it escalates faster than the frying pan can heat up.
the layers of your frustration are apparent to me,
but not to onlookers,
nor to her, the subject of your sound.
you project from the depths of your lungs,
the inadequacy, the laziness, and the missed opportunity
that have eroded against you for years
and now manifest in what you know as love and caring
the well of your concern and your pain flows from me and from her
i chop to give myself purpose and you cling to hold onto yours
but she will leave. And Time will bring you regret.
You reach,
but I freeze my heart temporarily
because I want to teach you a lesson:
that old age is not what has muddled your clarity,
but rather, it is your practice.
you suffer
i see it
but i am still frozen
you scramble to pick up the pieces of the broken mug so you can draw water again from
the same well
only this time it is the source of your hope, joy, and life
she drinks from it easily, but it no longer tastes sweet to me
but I drink
and I continue to make breakfast
for a hypocrite
Author’s Note:
This piece narrates an event that unfolded in our kitchen. It demonstrates the feelings I have towards my mother and her outlook on her life and her relationship with my sister and I.
As immigrants, my mother continuously sacrificed her own career to follow my father wherever he could get work. She gave up any form of ambition and assumed a supporting role for the financial and emotional stability of our family. She lives vicariously through her children and thus is dependent on them for self worth and happiness. In many ways, I find my own insecurities and parts of myself I dislike, reflected in her. Watching her and my parents’ relationship change through the stress and struggle of trying to “make it” in a foreign land and tongue has had deep impact on my own views of family and love, and by extension, gender roles and expectations.
