I once thought that the whole earth could
fit under your damp eyelashes. And I
guess I was wrong, because when I was
pulling black braided rope through the
well of the village town, the sky stretched
itself out into the shape of a rice field. I
stood at one end, you on the opposite
side, and we waved to each other over a
rippling sea of green. Then July grew out
its long nails, dulled its blades in wet oil,
and returned to us in the careful shape of
love.
Winter culled my mercy, but still there
was you, sitting across the table from me
while I kneaded my remaining clemency
between my hands. There were huge,
swathing harvests that year for cabbage
and commiseration – everything but the
tender give of your soft floured skin. I
still thought that the world fit within the
neat shape of your crescent fingernails.
But maybe that was only because I’d
grown up seeing you fold and tuck
everything I knew about love into the
neat dumplings that we stored in the
freezer to boil for dinner.
I tried my hand at doing the same,
because while my mouth didn’t know the
unforgiving shape of your language, my
fingers could attempt to parse it out into
rice cake and black sesame. Here laid the
countertops where the granite swallowed
my desire before I could digest the
feeling. Here sat boiling water in a pot
that you cooked jook in throughout my
childhood. Here is a youth stained yellow
with tea and ashy memories of song.
Making tangyuan is difficult because each
dumpling wanted to burst, but I was
afraid you’d take that the wrong way.
Pinpricks of light. I crawled over magpies
to get here. You showed me how to crack
an egg into sugared water the same way
you taught me how to fold my wontons,
and the cobweb nest wreathed the first
dream I could kindle into existence.
I made you tangyuan. I love you. I tried
my best. I love you. You don’t need to
buy the frozen ones from the grocery
store anymore, see? I love you.
You pull the bowl close. The ceramic is
warm, very warm. I’ve slipped myself into
the bowl too. If this day was more
honeyed, it’d be saccharine. But it’s not.
It’s not too sweet at all. Just enough so
that it flecks in your teeth and stretches
down the long pull of your throat. And
still it lingers, still it remains, and because
it is love we call it mercy, because it is
piety we call it kindness, because I am
your daughter;
I hope it never ends.
Visual Credit: Nancy My Tran, Design Intern
