The Observer

I lounge on the hardwood floors, soaking up the sun. Without me to house the bamboo, their shoots would hang low and solemn. Providing the base while their green limbs reach towards the ceiling, outstretched until they get too long, and they're given a fatal haircut.

I am the constant watcher of my home. First kisses, laughter, arguing, crying, ice cream, heartbreak, new puppies, the smell of coffee and almonds in the morning, but never have I felt anything other than that of an onlooker, forever and silently observing my surroundings. I’ve outlived everyone I’ve ever known. People come and go, families change. The people in them switch, shuffling like a deck of cards. People get old. They wrinkle. They gray; gray until they fade completely. Not I. Though I’ve been passed down through generations, sailed across the world from Okinawa to Hawai’i to the mainland, following the shifting members of my famly, I’ve remained as beautiful and delicate as the lapis-blue flowers and Japanese calligraphy painted in intricate strokes on my porcelain.

I’ve noticed that Dad ties his left shoe before his right, and sometimes when he ties his laces in a bow they slip through. Then he lets out a slow breath, and then he ties them again. His blonde hair is always slicked back and his white beard is always groomed to perfection. His fingernails are always kept, and he smells like tea tree and musk.

Mom is always in the kitchen. She uses a chopstick to tie her raven-colored hair into a loose knot before she starts mixing various powders and liquids. If you didn’t see the golden muffins steaming after Mom takes them out of the oven with her red quilted mitts, you might think she’s running some sort of illegal operation. She cries a lot. Sometimes she kneels next to me on the floor, angry at herself for moving to California. There was family in Hawai’i; there is none of that here. 

Kendra always brings over this guy with dark floppy hair that covers his forehead through the side door by the garage, instead of the front door. I don’t think Mom and Dad like him much. Ever since he started coming over, she started talking to Mom less. For some reason, she’s embarrassed. Why? I’m not sure, but she’s always apologizing to him in advance for the starchy smell of rice that lingers in the kitchen. 

Charlie likes to sleep in the sunny spot next to me. Charlie usually sleeps on his back but when it’s colder, he curls up into a little wirey charcoal-colored donut. His little nails pitter-patter on the hardwood floors, announcing his presence before he comes into view.

I’m almost content with my stationary life, but after a while, every day becomes the same. I can’t remember anything beyond the big murky watercolor mess that is my life; everything blurs together until I can’t tell what happened yesterday, what happens today, and what will probably happen tomorrow. Shoes tied, muffins baked, boyfriends over, naps taken, repeat. 

This day had started like any other. Mom was whisking something in her metal bowl. Clink, clink, clink with every stir. “Shit,” she said, “I’m missing eggs.” Dad was sighing because his laces were too slippery to stay in a bow. Kendra was holding Charlie’s paws and pretending to make him dance. Once Dad’s shoes were tied to his satisfaction, he grabbed his leather black box with a handle and left out the front door. Mom left shortly after Dad, yelling to Kendra on her way out. Kendra took a break from tormenting Charlie with her amateur waltz and grabbed a neon yellow ball. Charlie grinned and dropped low, wagging his tail with anticipation. Kendra pulled her arm back and released the ball. Charlie exploded across the living room like a bullet. He brought back the ball and dropped it at Kendra’s feet. She laughed, putting her hands on her hips and squinting her eyes. She threw the ball again. Before Charlie could begin his chase, a shrill cracking sound filled the room. The noise rang in my ears and hung in the air; it didn’t stop. “Oh God,” Kendra put her hands over her mouth. “Oh God,” she yelled, frozen in place. Her face reddened and her eyes became misty. Charlie fled the scene. I glanced around me, Kendra’s face still held the same expression of sheer panic, as if she was a statue, and that look was permanently carved into her marble visage. What happened? 

Soil spilled out and green branches splayed horizontally on the floor like a wilted explosion, breaking me apart. As water ran down my cracked exterior, I cried. 

The door opened and Mom and Dad walked through the door together. “I forgot my laptop,” Dad yelled as he swiftly floated through the door, his voice trailing off when he saw me, his smile neutralizing into gritted teeth. Mom’s eyes widened. She rushed to my side. Her familial generations of lives, traditions, hardship now reduced to a broken mess on the floor. Groceries clunked and a lone egg rolled along the floor. Dad still stood in the doorway as Mom knelt next to Kendra, cradling a piece of my face in her hands. It sliced her palm, and red began to run alongside me on the floor. I knew that all the shoes tied, muffins baked, boyfriends over, naps taken, repeat, was over. The last cycle, once rhythmically circling endlessly, now resolved. I blinked, and the last bead of water hit Mom’s palm. She clutched the shattered piece close to her chest, weeping a silent cry. 

Finally, my world began to gray, gray until there was nothing left. And when everything was nothing, it seemed that living the same day—even just one more time—didn’t seem so bad. A privilege, even.