February 2025

cherry blossomsenticed—children and laughterwafts in the air,dance around,a carousel of joybeneath the flush of pink hopingto embody the tree spirit,they whirl,hands stretched outwards,fingers fluttering like petalsin the soft embrace of spring amidst this tender chaos,a quietude blooms,as if every laugh, step,and cherry blossomwhispers secretsof renewal, of fleeting beautycaptured in the heartof the beholder the dance slows,the laughter mellows,yet the fragrance lingers—a memoryof pink, of joy,of a momentimbued with the passage of time By: Sophia Xia

The following is a preview of Sophie Xia’s poetry chapbook “he fell first and she fell harder >> | norm reciprocal”, please find more information in interest in supporting Sophie through Amazon.  the remedy: blasting depressing music for the next few days, i listened to depressing spotify music,it was arguably the best and only remedy that helped. friends who caught on tried to solve my problem for me, but didn’t realize that’s not what i wanted, or never did, really. felt like stabs to my heart, each one sinking deeper,even though I know they care about me, want the best for me. a solution? i don’t want a solution…but maybe if you let me suffer for a bit longer, i’d come to my senses. the only problem was that i wasn’t suffering…i was practically emotionless or not happy but not sad. my arm came to my eye and wiped at it, but what my brain failed to realize  was that my eyes were completely dry, they didn’t need any wiping. my airpods in, i turned up the volume once again, until the sounds  of my parents talking downstairs has been completely drowned out continuing where i had left off, the lines went like:  “if you ever get lost, lost, i’ll be there…i’ll be there waiting”  – lost by levent geigner Sophia Xia

Nestled between contemporary and traditional, a familiar stall sparks a rush of unease in my body. The congee food stall counter,  the menu boards, the old lady, in a dull, stained apron, always spitting broken Canto-English.   I never really learned the written language Cantonese people use to read and write, but  the boards are only in Traditional Chinese.   Eleven,    tugging on my father’s sleeves, asking him to  translate the characters. His eyes were glued  to his Huawei Android, his excuses, well,  he always seemed to have important business  to attend to. He told me not to cause any trouble. I wish he paid me more attention…    “Ei! What do you want to eat? Hurry up lei, don’t hold the line up!”   I crash back to reality, thoughts from my eleven-year-old self  pour over me. Like waves, they then settle down.  The first phrase I can make sense of:  century eggs and lean pork, so I ask for that, for here.   “Here lei, this is your number,  it will be called when your food is ready. NEXT!”   Once the frail paper with my order # leaves  her hands and lands in mine, the headphones  act as comfort over my ears. This time, I  turn the volume down two buttons. I am hoping maybe he has things to say.   My father has already downed half of his soup noodles when I scooch into the chair across from him.   Nonchalant. He doesn’t even look up.   I see bits of Sichuan peppercorn trying to float free  from the film of red and oily pork bone broth. The air  wafts an enticing aroma with numb, spicy notes.   We sit in silence, I wait for my congee. He never speaks. I turn the headphones to max volume,   pull out my phone and seek refuge in blue light.  

Last year—the halls hum softly,air thick with echoes of laughter,its warmth now coldagainst the walls.The floor creaks beneath my steps,a slow rhythm,as if the ground remembers–the weight of years pressing downmakes everything heavier. Seasons blend together,windows fogged with the blur of time.There’s no heat of summer,no crisp winter air—just a muted grey skythat clings to the air like fog,filling my lungswith a dampness I can’t shake.Time slips through my fingerslike dust,gritty and fine,dragging me forwardbut holding me back,all at once. I linger at the lockers,my fingers brushing the cool metal,trying to catch the scent of old papers,pencil shavings,eraser crumbs scattered on the floor.Every slam of a locker doorechoes in my chest,familiar yet distant,like something I’ve hearda hundred times beforebut only just remembered. The sharp ring of the bellcuts through the air,piercing,but fades as quickly as it comes,leaving only silence.It all blurs,the sounds, the smells, the touch—everything softeningat the edges,except for the achethat sharpens with each passing moment,holding onto me,as everything elsefades too soon,always too soon. By: Sophia Xia

I miss my mother, though she’s not gone,Her presence lingers, but the essence wanes,Once her son, her pride, her morning dawn,Held in her arms, I knew no pains. From tender kisses to whispered fears,She wove a shield of soft embrace,In fierce debates, I stood as her knight,Defending ideals we both would chase. She cheered me on in every race,Her smile, her warmth, her soft embrace.She listened when my young heart spoke,Her love a shield from every poke. But as I grew, the world grew too,With it came the seed of doubt,Could she, my guide, be flawed and blind?This thought gnawed at my innermost shout. Her anger, sharp as shattered glass,Her joy, a faint shadow of the past.The warmth she brought now chilled the air,A storm around, a weight to bear She never smiled, not anymore,I drifted in the tide of her despair,The hero once I saw in herSeemed lost in life’s relentless snare. I regret the day we watched that film,Her eyes, reflections of a life unfound,She spoke of dreams that slipped away,Of roads untaken, hopes run aground. She whispered truths that broke my heart,A life misled, a world apart,I yearned to say, “You’re strong, it’s fine,”But words failed me, and time slipped by. Yes, I miss those days of simple love,When I was her pride, her little dove,But life reshapes and bends the light,Love stretches thin, yet endures the night. So if you can, without a pause,Embrace your mom, despite her flaws.For all they want, through tears and pain,Is to see you smile, to love again. And though our bond is fraught and strained,Her words remain, in truth ingrained:“I need no gifts, no grand display,Just don’t let hate take love away.” Leon Zhang

Thanksgiving arrives, a time to reflect,For the moments we overlook, the ones we forget.Gentle autumn rains that soften the ground,Yet rarely do we linger on farewells profound. Overshadowed by Halloween’s bright, thrilling gleam,With pumpkins and masks, and a ghost in between.Outshone by the Mid-Autumn’s silvery light,Thanksgiving’s voice whispers, lost deep in the night. No grandeur, no fireworks, no dazzling display,Just turkey and chatter—a quieter day.Year after year, its essence fades thin—We rush through the motions, complaints creeping in. A day meant to honour, to cherish, to pause,To savour what’s present, no need for applause.But somehow it dwindles, a chore we ignore,Taking for granted what matters much more. For some, it stays sacred—a chance to embrace,Each blessing, each trial, each tear-streaked face.But for me, I confess, it slipped through the sky,Its value unmeasured, just passing me by. Yet this year, I vow to see it anew—Thanksgiving, once humble, holds meaning so true.It’s not in extravagance, or festivity’s sway,But in the small moments that brighten each day. Each joy, every sorrow, each lesson we earn,Each flicker of kindness, each soul that returns—They colour Thanksgiving in hues rarely seen,A mosaic of gratitude, vibrant, and keen. When Halloween dazzles with eerie delight,And the Mid-Autumn moon glows softly through the night,Thanksgiving’s true form is found deep within—In the warmth we hold close, in love’s quiet grin. The hugs and the laughter, the failures we face,The courage, the heartache, the dreams we still chase—These shape Thanksgiving, a canvas of pride,A portrait of blessings we too often hide. So this year I’ll sit, take stock, and proclaim:Thanksgiving’s not lost, just misunderstood fame.Its beauty’s in pauses, in soft, whispered thanks,In valuing life on its plain, wooden planks. For when we take time, from the heart to the sky,Thanksgiving will bloom, and never run dry.Here’s to the holiday, simple yet true—Thanksgiving’s a mirror—of me, and of you. Leon Zhang