Quietly Hoarding

By Sara Yuan

Art by Rory Coughlin

I remember the folding chair seated awkwardly on the porch

Sitting here, she would wave until we were out of sight.

A pinch of sugar in the bok choy is the secret embrace

(If our bellies were full then we were alright).

In the fridge crowds of containers mismatched and reused

White rice in empty yogurt jars, freezers stuffed with meat

Food built bridges between language barriers

Her smile got bigger the more we would eat.

Together we would sit, silently focused for hours

Making play-doh dumplings and lining them up in rows.

When the night felt like it was swallowing me with uncertainty,

I remember the cold and the airplane blanket covering my toes.

Heads nodding, sleepy hours spent in front of the TV.

A firm pat now and then and her cool, dry touch.

Napkins and chopsticks and boxes of things,

I wonder why she kept that ugly fuzzy dog collecting dust.

I once found a shiny marble, smooth and cold

lingering in an empty room, who knows for how long.

Her presence remains deeply rooted, silent and strong.

Products of papaya pits that weren't meant for Queens,

A tangled jungle of plants defiantly growing out back.

Half ripped apart, a renovation project put to the side,

Running up the stairs a speckled carpet red and black

Labours of love made by the rolling pin and steady hand

Dumpling days left the surfaces sprinkled with flour.

Check the oven, once, twice, again and again

but I can still smell the gas mingling with the hours.