Hey. I’ve basically mastered stir-fry now, if efficiency is the metric. I can cut a bell pepper in
twelve seconds, an onion in fifteen, a stalk of scallion before it can say stop mentioning me in
your myopic diaspora poems. I can intuit an exact teaspoon of anything and always finish stir-
frying in perfect sync with the old rice-cooker, with which I have established near-telepathic
rapport. It’s a talent of instinct everyone has: an accountant sees a flower one day, and it’s
nothing much—she can’t even remember what kind—but she tears up. Next day, the fingers
of her nephew’s right hand won’t bloom anymore.

I saved up money for years before I could meet my grandmother in Quanzhou. She asked for
piggyback rides anywhere she could think of: the track. Up the apartment stairs, down, and up,
down again. The streets, to catch the scent of fried crullers she hadn’t been able to stomach for
decades. She passed while I was on the flight home. One day, the rice-cooker’s not going to turn
on, and though I’m pretty sure I won’t starve, I don’t know. I hope nobody you love ever dies.
Yes, it’s ridiculous. But please. I keep being told there’s always another happiness to save up for.
Street vendors to dot our lives with. Things to eat: pork bun, rice cake, time itself.

Eric Wang is a Chinese-Canadian/American residing in Scarborough. His work can be seen on Hobart, and is forthcoming elsewhere.

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