Mom, there is not one day that I do not think about you. As I took a walk in the pouring snowy slush in the dusk of the early March, wearing your lilac sweater, deep purple coat and cognac leather gloves, I realized that you are in clothes I wear, songs I listen to, food I cook since the last two months. I’ve recently got into styling, and finally seemed to get a hang of it, because I receive compliments whenever I wear your clothes. My closet now is 50% inherited from you, 25% gifted by the neighbors, and 25% collected by me in the last 20 years. I remember the quality time when you went shopping with me, arms in arms, and you would usually disagree with my choice but you never criticized me harshly, while I never understood your choice. Now it has been proved that you were 20 years ahead of me in fashion taste. I wish you could see me in every outfit styling your clothes. I would continue to wear every piece of the two suitcases that I lugged to Seattle from your closet, proudly and boldly. I realized too that many of the songs I recently added to my list were also your favorites. I remember the way how you sang them as you cooked with an apron on and a spatula in your hand. You had a beautiful voice which I didn’t inherit. And maybe one of the reasons for me to start learning Cantonese is also because of you, so that I could try to sing those songs in Cantonese for you, which you never got the chance to learn. I’ve been much more into cooking Chinese in the last few months, and my skills have finally improved. I’m trying to replicate the dishes you had made for me for over 30 years. You never really taught me how to cook, and I never tried to learn, because I thought you would always be there, even if not in person but just a phone call away. The only dish I cooked for you and that you liked was the steamed fish one month before you left. Or maybe you said you liked it just to make me happy? I do not want to remember your meek eyes that looked at me fleetingly and then down to the floor as you sat on the sofa and I stepped out of the apartment to go back to Seattle. Your eyes stood out of your skeletal face, full of submissiveness and helplessness, knowing that would be the last time for us to see each other in this world, in this life. Photo credit: Simbarashe Cha from NY Times
0 Comments
|