Work Text:
Black Pine
Dust coated soles of my sneakers let me slide around the long hallways of Logan, empty in the early morning. Fantasies of a new city bring shivers to the top of my spine, mingling with a tingling in the tips of my fingers. With my luggage checked in and my cart stacked neatly with the rest, my footsteps become lighter and lighter as the terminal comes into view. A new city filled with new people, a new chance to find myself among the bustling skyline of Shanghai.
The flight is terrible. 14 hours of nonstop airplane things. Babies crying, sick people being sick and vomiting across all three aisles, flight attendants, who refuse to accommodate turbulence, wobble through rows of seats, spilling a mixture of orange juice and red wine. But when I reach the airport, the world slows down around me, and an exhilaration fills my body. The baggage claim, with its digital signs complete with scrolling red lettering, customs, with its lines packed to the maximum capacity, and security, with frantic officers ushering me along its aisles, sweep me up in a whirlwind of expectation and before I know it, I’ve zeroed in on my aunt and uncle and launched myself into their waiting arms.
The slim handle of the door glides open easily, nothing like the knobby door knobs super glued onto rotting oak doors that I've gotten so used to. Soft mattress, soft cushions, soft colors of dark red and white flood the room. Gray sunlight filters through the translucent curtains, and covers the particles in the air with an ethereal glow. A black gangly lamp rests its weary cone on the surface of the dark wood desk, with suitcases rising up to my waist poised lightly beside it. Inflated sketchbooks: the work of countless sleepless nights staring into the window pane at the delicate lights of the city. My very own concrete jungle, just a few centimeters away. A large bed taking up as much space as possible boasts two layers of thin blankets with the hardest pillow I’ve ever owned to keep it company. Sunlight only burns the right side of my face when I sit down, but the air conditioning unit above the door dries out both of my eyes with the beep of a button. Lukewarm cucumbers sliced into wedges waiting for me on the table, slathered in fragrant japanese salad dressing. A sort of unique China smell, a scent that I only experience whenever I am in China, rests in my nostrils and keeps me at ease.
On a blazing summer noon in our house in the suburbs, I catch Yeye on his computer for the first time in awhile. He’s looking for gardening tools online. Recently, his back doesn’t let him bend over to work at the stubborn, jagged leafed weeds in our small greenhouse. Recently, I have to help him more and more with tending the roots of the japanese black pine saplings in the sunniest part of the glass building. Recently, he’s taken up painting wildlife, instead of toiling in the gardens. Recently, it’s me who asks him to take evening walks to Victory Circle in the glow of dusk sky. “My feet don't want to go” he jokes. And so the first thing I do when I finish unpacking in Jing'an, is look for nearby hardware shops. I buy him a new spade, with a comfortable blue foam handle, and white bonsai pots for our seeds that are germinating in the refrigerator, and then with a little bit of contemplation, I head next door to buy him arch supports for our next adventure.
When I return to the U.S, the warm sun has already dappled the concrete sidewalks with hues of fall, the colors deeply saturated in the reflections of its rays. School is back in session. A cool breeze bites to remind of the upcoming winter, but scarlet reds and persimmon oranges keep me distracted. Maybe I’ve always been obsessed with beauty. The colors of the Lexington sidewalks, cracked with age, dispel my worries and bring ephemeral joy to my mind. Nothing is better than wading through vibrant shades of fall in the late afternoon after a long day of academics, and an even longer night of arts ahead. Every morning and every night I pass through a couple of tall maple trees in the entranceway of the driveway. Their sturdy, slim branches stretch and interlock overhead to form an archway of kaleidoscopic leaves. I’m surprised there isn’t a word in english for the brilliance and beauty of fall when autumns are their most beautiful in New England.
Growing up in Lexington, I was surrounded by a thriving community of first and second generation asians. Kids who were already going to private tutoring in fifth grade scoffed when I tried to ask “stupid” questions in class. Kids who already were violin prodigies always beat me to the concertmaster seat and left me with a sour taste in my mouth at second desk. The only thing I was good at was teaching my friends, dirty from the sandbox and woodchips of the playground, how to use chopsticks.
