Because I am your daughter I hope it never ends

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