Photo

When I first arrived, I attended a community college. I practiced a trade, got a job. The first few months were good. I went out a lot, spent the money I made at night on dinners and drinks, then made it back during the day. I never went on dates - but the girls understood. They'd smile when I told them about her, the girl waiting back home. It's such a romantic idea.

Nothing lasts.

The rest of my money went to buying gifts. When I went out, we would go to malls and markets and fairs. I would see things - little lanterns, pink pencils, delicate rings, hand mirrors, picture frames. I knew her well enough to know what she would love them. So I bought them for her. I filled a drawer with these little things, then moved on to a second one.

Then threw them all out, after it all fell apart.

The only thing I saved was a photograph of us and the scarf. These were the only things I had before I left, the only things that still had a whisper of naivety.

It was a picture of us, at a zoo. I had taken her there in the summer time, so we could see the pandas. Even the Chinese have to wait, to see their own national treasures.

She looked like a baby that day. Hair in pigtails, wearing pastels and sneakers. I have to admit, I was slightly afraid to touch her, to kiss her. I didn't want anyone to mistake me for a pedophile. People have irrational fears, when they are not afraid for their lives.

She had a new camera - a present for herself, after long days at the bank. She took pictures of everything, all the animals, people with their kids walking along the paths. I laughed at the number of pictures she had of me, covering my face, hiding from the lens.

We - mostly she - tried to take pictures of ourselves together. She wanted one with the pandas, but it was too hard to get us all in the shot. "Let's ask someone to take it for us," she said, cheerfully.

"I don't know..." I said. "What if they take your camera?" I joked, half serious. China...haha...did not have the best track record with thieves.

"You are so negative. People are mostly good." With that, she walked over to the nearest person, a guy standing by a trash can. He followed us over, and nodded as she told him how to use the camera.

"Smile!" he said. "Let me take another one. This one was too close. You can't see the pandas." Slowly, he backed away, a step at a time. A step too far.

"Hey!" I shouted, as he turned and ran away. I started to chase him, but she held me back. "Let me go! I told you this would happen, he just stole your camera!"

"Yeah, and now he's gone. Don't worry. It's okay." She smiled, but it just made me angry. How dare he?

We left after that. She tried to cheer me up on the way home, but it was a moot point. I could have killed him for doing that to her. All the extra hours she worked, all the weekends she couldn't go out. She wasn't even mad. I don't know if that made it worse.

A few weeks later, she rang my doorbell, then ran in. "Look what came in the mail!"

She handed me an open envelope, and there were pictures - pictures of us at the zoo. I looked her, dumbfounded. "...What?" I gaped, like a fish out of water. "How...?"

"Here, read this, read this!" She pulled out a piece of paper from the envelope.

"Here are the photographs from the day I met you at the zoo. I'm sorry I took the camera - I needed the money. I hope this way, you can forgive me. You two looked really happy that day. I hope you stay like that. Sorry again."

"What the fuck?" I said. "How did he know your address?!"

"From this!" She handed me another photo. It was a picture of her, holding a sign.

I read it out loud. "Hello, my name is 安春 (Anchūn). This is my camera! If you have found it, please return the data card so I can have the pictures inside. The camera itself is yours! That is your reward for finding it! Thank you! :)"

My mind is blank. She smiled at me, waiting for my response, but I didn't know what to say. "...You make me speechless."

"I know. Anyways, here." She shuffles through the pictures, to the last one in the pile. "You can have this one. It's my favourite." It's the picture of us, by the pandas. The boy lied. You can see them perfectly, behind the glass fence. We do look happy.

She smiles. "Now I have to go to work. Have to save up again, for another camera."

When I left, she still didn't have enough for it, so that was the only picture we ever took together. I would have bought her another one, but all my money went to my plane ticket, to take me away from her.

Let me tell you now: it wasn't worth it.

Cemetery

I talk about her as if she is dead, but to be honest, I really don't know.

She could be. That is a possibility, but it is something I doubt. I don't know. She could have been hit by a car. Could have been struck down with cancer. There are so many horrible things that could have happened to her. It doesn't matter.

I know she is alive. Living. Without me.

It's just me, leaving stones to trace my steps, so her ghost can find me. It's just me, marking her grave along the edges of my memories. I bury her, these traces, in this cemetery, all in an effort to keep her alive.

I left China with almost nothing. Rather, nothing of real importance. I had clothes, shoes, money, whatever. I threw those in a suitcase and didn't look back as they were carried away by a conveyor belt. The important things, I kept on my body.

"It's colder there," she said to me. "This is for you." She handed me a little bag.

"Thanks."

"Here, lemme help you open it!" She tore into the bag, digging through the tissue paper flowers that I could tell, took her the night to make. She always liked opening presents, whether they were hers or not. "Lean forward!" she commanded, as she wrapped the present around my neck. "I knit this for you," she smiled proudly. "Wear it and think of me! Now, go, you have to catch your plane."

