do not have to worry as much about reading, writing papers, or exams. Where my stomach does not feel as empty. Where my mother comes in the middle of the night yelling at how skinny and green I am and forces a glass of milk down my throat. It's quite dark. Let me open the blinds. Ah, sonshine. Good morning.

Spring Break has been a trip though I haven't been around much besides around San Jose. I've been here since Saturday. I hitched a ride with Thinh, Nam's friend, along with Phi, Helen, and myself. When I got home, I noticed the smell of my house more. It's like as if my nose had become unfamiliar to the scent of my home. My nose had to get used to it again. I could smell the distinctiveness of my house. I realized how powerful the kitchen is in our home dictating and controling the scents around the house. My mother's cooking, I could taste home upon sniffing it.

The red carpets of my house was something I had to get used to again. Being at Juan's place for almost month, I've gotten used to gray carpet. In my room, I notice the pee stains left by my chihuahua dog, Lucky. Whose dog isn't named Lucky if you are in a Vietnames familly? I call my dog Bang Lai, a name I thought of when seeing her run around and bowing for food--the rhythm of her movement. Don't ask me why else I named her that. It was the first sound or combination of words I heard in my head.

I've been going through my family pictures lately. My baby pictures included. I laugh at the naked pictures of me. I laugh at the little scribbles I angrily made as a kid in the photo albums. "Stupit family." "Retarted Guy." "Girls are Retarted." That's what I had written when I was a boy whose feelings were hurt. I wonder if I will laugh at a lot of things I had gone through not so long ago just like how I am laughing at the marks made by my adolescent self. Of course i will. Perhaps I should think more that way. I laugh at the stories I wrote when I was in elementary school. For instance, the mini-book I wrote about my macarena-singing stuffed gorilla who I had named "Banana", which I still have sitting somewhere downstairs. I should bring it back upstairs to my room.

Hearing my voice of me then is hilarious. This laughter is something different. Not the laughter you laugh at/with a comedian like Dave Chapelle. Or when you are embarrassed or nervous. Or when you see or hear someone else laugh. Or when you see or hear something silly or awkward. Or when you see or hear something that is ironic, satirical, absurd. Or when something is cute. No, it's incredibly different. I am guessing it is the laughter when a memory gets open up and you start to remember or at least try to remember how you were, what you were thinking of during that period that picture was taken. It's funny because yeah perhaps you look silly or cute, but that was you, and in many ways, that is you. Funny, how that is. I am still laughing about writing about why I am laughing. That's funny too.

The four corners of my lime green walls are dark now that the lights are off. I know it will be bright again. Until then, I have to keep my blinds closed until morning. I know these walls will shine again once I wake up after hearing the owl near my house hoot and open those blinds. Ah, good morning sonshine. It's 1 pm and it's time to live again.