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.

Last year—
the halls hum softly,
air thick with echoes of laughter,
its warmth now cold
against the walls.
The floor creaks beneath my steps,

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,

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,