I hugged her one last time. I wanted to cry, leaving her like this, smelling so sweet, feeling so soft. "I love you," I said to her.

"Mm," she replied back. "Now go, stupid. You're always late!" I laughed and started to walk away.

"Oh!" she shouted, "Wait!" I turn back and she's smiling at me, sweetly, proudly. "If you even look at another girl, the scarf will kill you in a second. Don't even think about it!"

I should have went back, kissed her. That might have made a difference. I should have ran back, and told her that it would never happen. I should have visited, should have stayed.

Sometimes, we dig our own graves.

Spring

I eat the quail. It is a small victory, throwing stones at the ghosts that haunt me. It is cold now, a little slimy, but still palatable. I arrange the bones into a little pile. It looks like firewood.

I want to set them on fire, let the marrow burn, and then eat the ashes. I want to get rid of the evidence of my past.

These ghosts are unfazed by my efforts.

I guess part of it is my fault. I won't let myself forget.

This is the story.

There was a girl. I suppose I could describe her, but it is not worth the effort. She was beautiful to me. I don't want to talk about her heart, because that is something she gave to me, and who am I to give it away so easily.

I will keep her to myself, as much as I can. This is how I keep her alive.

Her name was 安春 (Anchūn)...quiet spring. Her birthday was in May, after the rain stopped and just before the flowers came in. The persimmon trees would grow fragrant, and she would hold my hand and revel in the light air. She used to laugh with me, keeping true to her namesake. The epitome of quiet grace.

Our English teacher used to call her Ann. She was always first in role call. Silly girl - English was never her strong subject, but she spoke more than anyone else in the room. The teacher would shake his head and laugh with us, with her - who could resist.

Her father used to call her 小公主 (Xiǎo gōngzhǔ) - little princess. He was the village's school teacher. In elementary school, we would stay in his classroom, cleaning boards for pieces of white rabbit candy. He cried when we went on to middle school, and left him behind.

When her mother was in a good mood, her name was 春春, Chunchun. When she was angry, I could barely make out the words coming out of her mouth. In high school, we would come back from the city to visit, and sit in her kitchen. She would laugh at her mother, flitting from every corner of the room, cleaning, cooking, speaking to other mothers on the phone. Her mother liked me. She would pinch my cheeks and tell me how good looking I've grown, and pat my head to thank me for helping her wash the dinner dishes.

I suppose if she had a younger brother or sister, they would have called her 大姐姐 (Dà jiějie), older sister. She used to tell me her regrets, at night, and thank me for being her friend. The emptiness of growing up alone breeds hopeless children. China's one-child policy saves the day, she used to proclaim bitterly. "What do I do then, when my parents are gone, and the house is dark and empty?"

"You have me," I would say.

"What if I didn't?"

To me, she was lovingly dubbed, 鹌鹑 (Ānchún) - quail. Our English teacher used to teach us homonyms, synonyms, antonyms...I still cannot tell them apart. Anyways, one of them is about words that sound the same but have different meanings. To the Westerners, everything we say sounds the same. But to us, there are nuances, lifts and falls - four types of them.

She could tell the difference between the spring and the bird, and she would complain. "Why a quail? What a weak bird!"

"They're delicate. Small like you. And they taste good." I tried to kiss her, and she leaned forward.

"In your dreams!" She pushed me away and ran, pretending to be mad.

But I could tell she wasn't. She liked the name just as much as I did, and I kept calling her that, my little bird.

On her birthday, I would take her out and order a table-full of quails. She'd pick them apart with her little hands, and joke about cannibalism.

It is almost her birthday again. I wonder how she will celebrate. I wonder if she will think of me.

I don't say her name out loud anymore. It doesn't do any good to call it out. It escapes my lips and it loses a little meaning each time.

These memories, like her, are slowly flying away from me.

These memories, like me, are slowly losing their way.

Dragons

I get into the van. "DRAGON HEATING & CONSTRUCTION" covers the side of it. I don't know why the Chinese like dragons. Monsters don't make me feel very lucky.

Max is driving. He is a good driver - I'm better, but today, I am too distracted. He knows that, and I am thankful that I don't have to say a word.

He is like a brother to me.

"Do you want to come out with us tonight?" he says when we get to my apartment building. "We're going out with a few girls from college. You could meet someone."

I laugh at him. "C'mon, don't joke. I don't want to come. Thanks for the ride." I get out of the car, and start to walk away from him.

"Hey!" he calls, rolling down the van's window. "Stop! Jesus, I know what you're going to do tonight. Just give up. There's nothing you can do, so why torture yourself?"

I freeze. "Shut up." I say.

