i.
Thick congealed slab of yellow margarine then a rainfall of coarse-grain sugar on plain white bread. He didn’t know they had no jam or butter in the cool box. He didn’t know this was luxury for her, squatting down in shelters, air raids thunderous above. To this day he still asks for packets from flight attendants furrowing at him funny before their carts of coffee and tea roll down the aisles. When the plane dips she holds his hands steady as he pries in half the dinner roll from corners of tin-foil trays slathering and sprinkling, biting o a piece of that salt and sweet sinking soft in his tummy.
ii.
By the early morning light, she hauls that sack of sweet potatoes off our kitchen floor stocked seemingly just for this occasion. Peeling and dicing them into cubes before washing a cup of jasmine rice in the sink three times just as she’d taught you. One to clean, two for taste and three for luck. Then boiling them into gooey mush. No doubt your fever will break and cough dissipate as she nurses into you that spoonful of porridge streaked orange from sinewy fibrous roots. We come from a long line of peasant farmers after all — her hands alchemize comfort out of crumbs, and sustenance from scraps. Sick days are your favorite.
iii.
Long sweaty dusty walks back from school are tolerable knowing I’ll sink my teeth into those juicy treats she’s prepared. Every day, without fail, a bowl of ripe oranges sliced into quarters de-seeded and chilled in the fridge, waiting for me. Over and over again, I’ll chase after this pulpy parade of ice-cold fireworks in my mouth — a chance to sketch once more the ghostly scent of citrus sunbeams exploding in the air.
from The Way Back (Foglifter Press, 2022) by Edward Gunawan
