Rain-Food-Two weeks worth

“It's like I'm split,” I said, “split in two - before and after moving to America, before and after learning to speak english.  Moving here pretty much split my grandfather's heart into two too. He died of heartache, you know.” I spoke aloud despite being aware that I was talking to myself.

I stared at the ceiling in the darkness and pulled the blanket just high enough to tuck under my armpits, covering my breasts.

My lover snored next to me. He smelled metallic, a combination of salt and vinegar. Exactly 3 minutes ago he had succumbed to an epic orgasm and systematically drifted into slumber. My climax, however, energized me, my thoughts racing and drifting. My black pupils dilated and widened, as I thought of my family. Sighing, I recalled what few memories I had of my grandfather.

There had been stories of his imprisonment, how he had been locked up by the Kuo Ming Tang for attending politically charged meetings. Taiwan was under martial law and he got sent away to labor camp without a trial. I had heard stories of how my father grew up without a dad, and how his mother had had an affair with her husband’s brother, and that was why my father was so wicked.

I glanced out and saw sprinkles of rain splattering at the window. It reminded me of a wedding banquet I attended when I must have been no more than three.

I remembered the eerily dark night outside the lone square building with clouds so thick one could barely breathe. Inside the bright ballroom, at least 20 round tables had been squashed to one side, leaving the other side open for dancing. Lazy susans were spinning steamed lobsters with scallions and ginger, five spice braised pork simmering in hot pots, pale thin slices of jellyfish, and fist sized shitakes glistening under their sauce. The delicacies of the meal was lost to me. I noticed chopsticks swiftly shoveling rice in mouths, some opened in laughter before the food was swallowed. What food was left in those opened mouths, “aunties” and “uncles” washed down with little red plastic shot glasses, accented with golden “double happiness” characters on the side. I was swishing about in my fancy pink dress when someone burst in before the fourth course was served, announcing, “Typhoon!”

Before I could panic, amidst the chaos of wedding guests clamoring for the exit, my grandfather scooped me up, my older sister under his other arm, and ran out into the parking lot. By the time he reached our boxy minivan, the rain was coming down in sheets. Grandpa plopped us on the back seats but the water level rose so quickly it seeped into the car and up past our feet. I clamored onto the headrest of the driver’s seat, trying to outrun the water.

I don’t remember how we made it home. I must have passed out at some point, drifting in and out of sleep. I do remember the power being out and our house lit by red candlelight. I have a memory of my grandfather stuffing towels under the front and back doors before I fell asleep for good that night.

In my twenties, while I was freshly out of my parent’s protective circle, donning various identities as a pseudo-adult, I often dreamt of my grandfather. I would dive into a light green lagoon and swim for an impossibly long while. I’d always know when to spring up onto the island with the single house where he resided. We’d chat for sometime and no sooner I’d be back in the water, heading home. It’s been a long time since I dreamt of him. Grandfather must have rebirthed and is living a blessed life. He must be. He was the gentlest and kindest man, broken from his years in labor camp.