Author Information
monolove: young Gayev to the Orchard and to himself
Monolove: Gayev to the Orchard (and to Himself)
This cupboard—made exactly a hundred years ago…
—and still, it has more presence than I do.I spoke of furniture like prophets speak of stars,
clinging to objects that don’t remember me back.
But the orchard—
oh, you remembered me.
You held my childhood
like a velvet couch in sunlight.I was always better with things than people.
Easier to toast the century-old sideboard
than speak plainly to my sister,
or to the banker who had my fate folded in his wallet.They all ask me to be serious.
To grow up.
To move forward.But in that moment,
when I said,
“I swear by my hope of eternal happiness,”
it wasn’t finance—it was faith.The cherry trees—
they were the only inheritance I understood.
Not for profit.
Not for timber.
But for memory.
For continuity.I don’t know how to feel wisely.
I overfeel.The Lounge Legacy speaks of grief as wealth—
of spending sorrow wisely.
I hoarded mine.
Stored it in overgrown metaphors,
in imaginary billiards shots,
in stories no one needed.I wonder now:
Had I wept louder—
would they have heard me as man,
not fool?The orchard fell.
And I wore my silence like a suit.Yet part of me
still hopes for a chair left unburned,
a blossom tucked between ledgers.Perhaps one day
someone will sit where I once spoke,
and say,
"Gayev loved, oddly—but deeply."That would be enough.
