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.