I See Her Yellow Cloud

A poem about clarity, too late

Twenty-five years later, on a Zoom call from nowhere, I see her again, the yellow cloud still around her As if it was yesterday

Still uncertain, still hesitant, shy to interrupt She’s picked up the American accent well, as if she wanted to delete her old self The yellow cloud of diffidence, a comfort blanket

Was it an identity crisis? Did the waters of America flood in and fill the empty bowl of her soul? Does the accent disguise the fear within?

Her nervous energy, fidgety, wanting to leave, yet curious to stay Like one watches a horror movie, a constant tug of war between staying and going

I see her with more clarity than I ever did before A part of my heart breaks, thinking — that perhaps I could have supported her, instead of being oblivious Perhaps I could’ve helped her with her ghosts

It’s too late now, twenty-five years have passed And I was a child then too

Clarity always strikes, but sometimes she strikes too late.