1973
Little Red Riding Hood and a little wicker basket of bread and strawberry jam. Big black wolf slaps a pink tongue over shiny canines. Flip through the pages, smack down the book. Squint eyes shut, cover your ears. Crimson teeth chewing on soft tissues and tiny bones. Chuk chuk chuk like Ah Ma’s cleaver on meat. Ah Ba says, be a good girl, there’s pork pao in the fridge, and locks the door behind him. Read, wait, shed a tear until they return from washing and drying other people’s clothes. The African sun slips behind darkened clouds. Can’t reach light switch.
1981
Wipe your shoes, rinse the soles with cold water under the faucet, set them under the sun to dry. At night, put them in the hearth under the lintel. Cross your fingers for Father Christmas to bring you gifts he’ll place in your shoes just like the French children at school told you, under the chimney. Even if he’s supposed to be a gwei-lo. Empty shoes when morning comes, not even an orange like in that story you read the night before. Probably didn’t know any Chinese children waiting by the mantel in Antananarivo, in this African land where your tongue rolls out French, Malagasy, Cantonese words in the same sentence. Slide fingers inside the shoe toe, nothing but a little lint from the towel. Still waiting for a sign. Dust falling from the chimney. Wind echoing your yearning. No Father Christmas for you.
1983
In the hospital, Ah Ma and Ah Ba sneak a kiss when they think your nose is buried in the pages of Asterix. You look away. The room smells of bleach, spits, and piss. Crying babies, soiled sheets. At home, Ah Ba brews a pot of Jasmine tea. Burns his finger on the stove, breaks a cup, muffles a curse. Father Jacques’s staring at Beethoven’s face above the piano. Nice, he says. You don’t know if he means the painting or the piano or both. You know there’s no such thing as Father Christmas. There are baby diaper shirts in their clear plastic bags, unopened. On the mantel, a cross lies next to Shouxing, God of Longevity. What’s God got to do with it? Ah Ma whispers, wipes a corner of her eye.
1985
Nowhere to go but empty classrooms in stuffy hallways. The boy, François, who’s been after you, who you’ve been after, takes hold of your hand, pulls you into a closet. Musty, damp walls, sweat on the boy’s lips. Fumble over brooms and mops. Madame Balanche, the math teacher, opens the closet door, a frown on her face. When Ah Ba comes at you with the back of his hand, duck down. When Ah Ma swings her fist at you, slide to the side. Your imagined brother teaches you those moves, tells you to ignore your parents calling you a pute, a whore. Aren’t you lucky, Ah Ma says, if there were more of you, you’d have less to eat.
1995
After college, the questions. When will you get married? When will we have grandchildren? Ah Ma and Ba peer at you with squinty eyes, place their hopes in your hands, count their fingers for the number of your fertile years. You look for Ah Ma’s cholesterol pills scattered on the kitchen floor. Blow the dust off a pill, pour her a glass of water, drop the pill on her palm. She says nothing. Saying nothing means she’s grateful. You straighten Ba’s collar, brush breadcrumbs from his shirt. He nods. You’ve learned to understand Ma’s silence, Ba’s anger turning to nodding. Small gestures. Sometimes, even a smile on their lips when you cook together. Ma showing her tricks using starch, soy sauce, rice wine to marinate chicken, Ba reciting an old poem. A pale moon rising above the jacaranda as you gaze out the window.
2000
When Ah Ma’s teeth start falling, you pick them up, one by one. Three molars, two canines, a chipped incisor, line them up, count the days she has left. Boil rice porridge with thousand-year-old eggs the way she told you. Feed her until she’s full, she’s stopped saying it doesn’t have enough salt, or it’s too thick to swallow. Ah Ba listens to the radio, mumbles to himself. He pushes the spoon of chicken soup you offer him; where’s my son, he asks. Ma falls asleep, her mouth open, abyss of things left unsaid.
2010
Stone angels and gargoyles watch over cold slabs. Forest of dead souls, some unborn, some young, or old. A new Father Jacques preaches about moving from this world to Heaven. From womb to life to After. The wind muzzles your hair, pulls on your umbrella. You don’t let go. You wait for a sign. Any sign. A bird cocking its head at you. Leaves whispering. You’re enough.