by Samantha Fu
there’s a family, somewhere– a mother and a father and their children, two brothers who roughhouse and tease each other but never seriously mean it. the father still throws football with his children in the yard and their mother still leaves notes in their lunches. there’s a family. they still have dinner together. the father says pass the salt, honey and the mother asks her children how they’re doing. after, the father sends them off with a clap on the back and ruffling of hair and the mother kisses them on the top of the head. and because they’re children they complain about being too old for that but they still say i love you, and good night.
my father cooks. he’s not a verbal man, prefers the weight of action to the spoken word. it’s just the two of us, swallowed by the expanse of this empty house but every night he fills it with paprika and cayenne, thyme and basil, scents that weave in the air and color our house. clever hands dice vegetables in a blur of motion– traditional zhá jiàng miàn and dàn căo fàn, tāng yuán when i’m feeling down and my favorite xiăo lóng bāo on my birthdays. i don’t see him in the mornings but there’s always something left on the counter for me– xiăo m ̆i, or clementines (but only three, because he knows i’d eat all of them). small gestures, but ones that speak just as clearly.