At the back of my apartment there are a series of three windows. The big ones let you see out and let you see in. They are in the laundry room. The little one is clouded, if that is the right word, in other words you cannot see in or out.
It is in my bathroom.
Against that clouded window, branches pass. Sometimes they seem to caress the glass, much like a finger against a naked body.
There are two types of branches that can reach this window, one from an apple tree and the other from a bamboo plant.
I think of them, given my experience, as warring women -- my American lovers and my Asian lovers. As they blow in the wind, making their case, I remember each and every one of the women I have loved. Each was beautiful and now their surrogates brush across my cloudy window.
Suddenly I open the window up and all becomes clear.
None of you are here. All that is left for me is my imagination and my memory.
=30-
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