I got a scribble on a postcard from Amina today in response to a request I made before she broke off communications. For some reason it offended me that she had thought of me. I recalled the time I asked her if she had thought of me over a certain period of three days and she responded, ". . . no", in the same way she may have answered if I had asked her if she had thought about what she wanted to put on her tombstone. No, it was different, she seemed almost proud and glad to be able to tell me that.
It burned to have physical proof of her existence in my hand. It hurt to think that there was some time of which I was unaware that she had thought of me to write this scribble. She doesn't exist in my life anymore. I don't need proof of her existence. The scribble on the postcard went immediately into the trash.
I also got a letter from Diem. She hadn't gotten the two letters I had sent her at the end of December and beginning of January, but she was aware of them. They hadn't reached her yet. There was something missing between Diem and me, something had left with Amina.
I locked my bike to a signpost outside the courthouse and looked up at the sky. It looked like rain. As long as it didn't start in the next two hours. With my Macintosh slung over my right shoulder, I strode over to the 13th Street entrance of the courthouse. The halls were empty. I saw the guard down the hall away from his post. As I approached the lectern with the sign-in book, near the bank of elevators, he took a few tentative steps until he saw that I knew to sign in. I got into an elevator and pushed the button for the second floor.
I stepped out of the elevator and stopped and looked towards the entrance of the law library. I reached into the inner pocket of my denim jacket and pulled out Diem's letter, tapped it against my hand a few times and carefully tore it open along one end. I read it through once. She said nice things, she expressed concern, care, and anxiety. Something was missing.
I took a step towards the library and paused again. Diem is in Ohio; a place I would like to burn from my memory. She is living a life that is far in my past and has no connection to what I'm doing now. Everything in my life is new and different. Diem and I were very close. Too close to survive the changes.
I leafed through the three pages and then tried to read the letter over again. I barely skimmed the first page. I walked to the trash can near the elevators, pushed the letter and the envelope in, and walked into the library.
I went to a show this evening in San Francisco Chinatown featuring Asian American hip-hop groups. Some groups were good, one was really good, but most were poor, lacking in originality, charisma, good material, talent, and presence. It's hard getting quality Asian American groups and acts, but then Kevin and I didn't exactly have the audience eating out of our hands at Ohana.
