The earthquake

I thought the earthquake happened thirty years ago.

The town still lies there, in ruins, in tatters, in shambles.

Nobody cared enough to rebuild anything anywhere.

Green lush vegetation now covers the walls, the houses.

Whole barley fields extend as far as the eye can see.

Where roads and streets and parking lots used to be.

Only the graveyard remains untouched by the wilderness.

Someone must be coming here often to tend to the grave.

There's only one, you know, but it is in pristine condition.

The name still shines in gold, sun-mirroring letters.

That name used to be mine, before the earthquake.

I thought the earthquake happened twenty years ago.

When its memory surfaced, like a dead body in the sea.

A dead body is what we put in coffins, like in the movies.

Crapversaries is what I call the birthday of a deathday.

That day was the crappiest crapversary of my short life.

I remember it like it was yesterday because it sort of was.

I saw his silhouette against the lit backdrop of the open door.
I pretended to be asleep but my pounding heart wouldn’t let me. 

I knew he had been waiting for mom to leave for work.

Waiting all day long and pretending to be busy in the garage.

He stepped into the bedroom and didn't switch the light on.

Maybe he thought if I didn't see anything it would be all right.

Maybe he forgot I could still touch, taste, smell, feel pain.

And that's precisely when the earthquake happened.

I thought the earthquake happened ten or so years ago.

It happened in the shower after I had sex with my girlfriend.

The smell came up to me and it burst-reminded me of that day.

I had buried it so deeply within me it couldn't come back.

But it did because we all know the dead can't stay buried.

Because I smelt what my dad smelt when he was done.

That sort of smell is bound to wake up the dead.

That sort of smell is the motherbomb of all deathsmells.

It smothered me and I choked I thought I'd die in the shower.

Maybe it's not as bad as it sounds but I didn't die anyway.

But the earthquake was rattle-ravaging everything inside.

I thought the earthquake happened yesterday, of all days.

He called me on the phone while I was at work.

I hadn't heard of him in more than two decades.

When mom realised the earthquake had gone on for years.

He said he was sorry, that he had become a different person.

Though his name still resounds like a coffinful of bones.

But I got better but I said I didn't want to see him ever again.

Today I am still smiling when I watch the sky.

Today like yesterday I tend to the grave of that child.

I cut out tiny pieces of sunrays to gild the letters.

The horror happened but I acknowledged it and let it go.

I let it slide over me like a tsunami a few years ago.

So I could trade pain for happiness, rage for serenity.

And I am serene not because I survived the earthquake.

I am serene because I found out who I am despite the earthquake.