Takashimaya

Once, fourth grade, as sad as this, though not as sad as in years to follow, I did not go to school, I spent the morning with my mother, we walked around near MoMA and sat at Le Pain Quotidien, Takashimaya was closing and my father met us there, at our prompting she bought two raincoats, a purple, a pink, and a black Yeohlee dress for funerals, still sometimes worn. As we were leaving we saw my previous math teacher, Mrs. S, who had mysteriously left the school months prior, she looked and spoke exactly like Kathy Griffin, bellicose, in orange wedges. I see her as I saw her then, her hair nearly flipped, terrified she would ask me why I was there, why I wasn’t in class, only she didn’t, all went naturally, was peaceful, well.