by Cheryl Chen

I could often hear the soft thumping of your footsteps circling the living room; the restless shuffling of your slippers as you paced around. I don’t think I had seen you this anxious since I spilled a pot of boiling hot pu’er tea on your favorite mahogany chair, the fancy one that was embellished with moire patterns, each swish and swirl of the clouds carved meticulously into the wood.