The Essence Of Home

• Alicia Wong, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2021

My memory begins with herbal chicken. Coaxed between the skeleton of the bird, the splinter of bone pinning between my milk teeth, the clotted marrow pasted on my tongue – the memory of sweetness preceded language, the desire to assimilate before knowledge. I wanted to eat the bird’s soul.

Mother grimaced, “These traits aren’t so good for a girl.” She studied me, a pitying expression on her face.
Hearing this, father lifted me to the window in pure defiance. “See that?” he asked, pointing to a streak of white raking the sky. “That’s an airplane trail. Say “Wow!”
“Wow” I reiterated, mirroring his deep intonations.
Mother lowered my small body to the floor and covered my ears. “You’re spoiling her”
“Ah, don’t fuss,” Father, grumbled under his breath, waving her away.
Then, because he was the father, male, the acknowledged figurehead of our family, she obeyed – she was silenced.
Relatives professed that I looked like my father – the same square forehead, the same deep-set black eyes, the same full lips. In a culture where physical attributes were believed to determine character, the resemblance was perceived as a mixed blessing.

Then I remember the screaming, the fights, the anguish, and the silence. Nights spent hidden, curled up in my bed with Dao, my stuffed dog pressing against my chest as they battled, repeatedly. It was a nightmare. Then it was as if the world fell still, my dad left, and so did I.
* * *
Yet here I was once again, leaning on the side of a blue taxi, and pressing my face against the tepid glass – breathing in the essence of home.

My childhood building was a narrow ten-story walk-up, sleepy-looking column streaked leaden with humidity, indistinguishable from any other structure in the vicinity. Inside the walls were an amalgamation of concrete slabs and the passageways dimly lit by a single sallow glare. The landing of the staircase was littered with residents whose complaints and platitudes, were masked by the faint groan of airplane engines reverberating through porous cinderblock. Mother still inhabited the eighth floor - a stroke of fortune, according to my father who recognized good luck in any guise.
?
Removing my shoes before I stepped in, I was greeted by my mother and her maid. "Your friend?" she slurred in a thick regional accent whilst holding a traditional wok chan. "No, my daughter." my mother intervened. The weathered woman smiled apologetically and retired into the kitchen where she attended to a steaming pot of day-old herbal chicken soup. Mother’s eyes trailed behind her, before she was able to let her guard down. “You must be hungry, let’s eat” she smiled and gestured towards the Qing-style table.

Eating – a time of reconciliation, fellowship, familial closure. Memories of father’s words eclipsed the forefront of my mind, “Let the girl eat”, he would often say, whilst placing the most prized chicken parts into my bowl. He nibbled at the carcass. Across the table mother sat in silence, scrutinising the little girl that sat before her. In her mind, she’d transpose her thoughts into mental notes – her mouth is wide open, unladylike, slurping at the bone, uncouth. In her eyes, everything I did was another sacrilegious attempt to disrespect Shén.

The glaze over my eyes dissipated, the room focussed, and I was once more sitting before my biggest critic – no longer safeguarded under my father’s wing. While scooping the hot soup, mother glanced up. The same caring and attentive eyes scanned my face, searching for the girl she hoped I’d left behind – little Ling. Silence engulfed the room, as I reached for the bowl of soup. Use both hands to cup the soup bowl. I waited, bile rising in the pit of my stomach – assimilation had its consequences too. Only begin eating when mother has done so. She was aware that I hungered for flavour. Smiling through gritted teeth, she gestured for me to begin – she was satisfied and so was I.