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.

“That’s how love is,” she used to say. “If the love is true, then treat it the same way you would a plant—fertilize it, protect it from the elements—you must do absolutely everything you can. But if it isn’t true, then it’s best to just let it wither on the vine.”

But had I really enjoyed living life on my own until now?

Joyful. Painful. Pleasant. Sweet. Bitter. Sour. Ticklish. Itchy. Cold. Hot. Lukewarm.

Just what kind of life had I lived? I wondered.

I don’t care anymore. About love or anything. It doesn’t matter what happens.

In truth, it really didn’t matter. As long as Sensei was fine and well, that’s what was important.

“Sensei, can you read this?”

“Ah, actually, I can’t really,” Sensei said with a laugh. “But still, it really is a nice hand.”

Do you think so?

“Tsukiko, when you see a handsome man, even if you cannot understand what he says, you still think, ‘Oh, that guy’s good-looking,’ don’t you? Handwriting is the same.”