She’s Usually In Chinatown.

Because I am so mad at my father for his general attitude, I am missing my mother even more than usual these days.

It’s okay. All the do-gooders in the world are right when they say the pain lessens over time. It does. Look at me. I have been able to get out of bed and put pants on consistently. I have begun to laugh, to heal to an extent. Because if I need her, I can find a connection to her.

She’s in Chinatown.

We used to take trips down there, especially if some of our cousins were in town. Each kid would get, like, five dollars and we could spend it on whatever we wanted. Scott always bought miniature swords and nunchucks. I bought tiny glass animals and improbably-coloured chenille birds. Mom would ride herd on however many kids and we’d while away a pleasant afternoon looking into baskets and at painted bowls and silk fans.

If I really, really miss her, I can go to Chinatown. Somewhere between the smell of ginseng and barbecued duck, somewhere between the Hello Kitty and the little jade pendants, she’s there.

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