Daisy Chen, Canyon Crest Academy, graduating in 26'
April 12, 2023

Shanghai: Tall, impressive, a flagrant lighthouse standing on wet sand overlooking the ocean. She wears a pearl necklace around her neck and flashes expensive clothes from around the globe. 

 

Shanghai is a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. Bits and fragments, memories stitched together with silk, telling a story with gaping holes like a spiderweb. A bike ride, a giraffe at the zoo. Flowers that bloom only in the winter, and a boat in the water. With her, it is always a mystery.

She was new money. A bit of luck in the 90s, and now the ocean was in the palm of her hand. Whenever she goes, she carries a pink designer purse and slips on Prada shoes. Walking past a crowd always brings “Oohs” and “Aahhs”. 

When Shanghai dances, she glows. Her black hair, dangling and billowing like a flag, her nimble feet traversing the polished floor, so swiftly they became a blur. While she dances,  judging eyes stop and stare. To everyone, she is a goddess, untouchable and enigmatic, leaving a respectful distance between her smiles and honeyed words. 

When she left, I was too numb to cry. I stood there, in the airport, my hand on the suitcase she had pressed into my hands, staring indifferently at the airplane that whisked her away. She was always out of my league. 

 

Shanghai: 2008 - 2014. May she rest in everlasting peace, her smile spreading to all four corners of the globe. 

 

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Calgary: Talkative, gifted, a marble statue of a man. He wears cowboy hats and boots, goes backpacking and sledding. 

 

I met Calgary in a parking lot. He was a reserved man, full of pride and intuition. Even in the numbing cold, he wore a bright plaid shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket. 

It wasn’t until the second month that I noticed we didn’t speak the same language. English words come quick and fast, sharp clicks and beeps ricocheting off the ends of my brain, trying to form sentences. 

 

Despite the difference in language, he still tells me stories. Writing is my spirit, he tells me, when I finish my first novel and make enough money, we’ll leave this frozen tundra. 

During the summer, he is the grains of dust and sand kicked up from the hooves of horses and bulls, the dry chinook wind blowing downhill from the mountains. During the winter, he becomes the winter draft, icicles dangling above garage doors, frost stuck to mittens with holes in them. 

Calgary is everything. It is in my hair, the clothes on my body, and the words that come out of my mouth. Memories of Shanghai are preserved in a small scrapbook, left to collect dust on the top shelf. 

Calgary plays the piano, his fingers flying across the keyboard, his shoulders swinging with the beat. While he plays, I sing.

During snowstorms, we huddle by the fireplace. Wandering minds tell the best stories. Speaking first, he thinks seven steps ahead. While he speaks with a stutter, his head is full of ideas. 

In the ice rink at the center of town, I watch him skate. He moves like a ballerina, his head high up in an arch, angling his eyes towards the full sun. While he glides on the frozen stage, I dream of the future. 

One day, he picks up an umbrella, puts on his shoes, and walks out the front door. He leaves a note by my bed, a yellow scroll tied with a little red ribbon. I’m sorry. The rain is Mother Earth’s way of crying. It is also mine. 

 

Calgary: 2014 - 2019. If you see him, call 587-012-0028. Please return him home. Reward: $500. 

 

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Troy: Stubborn, persistent, no not that Troy, the one without the giant wooden horse. He likes cars, and bakes fudge and apple pies. 

 

Troy is all the things Shanghai is not. He lives in a quiet run-down house in the suburbs and wears clothes only in shades of brown and gray. Troy was an old white brick house with a hole in the ceiling, a decrepit swing set, raspberry bushes, and a koi pond that flooded into the basement. 

His hair is a swath of golden leaves, his lips the shade of the scarlet sun, and his eyes filled with pools of blue-water lakes. When he talks, his words are served on a dinner plate with no silver lining. A battering ram, a running train, he is the only one more headstrong than me. 

Unlike Shanghai, I remember everything about Calgary in bitter detail, memories fresh in my mind. However, Troy threatens to make me forget. Everything is certain with him. No stone left untouched, no rug unswept, he is incessant. 

He likes cars. On occasion, he takes me to car shows, viewing antiques worth millions. 

On Sundays, we take a hike. There are many forests where we live, more than I want to count. We visit the lakes, pits of blue-green water sunk in the muddy ground. He points to a bird fluttering between White Pine trees. A Red Cardinal, he answers, jotting down its name in a sketchbook.   

He is predictable. Life with him quickly falls into a charted schedule. It is comfortable, a steady routine. 

We’ll be together forever; he takes me by the hand. I believe him. We plan our future, a chart of all the places we’ll go, all the things we’ll do. 

Troy is a bottle of pent-up anger. Unfortunately, my hands move without grace. Fights are normal. Ours are not. They are bloodbaths, a slaughter of the soul and body. Eventually, his wounds grow into scars. He takes out the doormat and slams the front door behind me. 

Like all the others, he is a man full of empty promises. Liars, bringers of fictitious hope. Tears turn into fury. Damnation seeps into the mind, as thoughts of enmity and reckless abandonment. The mind is a ball and chain, dragging itself into self-misery. 

 

Troy: 2019 - 2021 On my deathbed, tell him I love him and want to see him dead. 

 

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San Diego: Optimist, courteous, a calming sea and a setting sun. She sits by the wet sand, overlooking the ocean. 

 

San Diego is unwanted, a sharp thorn on the side of a bewitching rose. I lash out, my words etched in fire and actions armed with bullets. Knife wounds embed her skin, so thin I can see right into her heart. Cut after cut, arms grow weary. When my legs give away, she is there, tethering me into consciousness. 

I grew to appreciate her presence. Perched on the shoulder, she is a cockatiel; a singer of sweet songs, a raconteur of poignant narration. Her laughter is enough for both of us. I wonder if Shanghai’s smile reaches the West Coast. 

Her hair is desert red, her lips a strawberry hue, her clothes woven out of purple wildflowers and moss.  

Benevolence is ingrained in her nature. When I tell her I want to leave paradise, she does not persuade me otherwise. Her voice tells me to follow my heart and take it one step at a time.

Those who came before her suppress my reasoning. Caution takes precedence.  Partly, I hope to see malicious, bad intentions twisted into her words. My eyes deceive hopes and I see none.  

San Diego breathes life into words otherwise hollow. Even her coldest days are warmer than Calgary’s arrogance or Troy’s animosity. She keeps her anger on a string, her golden eyes pointing upwards at the sky, her hands clasped together as we watch the setting sun. 

I cannot stay forever. I have signed myself into a life of wanderlust. I tell her, four years, that's all we have. She looks me in the eyes and says, let’s do everything then. I believe her. 

 

San Diego: 2021 - present