I was born a mollusk, a lone slime circulating in my own galaxy. A porous child, I bathed in a deep green soup of memory and decay.
Last year, I started to smell. I became self-conscious over the reek in my molar cavities, my inner thigh, and my wet feet in netted sandals. Still, I relished the funk. My armpits were my favorite, a froggy gloss oozing over girlish stubble. They smelled a little like chap chye, a braised vegetable stew from my childhood. A Nyonya stew, I later realized, of Lunar New Year carcasses and browned napa. It reminded me of my grandmother--a frail circuit of twigs in my home. Her eyes are watery, which worries me, and I hear she doesn’t pass stool anymore.
Popo was a devout Buddhist in my youth. It was prayer beads, holy water, whatever the fuck. She was also many things; my apple slicer, my muse, and a regretful gambler. Right before I moved to San Francisco, she’d started wearing only white frocks. Popo delivered Chinese sermons daily, desperately, purging herself of her past. Reborn, redeemed, and heaven bound. I wonder if she thought Jesus invented Mahjong.
In the haziest corner of my time here, I find myself staring into a Tupperware tumbler of floating grey silvers. Against the dark teal, the ash flakes seemed almost lonely, wafting in plastic ether. Sometimes I let the sediments rest, and other times I swirled them like a snow globe. Popo fed me burnt talismans, and siphon them I did. I never knew what blessings these talismans carried, but I later learned they contained lead.
I would think of this often. Against my new life--of Oakland woodshops, quarterly goals, and Halloween parties--I found this too esoteric to divulge. Too foreign, almost, even for my Asian friend from Saratoga. I cradled this memory close to me, submitting myself to the metallic crush of Popo’s ash water in secret.
Last year, I started to smell. I became self-conscious over the reek in my molar cavities, my inner thigh, and my wet feet in netted sandals. Still, I relished the funk. My armpits were my favorite, a froggy gloss oozing over girlish stubble. They smelled a little like chap chye, a braised vegetable stew from my childhood. A Nyonya stew, I later realized, of Lunar New Year carcasses and browned napa. It reminded me of my grandmother--a frail circuit of twigs in my home. Her eyes are watery, which worries me, and I hear she doesn’t pass stool anymore.
Popo was a devout Buddhist in my youth. It was prayer beads, holy water, whatever the fuck. She was also many things; my apple slicer, my muse, and a regretful gambler. Right before I moved to San Francisco, she’d started wearing only white frocks. Popo delivered Chinese sermons daily, desperately, purging herself of her past. Reborn, redeemed, and heaven bound. I wonder if she thought Jesus invented Mahjong.
In the haziest corner of my time here, I find myself staring into a Tupperware tumbler of floating grey silvers. Against the dark teal, the ash flakes seemed almost lonely, wafting in plastic ether. Sometimes I let the sediments rest, and other times I swirled them like a snow globe. Popo fed me burnt talismans, and siphon them I did. I never knew what blessings these talismans carried, but I later learned they contained lead.
I would think of this often. Against my new life--of Oakland woodshops, quarterly goals, and Halloween parties--I found this too esoteric to divulge. Too foreign, almost, even for my Asian friend from Saratoga. I cradled this memory close to me, submitting myself to the metallic crush of Popo’s ash water in secret.