He’s gone now. Third floor bedroom, staring at the slanted ceiling and slanted windows. A crackly blanket and dry elbows in the spring humidity. A mattress too soft and too warm. Footsteps panting rapidly below, an echo of fear and trepidation into the dark hours of the night. No one comes upstairs. No one breaks the news. I already know. I wish that they had told me, there was only a stairway stopping them. The distance between us felt like it was increasing with every passing second. Yeye, whose calloused hands had flowed across the yellowed tea stained paper, leaving tides of black and red ink colliding in harmony across the canvas, would never paint again. His gentle smile lines and piercing blue eyes calm as still waters never failed to ground my anxious presence. His short barks of anger and scolding words would never be there to guide me again. “Work hard” he had said, “I know you are capable”. Our greenhouse. Pale and lonely in the winter white, unused for half a year now.
Why didn’t I go downstairs? I don’t even think I’ve ever said I love you.
I remember meeting my best friend in elementary school. Her name’s Hyunah, but I just called her Hyun. I was sitting in the shade of the slide, its pristine red paint casting a soothing shadow over my Magic Tree House book. She strutted up to me and told me that the MTH series was for little babies, not for grown up first graders. I was in such shock that I couldn’t respond, mouth hanging open as she skipped across the playground, back to the classroom. That night, I was close to tears as I told my brother what had happened. He shook his head in disappointment when I admitted that I was too blown away to say anything. “Next time you see her” He said, wagging his pointer finger with a knowing smile, “tell her that her mom’s a baby”. And one morning, when I did just that, we both doubled over laughing. “You’re so dumb!” she howled, clenching her stomach. “You’re so dumb!” I shot back, my cheeks hurting and smile only growing. The lunch lady serving us couldn’t have rolled her eyes harder.
I didn’t let myself have many true friends when I was younger, but Hyun felt like she could become my first. She didn’t care that I wasn’t getting 4/4s in all of my classes. She didn’t mind that I liked frolicking around in the mud more than meeting with the teachers about my missing homework assignments, or numerous tardies. Once, as we were making ourselves nauseous on the tire swing of our second grade playground, two boys, pale and pink as raw chicken, stormed up to us. “Hey! Can you get off? Go do math or something! Or like, practice piano?”. We beat them up.
My first time in detention, I distracted myself with the budding leaves swaying gently in the spring breeze, framed by the white window sill of the chemistry lab on the second floor. Shades of green and greener green filled my mind with restlessness. I wanted to burst out of my skin, and run around naked in my flesh and tendons, terrorising the violin prodigies and tire swing boys and teachers, who were the most scarring, even if all they did was sigh.
Our black pines have died. Twenty two small compact seeds stimulated with care and filled with love, and not one of them sprouted. It's better this way. There’s no more expectations.
Coffee has a sweet intoxicating smell. When under the care of the most experienced hands, it coats the air in a viscous thickness, pleasant in the most vulnerable places. Lingering in the curtains and the threads of my denim. My aunt makes the most amazing coffee. With one sip, her expresso immerses you in swirling streaks of the bold flavors of Shanghai. She learnt from her husband, who owns a cafe only two blocks north from the apartment. They live in 静安, home to famous shopping streets and all-you-can eat buffets. At night, the district comes to life with staggering college students with their arms linked and faces alight and middle-aged housewives giggling among the fairy lights of the saplings alongside the sidewalk. In the summer, the twinkling lights of Shanghai are always there for me.
Laolao never stopped mourning. I feel like I’ve never started. She visits his grave every few months, and the most I can do is hold the paper bag filled with fresh peonies as she cries silently over his plaque. “Look at how big 小妹 has grown, she comes with me even when I’m always sad like this.” Lalao's shoulders, so capable and strong, deflate in front of her husband. I want to tell her that I love her. That she still has her children and grandchildren who care about and love her. I want to hug her. After pulling out the stubborn strands of weeds next to his name, we send our goodbyes in the form of red flowers, and start walking to the bus stop. Feeling brave without the weight of peonies in my palms, on the bus back to her apartment, I grab her hand. We don’t speak, but she never lets go.
