Bruce
Zama Middle/High School
The nights spent on tatami mats and eating noodles, and the neighborhoods I never wanted to end. Life on base hums its own separate song, English echoing in the aisles of the PX, but just outside those guarded gates, well that’s where I found home in each local smile. Festival lights blinked in carefully-edged streets, train rides appeared suddenly over rice fields bursting with crops, shrines that spoke in hushed whispers, and lanterns glowed against the moon. Eventually, however, orders arrived, on distant thunder. Mom's voice always soft through the word ”soon." Memory made at the folds of her words, and unsavory pieces packed in a suitcase to fit in randomly folded corners. I felt small parts of myself slip off into every room so as not to forget. School years left me built from two tight worlds - sayonara nights and see-you-soon nights. A heart half-draped in stars and stripes while beating under quiet lights in Japan.