Judy I. Lin

Grief has a taste, bitter and lingering, but so soft it sometimes disguises itself as sweetness.

I used to look at my hands with pride.

Now, all I can think is, These are the hands that buried my mother.

I have everything to gain, and everything to lose.

In the morning, Lian and I tuck into a breakfast of fluffy baozi, fresh from the bamboo steamers of Small Wu’s kitchen. We pull the dough apart to reveal the filling within—ground pork mixed with chopped chives and drizzled with sesame oil—and blow to cool the steaming insides. I should be grateful to even be here, but the unease continues to crawl up the back of my throat, until I lose my appetite.