In my mind, i am twelve years old,
besides my beautiful, giggling mother,
molding glutinous rice into neat balls
with my flour-covered hands.
the kitchen is painted with a haze of thick, gray steam,
curling like silken ribbons around our dusty faces.
the earthy scent of sugar mingling with rice clings
to our hair, heavy as morning dew. my floury hands
press into the glutinous rice, its surface soft and sticky
as wet clay. powdery imprints bloom across the countertop
like fragile petals. mother twirls like a child herself, her
laughter a melody ringing soundly in my ears, as she sprinkles
my fingernails with sugar, or fairy dust, as she calls it. when she
tosses the rice into the air, it arcs like shooting stars across the
kitchen. her smile is like the bright, shimmering moonlight.
in reality, i am sixteen years old,
watching the horizon for a letter she
promised would arrive at the break of
dawn. foolish hope carves into my chest.
sunlight creeps in, sluggish and pale, its mustard yellow rays
pooling at my feet. my hands tremble as they clutch the
metal lid of the mailbox, its cold biting my fingertips.
when mother left, she swore one thing. like the scorpion
in the fairytales she once read to soothe me, her promises now
stung sharply with the venom of deceit. i send my wishes
to shooting stars as though i am sending paper boats
into harsh waters. i fold them with trembling hands,
yet each sinks into dark navy seas, unanswered as
they are swallowed whole by the hopelessly deep abyss.
