A quiet protest

Brother holding his sister, 1996

by Peter Kayafas

Summer had turned seventy-six that year. Her hot embrace slowed us into a standstill. That’s when I found him. Faded. Green. Polished by sand and sea. My brother told me it was only rubbish, a piece of glass. Still, I knew better: I had found an emerald. Matt, trying to hide his sparkle. Too shy to be the gem he was. I loved him just the way he was. I was five and didn’t know yet we are expected to become.

I still find. Yet, most days I am found.  Too sensitive. Too direct. Too naive. Too shy. Too happy. Too sad. As if I’m solely made out of pluses and minuses. They cancel each other out until I dissolve into nothingness. Nothing, but always too. Were I to become, I’d be a success. I’d shine. Or so they tell me. Perfection knows no too. 

Society has become mercilessly malleable. Our potential has to be lived up to. Happiness must be created.  Yet, my potential likes to lie dormant at times. Often, I don’t even feel it’s there, simmering below my surface. And then, suddenly, it reappears. An unexpected, hungry visitor. A reason for a little celebration.  The cherry on my daily cake.  Until it says its goodbyes again.

The more I’m told to become, the less I am. I have no appetite for constant bliss. I like the rain. Leaves falling. Bittersweet, that’s how I like to take my life. But does that mean I don’t deserve to shine every now and again? Matt. Shy. Discreet. 


I want to be polished by whatever flows through me. Rubs against me. Sharp today. Round tomorrow. Stringing the beads onto the necklace that is my life.