| dewy decimal |
2003-10-07 - 4:30 a.m.
Although miles away, I can feel the cold, cement-gray sky pushed flat and chilly against my cheek. Like a cool wall, yielding the brisk space that it contains. You can locate this grey of the sky in any new parking lot, Pantone match-for-match, but below, there is only the deep evergreen that mounts the perimeters of my house.
My office is in a wooden building crowned with deeep blue tiles. Along with the Nu'uanu river that flows adjacent to the building, it marks the entrance to Honolulu's Chinatown. The building is darker because of the rain and I ascend to the second floor where my piles await.
Ground level, there is a cozy room where seamstresses assemble acoutrements, mostly made of yards of aloha print . Daylong, they assemble the plackets and pockets in the murmur of zipping Berninas and vowel-laden dialects of Cantonese.
Two children of a seamstress, Mei Mei and Yong Sang, often wander through our office. My co-workers greet them with soprano hey, heys.
I trade them sweet sour gau jee and taro cakes for airplanes and boxes, constructed from recycled paper and scotch tape.
My computer is blaring Deerhoof's Apple O album and Yong Sang says, "Look, I'm dancing!" Persuaded by her brothers enthusiasm, Mei Mei goes twirly in her little red dress, aloha print set in motion.
I pour all my small paper clips in their paper box. On the side, read in pink highlighter, Mei From and <3 Yong Sang, with proud backward e's and g's.
Details I wish that they could see one day in adulthood and smile with a kind of affection.