Reunion Dinner
2 Minutes Read Time
We ate hair every year my grandparents visited, slick
with the odor of a living force. For good luck
I chewed strands & swallowed. After Koung Koung
died, I learned of black moss stripped from the roots
of grass, earth left exposed to the wind, land turned
into desert. In the high desert where I live, eyes light up
when I say I’m going home for Lunar New Year. The truth
is, some of my family comes together & does nothing
special. The food no longer shines, because my father no longer
cooks. His kidneys struggle to filter salt, wine, tomatoes—
every shelled, boned, soaked, feast-fit creature
thickens his blood, slows his steps to a cracked shuffle.
My mother takes pancrelipase & walks the block holding
her stitches. My sister teaches her twin infant sons
how to clap, but instead they gong xi, sort of. I can’t even
pronounce that word & today I accidentally swept the floor.
Forgot I’d upset the water god until I’d hung two loads
of washed clothes. Last week I added 8 to a number
to make it lucky. My friend laughed & said it meant
many deaths. My mother draws the line at taking
superstitions seriously & thanks her polyglot god
for bringing us together. I hold my one stubborn
tongue. Wear a reddish shirt for a few days. Clap
my nephews’ dimpled hands together—they shake
their cupped fists once & drop them. This is good
enough for me. I make a GIF, set to infinite loop. I make-
believe I can hear my ancestors laughing, too.
Read more from Issue 21.2.
