A Wednesday
I don’t know why I still choose to live everyday despite running away from places where
they hang the mirrors.
Maybe it’s because my Mama wakes up early from her warm bed on freezing cold
December morning to make breakfast for me.
Or it’s because of the stray dog waiting for me to get home safe because I patted him once.
I don’t know why I still choose to live every day.
Maybe it’s because my father loses on purpose when we play crossword puzzle on Sunday
mornings.
Or maybe it’s because I promised my friend that I’ll help them paint the starry night by Van
Gogh.
I don’t know why I still choose to live every day.
Maybe it’s because a stranger once told me that my smile reminds them of a beautiful,
blurry, distant memory.
Or maybe it’s because I promised my little cousin that I’ll read Sylvia’s poems to her every
night.
Maybe It’s all these moments.
The popsicle on a June evening,
Or finding lost money in an old worn-out shirt.
Blooming of flowers in my garden that I once thought were dead.
Finally falling asleep after a long day.
Finding a familiar face in an unfamiliar place,
Or to listen as the rain collides with the air.
I think the only thing stopping death is my mom’s pancake on a Wednesday.