Days of My Life

In my Chinatown home, I always had a cup. That cup was for water, milk, juice, and sometimes even soup. That cup was a Styrofoam cup. It was disposable, it was clean, it was temporary. I halfheartedly rinsed the cup before each use, haphazardly tossed it into the fridge afterward, and heartlessly threw it away after a week or two. I thought I was cool for "getting a new cup" every week. And then today at work while picking from six communal espresso cups, I realized that having your own, permanent cup somewhere is a sign of your belonging and permanence there. In the cupboard above the sink is an array of company mugs with their respective owners' names printed on them. I don't have one yet, and actually prefer to use one of the six communal, anonymous espresso cups--whether for coffee or for water--for now, because I don't know my condition of permanence here. I suppose that having your own cup is analogous to committing to the company. But I never felt imper...

(a continuation of  "Life and Lemons" ) ...But no matter which lemon you pick, it's only a matter of time before the rind turns wrinkly, the flesh turns dry, and the yellow turns moldy. Because everything, no matter how fresh, juicy, plump--and full of potential--it initially seems, comes to an end, and that is the sour reality. And that is why, while you must be aware of and heed limits, you don't just stop picking. Once your basket has emptied of the best lemon(s) you have ever picked, once your glass has emptied of the best lemonade you have ever squeezed--you smack your lips and "mmm" in satisfaction of what you just had, rub your hands together and "hmm" in preparation of what you can have. And you go out and stand in the middle of the down-sloping hill again, bracing yourself for whatever tumbles down from the top. Why don't you simply accept that what you just had was the peak of your existence and stop hogging up space on that hil...