Allison Markin Powell

Even a cracked pot has a lid that fits.

Forcing myself to make conversation felt like standing on a cliff, peering over the edge, about to tumble down headfirst.

kiss wasn’t unpleasant. Maybe not unpleasant, but I wasn’t happy about it. Rather than happy, it made me feel a little lonely.

A grown woman would know how to get warm in a situation like this. But, for the moment, I was a child and helpless.

“Would you consider a relationship with me, based on a premise of love?”

Enveloped in Sensei’s warm and dry embrace, I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry. But I didn’t laugh and I didn’t cry anymore either. All I did was be still there in Sensei’s arms.

t wasn’t about being kind to me; rather, it was born from a teacherly attitude of being willing to listen to my opinion without prejudice. I found this considerably more wonderful than just being nice to me.

We also went to Disneyland, of course. As we were watching the evening parade, Sensei shed a few tears. I did too. Each of us, though together, was probably thinking of different things that made us cry.

“There is something wistful about the lights at night,” Sensei said as he blew his nose on a big white handkerchief.

Sensei, I hope we see each other again one day, I say. And from the ceiling, Sensei replies, Surely we shall see each other one day