free writing #1 | yum seng
Sometimes when I’m at the dinner table with my parents and grandparents, it becomes strikingly clear how the rest of my life may play out. For instance, I can see myself as my mother grimaces at another one of Gong Gong’s tirades against the injustice of country club politics, as if there is nothing unjust about the way he expectantly waits to be served food; or the way his weathered, waterlogged calves can no longer carry him through a round of golf. Other times, I see my grandmother and imagine that I too will have a wiry, tired frame to withstand the brunt of my burgeoning depression, which nervously festers when I am alone. But I am interrupted by my father’s distinct coughing to see that all the food is on the table and everyone is ready to begin.