I never knew what they spoke of, my mother
and aunt, on those lazy Saturday afternoons in summer,
safe within the sanctuary of that restaurant,
black and red, trimmed in extravagant gold,
a world far removed from the inquisitive ears of children.
We could not have imagined what our mothers
had lived through, the house of early horrors
they had endured daily as children, how the bodies
of men became threats against them,
could not have known the senseless anger of
a father who denied even their existence,
could not have known the cause and effect
set in motion long before we arrived.
We knew only the weekly ritual of their meeting,
their sisterly fellowship over greasy egg foo yong
and moo goo guy pan, the endless bowls of
sticky rice that occasionally made its way back to us
in those small white containers, wire handles
and waxy folds, stamped with a stately red pagoda.
If we were very lucky, a fortune cookie might be
tucked away in a purse, something simple
and sweet, the mysterious messages inside them
offering a riddle, or a bit of wisdom for our
childhood minds to ponder, considering as we cracked
them open what might happen next.
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