I Woke Up—Smiling

to L. Y. I was told that I was a sad man. Sadness is a fatal disease in this place where happiness is a key to success. If you are sad, you are doomed to fail— you can’t please your boss, your long face won’t attract customers, a few sighs are enough to let your friends down. Yesterday afternoon I met Pham, a Vietnamese man who was once a general. He came to this country after nine years’ imprisonment. Now he works hard as a custodian and always avoids meeting his former soldiers here, because every one of them is doing better than he is. “Sadness,” he told me, “is a luxury for me. I have no time for it. If I feel sad I won’t be able to support my family.” His words filled me with shame, although I learned long ago a busy bee feels no sorrow. He made me realize I’m still a fortunate one and ought to be happy and grateful for having food in my stomach and books to read. I returned home humming a cheerful tune. My wife smiled wondering why I had suddenly become lighthearted. My son followed me, laughing and frolicking, while I was capering on the floor. Last night I went to a party in my dream. Voices and laughter were drifting in a large hall that was full of paintings and calligraphy. Strolling with ease I ran into the handwriting of yours hung in the air piece by piece waving like wings. Dumbfounded, I turned and saw you sitting on a chair, motionless, the same lean detached face, only your blue clothes had grown darker. Something snapped in my chest and my tears flowed. What’s the use of promising? I have promised, a hundred times, but never returned. Wherever we go our cause is the same: to make a living and raise children. If a poem arises, it’s merely an accidental blessing. For several hours my heart ached, but I woke up—smiling.