"My mother tells me that my emotions are fast and fleeting, altering the constants of calm and content that she understands to be me. I slam doors and I cry, I harm with intention, and I fragment myself to stay intact.
In South Carolina, the South, my home, humid summer days meander endlessly on, and thunderstorms fragment time. Tablespoon raindrops wash away all memories of the day’s existence before the rain, and a cool calm settles as the storm passes...."
Since writing this piece, Cumi Ikeda has moved from the Pacific Northwest to Pittsburgh, where she feels a bit more at home with the rain. There, she teaches nonfiction and wonders about poetry. "