Things That Make Me Cry Instantly—

a baby crying in a diner booth—

the final paragraph of the child's story where the father and little
girl turn home having finally spied a great owl, pumping its great
wings in the brilliant moonlight—that book—

giraffe—

your gravity on mine—your sweaty pulsing inside me, your beard chafing, your
lips on mine telling me in an artificial respiration how dear I am—that
weight—

the thought of the word, train—

my two daughters dancing momijinohana, the drum's slow beat, the
turning around to face the backdrop then the audience again—

even as the youngest drops her fan, giggles till she shakes but con-
tinues, that—my body quakes because my mother is dead and she
watched me dance this dance in her peach-colored kimono in 1968.
Yes, it was that long ago.

From THE NARROW ROAD TO THE INTERIOR (W.W. Norton, 2006)