"Ugh, you shut up, stop being so stubborn. She's not here. You're not going to find her. She probably forgot about you the second you stepped on that plane. Who would wait 5 years? Tell me, who?!"

I can't look at him. The day is too bright. There is too much spring air. I can't find any reasons to breathe.

"Please, I'm begging you. Just one night. You'll have fun."

"No." I hear him sigh.

"I swear to God, why do you have to hold on to her? You live here now. This is your life, this is your home, so grow up and accept it. She doesn't care about you. Don't you think she would have written to you? She could have called, or emailed. But she didn't. Fuck, I bet she's married with a kid already, and you are still mooning over her like a high school boy."

I look at him. He thinks this means I'm giving in. "You know I'm right. Come on, let's go. We're meeting them at six."

My hands clench in my pockets, around something soft and warm. I regret everything I have ever done in my life, because it all led up to this moment in time. I curse Max, for being the only person in the world who knows how I feel, and for being practical enough to try to change me.

Max is waiting for my response. I give it to him:

"Fuck you."

And then I run as fast as I can, like the coward I am, and watch him leave through the lobby window. I see the dragon on the back of the van, and wish my own demons would disappear just as quickly.

I make my way up to my apartment, on the 4th floor (sorry mother, that was the only floor available). I want to sit on my bed and cry. Max was right - I haven't grown up. I don't care.

Anger is anger, emotion is emotion. This is what I feel, and these April-May days just make it worse.

I am almost shaking when I make it to my bed, my head full of the words he said, my heart heavy with their meaning. I put my head in my hands. They are wet, but not with tears. They are slicked with a brown, salty liquid. I remember.

The quail.

The rooms fills with the scent, and I want to choke. I'm nauseous, dizzy. It reminds me of my home, my real home, and the girl I left behind. I cry, because I hate this stupid bird, for reducing me to nothing. I look up, for something, anything, to save me or kill me or tell me what I want to hear.

Mother, where are you? I am on my knees.

Why did you send me here?

There is nothing here for me.

Quail

I'm working today. That's good. These kind of days just make me regret leaving.

We're in a rich house today, per usual. I change windows, I insulate attics, I replace furnaces - parents warn their children about having futures like mine. It makes them want to study, so they have something more, because I am worthless to them.

It makes me cynical. It makes me want to chip their marble floors.

"Are we done?" I say to Max, who's manning the machine today.

"Yeah, right after I finish this room. Can you get the toolbox from the kitchen?"

"Okay." I walk out of the room, down the stairs. There are old bedspreads and table cloths spread along the floor like a runway. It's kind of nice, having a path to walk on, but I'd rather steal the sheets and use them at home. Not home. I don't know.

"We're almost done," I tell the woman in the kitchen. She smiles at me, old eyes.

"Would you like something to eat?" She says. Her dialect is a little different than mine, but I can understand her.

"No, it's okay. We're leaving soon. We'll be finished tomorrow," I say, suddenly shy. "Thank you," I add quickly. I can't forget my manners.

"Please, please, don't be bashful. Sit, eat. I am making quail. Or if you have to leave, take one for you and your friend." She tutters around the kitchen. "I will wrap it for you then."

I laugh a little to myself. Quail - expensive meat. These Chinese mothers - sharp tongues and soft hearts. I let her work - she reminds me of my mother.

"You remind me of my son," she says, taking out the aluminum foil. She wraps two quails carefully. "He's in university now. So tall, like you." She looks at me. I feel ten years old again, in the kitchen, watching my mother chop vegetables. She used to feed me pieces of pork and chicken. I want to cry.

Max comes in. There is a God.

"I'm done, let's go."

"Alright." I walk out behind him, halfway to the door.

"Wait, take these," she comes after me. "You need meat. You need to grow."

The sight of them makes me sad, for more reasons than one. I stuff them into my pockets.

"Thank you. See you tomorrow."

She smiles.

I miss you all.

My Life

I don't really blame them for calling me street rat or looking at me with angry eyes. Not like I make that much of an impression anyways. My parents always told me to "save face", but that's only for people who can afford it.

Only for people who care to afford it.

I get by. I have enough for food, for apartment rent. It's not really a home, not really a hotel. Definitely not a hotel. No one changes my sheets when I'm out - I'm lucky to have sheets at all, haha.

I'm not really bitter. Maybe a little. Maybe it pisses me off when I see those houses with crystal chandeliers and vases of real flowers, when I can barely afford cigarettes.

Some of the other guys steal from these people, but I don't see the point. Money maybe, but my mother always said beggars and thieves were just lazy people, who didn't want to work. I won't disappoint her in becoming one.

I've already done enough.

Besides, these rich families have nothing I need. I get by okay.

That's about all I do.

The way it looks, that's about all I'll ever do.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year. Lol.

Wanted to write but...got distracted. Maybe tomorrow.