He chuckled and lifted my hand to his lips, to kiss the back of it.
You know what I’m realizing? he said. Living is painful. That’s why we so often forget that we’re dying, we’re too busy catering to our pains. I think it’s one of nature’s tricks—it needs us to not dwell on the fact that we’re dying, otherwise we’d spend our days eating low-hanging fruits from trees and splashing around in clear rivers and laughing while our pointless lives pass us by. Nature makes sure that pain awaits us at every turn so that in our eternal quest to avoid it, or rid ourselves of it, we’ll keep on wanting one thing after another and the earth will stay vibrant. We feel pain, we cause pain, a ridiculous endless cycle. All the misery we cause others, what is it but a result of us dumping our pain on them? I don’t want to do it anymore, living my life by the dictates of my pain. This pain I’m feeling at your leaving, I want to channel it into love. I want to love and love and love, no conditions. I could be dead before you get on the plane, I could die tonight. I don’t mean to be macabre, I’m just trying to learn how to hold on to nothing in life. My entire life has been a game of holding on tightly, and wanting to never let go, and yet losing. It’s painful…My mother, today is the anniversary of her death.
That was the first time he told me the date on which she had died.
How could I rebuke him for never sharing it with me when her passing still so deeply grieved him? His father recently had a fall. Austin flew to see him and spent two days with him at the hospital. I think all of that was on his mind, the thought that, with his father’s passing and me returning home and His Excellency not wanting him back in our country, he might live and die alone in America.
If my mother were here today, he said, she would tell you to just love, and be kind to everyone. That’s what she used to say to me every day, and I saw her practicing it. I saw how she smiled at everyone. She smiled even when the weather was cold. She smiled when people in stores stared at her because she didn’t look and talk like them. When her time came, she died with a smile on her face. These past years, the world has tried to tell me that there’s a better way to live; I should act on my pain, because people like my mother are misguided. The world is wrong.
I spent that night at his apartment, sleep elusive, my mind unquiet. It was as if I was living through one of those dreadful nights of our childhood, only this time I wasn’t afraid of death, I was just hyperaware of it, listening to it say to me, I’m coming for you, Thula, get ready. It all forced me to consider: What if Austin is right about life being an endless cycle of feeling pain and causing pain? I don’t want to partake in such a cycle anymore either. All night, I couldn’t stop asking myself: Is our fight against Pexton driven by pain, or by love? Could it be driven by love? Should it?
Yesterday, back in my room, I lay in bed and imagined myself in a space full of beautiful things made of glass. The space was vast, the size of Kosawa. There was nothing in it but me and plates and trays and glasses and vases, colors of every kind, adorned with flowers, row after row of priceless, breakable things. I yearned to break them. I closed my eyes and screamed. I began running around the room. Pulling things off shelves. Smashing them on the floor. Flinging them against the wall. Kicking them. Crying as I broke them. I toppled the shelves. Destroyed until there was nothing left in that room but me and my brokenness. I then sat against a wall and wept until my head ached and my cheeks felt numb. I dried my eyes. I stood up and saw a broom in a corner. I swept the pieces out of the room. There, they dissolved into nothing. I closed the door and I was alone in the empty room. I started crying again, but this time I wasn’t just crying. I was crying and dancing, then just dancing, laughing, my joy abundant.
I hope the love that dwells today in my heart remains forever, but if it doesn’t, may this letter serve as a testament that there once was a day when all I wanted was for peace to reign. Tomorrow I may wake up in pain with a mind crowded with images of what we’ve suffered, and I may want nothing more than to punish Pexton. I may wish I hadn’t sent you this letter, but it’ll be too late. You may have read my words and decided to join me in freeing Kosawa without causing pain to anyone; without any word, thought, or action that destroys another. You may have vowed never to break or burn again, because you would have come to wonder if I was wrong, if we were all wrong to believe that we could seize freedom through destruction.
Or maybe you’ll read this letter and toss it into the fire, considering it nothing but the ramblings of a lost woman, wondering why you’d ever given so much credence to my words. I ask you only to search your hearts, ponder the idea of reclaiming our land with the love that flows in our blood.