Minutes past noon, I see mother is still in bed.
Now she shakes her head, shakes me away and
will not rise. It is only the scraping of the front
door that wakes her. Sunlight streams in from
the only window, and soon I walk down the
kitchen stairs. The milk has been left outside
the fridge again. Water from the carton trickles
down on the countertop, shimmering at the
flickering lights above. Standing in the empty
room even the floor is cold. It feels like so soon
father would walk into the room warmed by the
boiling rice, his sweaty hands reaching for the
towel on the back of his chair and then to mother,
moiling among dinner dishes. Hands on her waist,
rocking to the sounds of the humming microwave.
But then he left. Now mother will only rise to the
creaking of her door, shifting from side to side in
her bed until she falls asleep again. There is fog
outside the window hanging like laundry between
trees. I think of the garden outside, outgrown by
weeds and moss, mother’s jindallae have fallen
and only the naked stem shudders with the wind.
If I ran outside barefoot, searching for fathers
shadows, mother would listen from her room.
If I sang the hymn before the prayer, mother would
listen from the kitchen. The sky tires and turns
away without a word. The lights in the house flicker
again. She listens and hears nothing.
Amy Lee is a fourteen-year-old student who is currently attending International School of Manila. During her free time, she likes hanging out with her friends and reading books while listening to music. Her works have been accepted in Eunoia Review, Uppagus, and others.