Once, long ago, I spoke Chinese. My mom spoke Chinese too. My sister didn’t. My brother didn’t. My dad didn’t. Just the two of us.
We spoke Chinese in a sun-filled kitchen while eating pb&j at a tiny table set for two. We spoke Chinese while sharing popcorn, gazing out the window, waiting for the first glimpse of my brother and sister to return from school. We spoke Chinese in the quiet waking moments after a nap. Just the two of us.
We don’t speak Chinese anymore. We’ve forgotten how. But we continue talks at tables set for two. We share popcorn in the afternoon. And we enjoy the quiet moments. Just the two of us.