Not Henry Miller but Mother

Passion is the letter "p." A jeweled pear, another Guernica shattering
our souls, a giant liced with Lilliputians. Passion fell flat on its face when a date
used too much tongue. Passion ran, shotput into the air past the scoreboard,
past the empty lots where children brawled silently, past the manicured
lawns of Silicon Valley's royalty and past my sweaty, consumptive
grasp. Following the flock, I traveled to Europe and scaled the Catalan steps
to view a landscape of stone. It was cold. I left early. Later in Paris,
I searched for passion in the vessel of a Frenchman and only found a janitor
who cleaned the toilets of Notre Dame and whispered "I have many, many
flaws." She was the one who hoarded passion. Mother, who shaved my
head when I was three, who dieted on tears and Maalox, who shouted in
hyena rage and one minute later cradled my face and whispered a song in
my ear, while I watched the clock in front of me, ticking.

- Cathy Park Hong