Familiarity

art by Lanie Myaing, words by Diana Zhang

It smells muddy, green and grey. Afterain's sun on stained cement, shining light on food, dirt, shoes and toes. 

I’m walking with my mother through the farmer’s market, it stenches with sweat and the seafood market across the street. Dirt covered tomatoes lying on a piece of cloth on the ground. The grandmother sitting on a wood plank, anxiously arguing with us: her tomatoes are the best in the world. Trickles of rain from trees drop on my face. 

It tastes sweet. 

I’m holding my mother’s hand, she’s holding a plastic bag of cantaloupes. My palm is half the size of hers. She reminds me to get away from the mud puddle and to say hi to the uncle selling tofu. I get shy and hide behind her, my arms looping around her waist, but my hands hardly touch. So I cling on to her thighs and peek around to say hi. The uncle smiles, hands us tofu from the vase in a plastic bag of milky white water.

It tastes sweet. 

We walk home before the rain starts again, laying side by side on the bed. My feet are freezing from the rain, she takes them in her hand and warms them up. I take my medicine before sleep, she rewards me with a piece of rock candy. 

I close my eyes. 

It tastes sweet. 

I open my eyes and blow out the candles in front of me. 20. The lights turn on. I see her face more clearly, caressed by the touch of age. I hold her hands, a more calloused version of mine. I say thank you for the cake and loop my arms around her waist. My hands now touch and I can peek out a bit more. The cake tastes bitter; the cantaloupe and whipped cream tastes sour. Craving sweetness, I breathe in her scent. She smells like afterain’s sun, tofu, dirt tomatoes, medicine, and rock candy. 

She smells like familiarity, like home.