nostalgia

love letter to little emi

Little Emi sits across from me. Her hair is in a middle part, low pony. A thin neon headband. Big gap toothed teeth. She’ll need glasses soon—her nose is always in a book. She sings so loudly the mom carpooling her to practice tells her to be quiet. She’s the tallest on her basketball team. She always asks her friends’ moms for fruit snacks. She is noisy. She is giggly. She is weird. She believes in magic (not metaphorically—literally). She plays on her lane with her neighbors and invents clubs with them. Cheerleader club. Recycling club. Theater club. She’s proud of being Japanese. It’s her fun fact every time someone asks. Her siblings are frozen in age. They are all little and giggly. They are hers. They are as much a part of her as her fingers are part of her hand. As her heart is a part of her chest.

Juggling a soccer ball as the sun sets with Kai and Dad. Warm sticky air. Crickets. Squinting as the light grows dimmer, but we have to get to 50. I wish I could wrap myself up in one of those nights. Curl up in the blue-black night, a kitchen window warmly lit in my heart, cicadas humming me to sleep.