In the months between spring in winter, I find myself at Laolao's apartment more and more. As I soap the dirty dishes with a ragged green and yellow kitchen sponge in the light of the late afternoon, she suddenly chuckles. I stop rinsing the chopstick in my hand and twist around to glance at her. I raise my eyebrows. “来，我告诉你一个有趣的故事.” She laughs, beckoning me over. I walk over to her, sudsy water dripping from my wrists, wrinkling my nose when my socks manage to soak some up. “Your mother” she starts, her deep black eyes wrinkling with joy, “she never learned how to use chopsticks.”
That night, when we have dinner with the family, I glance over at Laolao, who nods at Ma. I giggle with her as Ma picks up her pair of chopsticks, and holds them like two wobbly mechanical pencils, instead of using her middle finger to stabilise them like the rest of us do.
I wake up to a fever with my head swimming everytime I blink. My eyelashes feel as if they are dead weights, hanging on by a silkworm's thread to the thin skin of my eyelids. The ceiling merges into the floor and the walls swirl together with the navy blue and pastel orange of the Misa poster on my wall, her tutu blurring into twisted Twizzlers candy. Ma bursts into my room, and my heart begins to pump harder against the walls of my ribs. How did she know? Was I too loud? Did I wake her? Is Baba awake too? What time is it? Don't I have school today? Why am I alwa-her hand settles on my forehead, cool in comparison to the burning embers of my brain. “宝贝, you're burning up! Don't move.” The door shuts out the golden light of the hallway, leaving a little sliver of glowing white in the cracks. I grip the edge of the gray blanket harder, my fingernails pressing into the sheets. Ma returns with a glass bowl of porridge and a touch of salted duck egg to go with the blandness. She sits me up against the wall, lays a lap desk on my thighs to balance the porridge on and tucks the thermometer into my armpit.
“There” She strokes my sweaty hair, a smell of fresh pine on her wrists, “better?”
“Yeah” My throat feels like it's trying to swallow itself. I tear up.
“宝贝...” She’s made of tides of black and red, back lit by the golden light of the hallway.
“I love you.”
January is my favorite month. Sure, the months of fall are no doubt the prettiest, summer is when I get to return to Shanghai, and the greens of spring are Ma’s favorite colors, but nestled in the depths of the tail end of winter, comes Lunar New Year. Our home is alight with streaks of crimson reds, blazing banners of golden yellows and a cacophony of loud, bold chinese to go with it all. My aunt arrives first with her two cats, who knock every single trophy from the shelf above the electric fireplace, and spread snow white fur all over our new scarlet rugs. Uncle Jiang is next, with jade talismans, complete with scarlet embroidery, to ward off evil spirits. Laolao brings with her Ox tendons marinated in soy sauce, and tea eggs slathered in the best quality jasmine tea. In her purse lies carmine envelopes full of gifts, waiting to be opened. Me and my brothers toil away at the chinese chives, and toona leaves, chopping them finely to ensure that our guests can taste the freshness of our greenhouse. Ma is in her element at the stove, she spices and stir fries and steams everything to perfection. She even makes our favorite roasted lamb. Baba, true to his 河南 roots, prepares the scallion pancakes, hand-stretched soup noodles, and most importantly, he rolls out the dumpling skins with a practiced hand. We make the dumplings together, enough for all eight of us, and steam and sear them until they are just right. Vinegar is passed around the living room table and we settle round to watch 春节晚会.
As the night becomes darker, and the show draws to a close, we send my Aunt and Uncle off since the cats are past their bedtime. I scoot closer to Laolao, and put an arm around her, our affection becoming natural, confident. Ma lays her head on Baba’s shoulder and I see him smile into her hair. A white bonsai pot rests on the window sill behinds us, the sprouts inside overlooking the remnants of our feast. Laolao grabs a hold of my hand then, and with my eyes crinkling in joy, I cry.