A little girl

Second Piece

First, I should say this—
I offer my readers something sincere.
And also, an apology.

I wish you happiness, ease, and peace.
But what I’m about to tell
comes from somewhere deep inside me.
I hope you can understand it.
There are traces of struggle in it, even something a little broken—
I’m sorry, though none of this was ever my intention.

In the last piece, I already touched the deeper layers of memory.
An AI once described me as lonely, distant, forgotten by the world—
yet inwardly full.

So I follow the thread again.

It feels like we moved many times.
At least once back to my hometown—
there might have been two rose bushes by the door.
Then we went somewhere else.
In my memory, it’s just constant moving, drifting.
(Not that I consciously felt it that way as a child.)

Later, there were two cherry blossom trees.
Standing on the flat roof, I could see clusters of soft, radiant petals—
like the skirts of fairies,
pure, untouched.

That reminds me—
when I was little, I longed for a doll.
In big department stores, shelves full of them,
rows and rows, dressed beautifully.
I walked past them again and again with other kids,
looking, wanting—
but I never had one.

Until I grew up.
Then I finally had a large doll.
But by then,
I no longer cared.

It sat high up somewhere,
almost never touched.

Everything feels blurred, indistinct—
a color without color.
What is real cannot quite be spoken.
The deeper parts of memory carry feelings
that refuse to take shape in words.

It’s hard to say I ever had real friends.
Just scattered fragments.

We moved a lot.
There was constant arguing.
I didn’t like bathing—
someone chased me around the yard,
pressed my head into a basin of water.

I remember pulling out a long green onion.
I remember being held to pee.
Maybe it snowed in the yard—
I’m not sure.

I remember riding on my grandmother’s back,
going to buy milk.
I saw how hard it was for her to carry big buckets of water—
and at some point, I could finally help.

Once I sang “Only Mom Is Good in This World” on the bed.
I was scolded—
because I didn’t have a mother.

My grandmother often spoke badly of others.

Kindergarten—
there was some pain there.

In middle class, we sat in rows, playing with blocks.
A teacher called me “little yellow hair.”

In senior class, we played games together—
dropping handkerchiefs, running in circles.
I fell off a swing once.
Another time I overslept at nap time—
woke up alone,
crying and pounding on the door until someone came.

There was an incident—
I’m not even sure it was me—
another child’s tooth was bleeding,
and I was harshly scolded.

I remember a boy with a small extra piece of flesh on his ear.
Another “slow” boy who went into the girls’ bathroom.
There were used sanitary pads there.

I think I liked a boy once.
But in elementary school, I began to dislike him.

There were activity corners—
embroidery, blocks.
I secretly chose the red plastic flower-shaped pieces.
Blue felt too cold.
I took them home quietly.

Embroidery—I wasn’t good at it.
Later in school, someone said I was good at drawing.
A teacher praised me—
maybe it was a sun I drew.
But in my memory, it feels like it was someone else.

I don’t remember being praised.

Sometimes I wonder
if I might be slightly on the spectrum.
Extremely picky with food, withdrawn,
not good at communicating.
Teachers and parents said
I never raised my hand to answer questions.

I believe people are born
with both kindness and cruelty.

A girl bullied me—
she tore my book apart.

There’s always someone in every class—
a “fool,” or a troublemaker.
My family confronted her parents.

She lied constantly.
In my earliest impression,
she looked a bit like Cecilia Cheung.
I didn’t think she was pretty.
But maybe when you like someone,
you see them as beautiful.

Maybe that’s why
I never quite liked her later on.

I’ve noticed something—
people who look alike,
or speak in similar tones,
carry similar traits.

Maybe I’m just too sensitive.

That sensitivity
might be why I could draw.

I drew again and again,
taped them to the door,
tore them down, drew new ones.

I lined them with stickers of Winnie the Pooh—
and the small pink pig beside him.

I would stand there and look at them.

Then my grandfather suddenly said,
“If you stick them there,
you won’t be able to use them anywhere else.”

I froze.

I liked catching grasshoppers in autumn.
Cooking imaginary meals for small animals.
Frozen Coke in winter.
Waiting for Santa Claus to bring gifts.

I liked those thick, padded stickers—
the kind that feel dimensional.
Christmas trees.
Tiny glowing lights.

There was conflict everywhere in the family.

A thought appeared in my mind:
If I ever got married,
it would be better to live in separate rooms.

Maybe everything was filled with
unease, fear, awkwardness, shyness,
people-pleasing,
and lies.

I’m sorry if this makes you feel heavy.
This is simply who I am.

Things will get better.

Perhaps—
for reasons unknown even to dreams,
those who drift
are always chasing shadows.