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Departures
Strange, how we discuss death over dinner. Nai-nai couches the passing of a loved one as a walking away, as if someone meant to join us for a meal were caught up elsewhere. Aunty Fang nods to herself; she was at the wake the night before, and cannot forget how young the body looked. Uncle Yang is his usual self, reserved, but slightly quieter.
Father is last to hear the news. I watch him mix regret with shock under his tongue, shape a prayer waiting to be uttered. He swallows a mouthful of rice, asks, how old? Fifty-eight, nai-nai replies. She had cancer, but was still active. So young! – father exclaims; his voice has an edge that brings new silence. Someone sighs, can’t be helped. People
come, and quickly go. Heads bob uncertainly, then in agreement, as a bowl of fruit is placed amidst the unfinished dishes. We each take a slice, but delay clearing our plates. We have all finished, but cannot bear to leave.
It's strange how we talk about death while eating dinner. Grandmother describes the death of a loved one as if they just walked away, like someone who was supposed to join us for dinner but got busy elsewhere. Aunt Fang nods to herself; she was at the funeral the night before, and can't forget how young the person looked. Uncle Yang is his usual self, quiet, but a bit more silent than usual.
Father is the last to hear the news. I watch him mix regret and shock in his mouth, form a prayer he's about to say. He swallows some rice, asks, how old? Fifty-eight, grandmother replies. She had cancer, but was still active. So young! – father exclaims; his voice has a sharpness that brings a new silence. Someone sighs, can't be helped. People
come, and quickly go. Heads nod uncertainly, then in agreement, as a bowl of fruit is placed among the unfinished dishes. We each take a piece, but delay clearing our plates. We have all finished, but can't bring ourselves to leave.