Alighting

Bright white runs up the walls and over the countertops, slithering around the mahogany cupboards and cabinets. The smothering warmth and the equally smothering aroma of garlic and onion fill the kitchen. Not smothering like unbearable, but more like welcoming, as when a mother embraces her long lost son. The kitchen as their theatre, my parents work furiously to conduct the kitchen orchestra: The stove fan hums, the chicken in the frying pan beatboxes, the rice cooker sings falsetto.

I sit down at the dinner table and watch as my parents gradually cover every inch of it with plates and bowls filled to their edges. Chicken, rice, and congee tonight. When the last scoop rests in a bowl, and when the last bowl rests on the table, we all sit down and huddle together over the food. The rule of the dinner table: You get one bowl and you get one pair of chopsticks; grab whatever and fill your bowl to the top.

Suddenly, my mom voices a concern: “I haven’t seen Trung in a while, Brian.”

I cringe. This is the second time she is bringing this up.

“Is everything going okay between you two?”

“Everything’s fine,” I lie.

“Did you guys break up?”

“No,” I lie again. “I’ve just been going out.”

“With someone else?”

“No!” I snap back. “I mean, I’ve been going out to hang at his house more often.” Yet another lie. I sense that my mom can see right through me. “Trung’s going to come over for dinner in a bit.” That, at least, is the truth.

Not a moment too soon, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I don’t even have to check it to know: It’s a text message from Trung telling me that he is standing at my front door. I go let him inside from the cold.

My parents welcome him and make a spot for him at the dinner table. My dad reaches up and grabs a bowl and a pair of chopsticks from the cupboards. He places them in front of Trung, and Trung eagerly fills his bowl with a home cooked family meal.

My mom asks Trung how he’s doing. He’s doing fine. Maternal intuition—she sees through him too.

---
“flightbirds”
Written by Trung, July 9th, 2008

The cracks where the tiles meet the cabinet creep with mold. Stray ants lead a reconnaissance around balls of old cellophane left from last Sunday's dinner that didn't quite make it into the trashcan. Three weeks worth of coupons are the tablecloth of the dinner table, and glasses of still water propagate a stew of larvae, dust, and fine nasal mist. Whatever was white is grimy; whatever was grimy sits idle. Unclean is the clearest adjective to describe the wheezing house I live in.

By the time my dad gets home from earning a wage that will be spent on things too ambitious to pay for, he is exhausted. He collapses, and dependents understand that it's another day to vulture to find a suitable meal. Styrofoam white clam shells, iconic red temples, colorful plastic wrappers are fun substitutes for hot dishes; monosodium glutamate, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, high fructose corn syrup is my bread and butter. My mom is brittle from the chemicals she is surrounded by, but she can only dream of a day without work; she dreams when she looks at me.

Everything built in this home was grounded with weak anchors. And now, I'm barely here.